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Leonhardt Albrecht

"You have to rethink what you mean by 'impossible,' when you have friends like mine."

0 · 1,356 views · located in Thedas

a character in “The Canticle of Fate”, as played by The Valkyrie

Description

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Full Name: Leonhardt Engelram Albrecht (LAY-on-hart EHN-gehl-rahm ALL-breckt)
Titles/Nicknames: High Seeker, Commander. Leon.
Age: 31 (9:44)
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Class: Warrior
Specialization: Reaver

Hair Color: Platinum Blond
Eye Color: Violet
Height: 6’7”
Build: Built is a bit of an understatement.

Appearance: Everything, it’s occasionally said, is more extreme in The Anderfels. The comment is usually taken to refer to climate, lifestyle, and the like, but it could just as well have been referring entirely to Leon, from the looks of things. It’s impossible not to notice that the man is exceptionally tall, taller than a good chunk of Qunari, to say nothing of his fellow humans. His build is well-proportioned to his height, though the opportunity to develop truly ridiculous musculature, he has not taken. The emphasis in his training was on utility, not raw power, and so he has exactly as much muscle tone as is useful to him—which is still quite a lot, to be honest. He is broad enough, especially through the shoulder area, that any armor he wears has to be custom-made for him, which leads to him eschewing it as often as not.

His daily dress is understated, plain in design and clearly chosen for the benefit of durability, but he does seem to favor bright, jewel-like colors where he can get them, so it is not entirely uncommon to see him in a richly-hued green or purple tunic. Most of what he wears is without the traditional emblem of the Seekers, though he has the cloak for when he needs to look more “official.” Most of the time, though, he’s dressed more like a scribe than anyone especially important, and he prefers it so.

If it’s an attempt to blend, it was doomed to fail. Leon’s height is not the only feature that stands out on him. The Anders people are generally dyed with a lighter palette than most of Thedas, and this holds of him, to be sure. His hair is a very platinum-blonde, almost appearing silver under certain lighting conditions. It’s rather long for a man’s, though not as long as some, falling to around his shoulderblades unbound. His face, while the furthest thing from androgynous, is quite symmetrical and free of the scars that seem to litter the rest of him. Luck, perhaps. His eyes are a most uncommon violet color, a family trait.

Leon usually walks slightly hunched over, because he’s often reading something as he goes, a tendency that has frequently led to unfortunate accidents and injuries, always of himself, as he seems quite capable of avoiding other people when thus engaged
 or maybe other people just successfully avoid him. Inanimate objects, not so much. Curiously, his resting facial expression seems to be a slight smile.

9:42:
Spoiler: show
The middle of a war is hardly the kind of place and time that softens a person, so it’s unsurprising that Leon is just as obviously-capable as he was the year before. Those with particular talent for observation, however, might be able to notice that not all is quite as well as it seems with him. When he forgets to cover them, the dark circles under his eyes are obvious, and there’s a sort of gauntness to his face that wasn’t there before, like his cheeks have sunken in. The change was very gradual, and it’s not very obvious, but nonetheless, it’s there. Normally rock-steady, his hands occasionally spasm or shake now, particularly when he’s spent long hours writing or using them for other delicate tasks.

9:43
Spoiler: show
Leon tries very hard to hide the signs of his continued deterioration. It isn't so much worse yet that it really impedes his ability to do his job, but he acknowledges that may not remain the case for much longer. His large frame and obvious mass make it difficult to tell, but he's actually lost quite a bit of weight, some of it in muscle. It doesn't seem to have much affected his strength, but it has begun to hollow out his contours in ways he can't completely disguise with loose clothing. Of all things, he's also picked up a few grey hairs, which may be more boon than curse, as they're easily-attributable to ordinary stress, meaning that the weight loss and occasional shakes can be credited to the same.

9:44
Spoiler: show
The last year has not been kind to Leon. What was slow decay has accelerated, leaving him considerably more gaunt in the face than he used to be. The change tracks—though he has a lot of muscle mass to lose, he has lost a lot. He hasn't been gangly in a long time, but there are echoes of it visible in him now as his condition eats away at his body. More than that, he looks sick—his skin is paler even than it was before, with a permanent sort of waxy pallor to it. The dark circles under his eyes won't go away, and the shakes in his extremities aren't either. He has better days and worse days, and for the most part he can still exert himself in short bursts, but each one costs him more than the last, and it shows. The premature grey streaks in his hair are now visible even considering the light color of the rest.


“I'm not sure I'll ever be quite the same again.
But I am alive, and that's gift enough.”

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Apparent Demeanor: Leon has two distinct faces: the Seeker and the everyman. The first, he wears only when he absolutely must, and like one would expect of a member of his order, it is stern, logical, and to a certain degree, even cold. He knows how to make difficult decisions when the time comes for them, and he is familiar with what it is like to lose people, even people with whom he is personally friends. He is able and willing to order such things for the greater good, and indeed has been called upon to do so in the past. He is also tactically very clever, and understands battlefield mechanics in a way few officers do. This is augmented by his knowledge of history and his extensive study not only of mundane armies, but also of demons and the arcane, leaving him in a very good position to instruct others on how to defeat the numerous hostile entities that can and do make their way out of the Fade.

Where the Seeker is cold, calculating, and unerringly precise, Leon the ordinary man is hardly any of those things at all. Academic, certainly, to the point of being largely unable of taking the time to walk from one place to another without his nose half-stuck in a book. Also, it would seem, absurdly good-natured for someone trained to kill people in innumerable ways with his bare hands. He rarely if ever has an ill word to say about anyone, even if they have been less-than-kind to him themselves. He seems to see no difference between people, at least not any difference that would lead him to privilege one group over another. Humans, elves, Qunari, dwarves
 they all value things, and fight to protect those things. A strange attitude for an agent of the Chantry to have, perhaps, but then Leonhardt is not exactly an ordinary agent of the Chantry.

In fact, on most occasions, he seems entirely unsuited for the role he performs, for despite his intelligence and education, he looks more peaceful monk than military commander or demon hunter. Fond of outdoor spaces like gardens and rooftops, of listening to music and the simplest of sensations, like the sun on his face or the breeze at his back, it is almost impossible to imagine him taking life, considering the reverence he shows for it.

This is, of course, until he has taken the field.

9:42:
Spoiler: show
Leon is not very good at opening up to people. When he didn’t keep the same company for long, that was neither obvious nor unwarranted. Now, though, he’s around the same individuals basically all of the time, and it looks like they’re in for a long haul together. It’s making his reticence much more apparent, and also much more conscious on his part. He chooses not to reveal things to people now, while before the opportunity to make the decision just never arose. He thinks it’s probably for the best—there are enough things to worry about without adding to anyone’s burdens.

9:43
Spoiler: show
If nothing else, the last year has forced his choice about whether or not he lets certain people into his confidence. Rilien was the first, then Romulus, and then Estella and Marceline, and finally Cyrus. He'd tell the other Irregulars, at least, if he could find it in himself to do, but he just... can't quite seem to manage it.

Time has left his demeanor by and large unchanged, though his sense of humor surfaces more often now than it used to, mostly because he's spending more time with people who bring it out in him. That much he thinks of as a positive. Were it not for the trials of his physical condition, he's sure he'd be more content now than he ever really had been before, and more centered in himself as a person. But unfortunately, the solidity he might have had is disrupted, and the looming threat of his death isn't always something he can put out of his mind.

9:44
Spoiler: show
There's a preternatural calm about Leon, and uncanny, grim silence. Where previously, his intimidation was tempered by a sort of gentle quietness, that is no longer the case, because that sort of peace about things eludes him now. What he has left is resignation. Despite the hope of a solution, he has more or less accepted that he'll die within the year. It's not that he doesn't believe in Cyrus's deductions, or that the others would be willing to do whatever it took to help him. Rather, he just knows that other things will take priority, as they should, and that the possible cure to what ails him will be too elusive to track or too demanding to acquire. It's better, in his position, not to have hope, because if it were dashed, it would be devastating.

So his silence and calm is that of someone who has accepted his death. He's almost waiting for it, even, though certainly not with anticipation of any kind. It makes him a bit colder, a bit more distant, though he's doing his best to hold onto his friendships for now. They mean a lot to him, after all.


Hangups/Quirks: Leon is a pacifist. An honest-to-Maker pacifist, in normal circumstances quite incapable of taking a person’s life. This was something he unfortunately did not discover until he was quite done with all of his training, and a solution was necessary to help him actually kill things. One has been devised, but it leaves him feeling morally conflicted about what he does at best. He doesn’t generally balk at killing things like demons or darkspawn, but apostates? Templar deserters? These things are exceedingly difficult. He quite enjoys a good spar, but the moment life and death hang in the balance, it is a different matter altogether.

He is particularly fond of herbal teas and reading, and grows his own herbs and flowers, on those rare occasions when he is in one place long enough for horticulture. The greenery of nature and presence of small animals actually fascinates him, because he grew up in a region of the world far too stark and barren for any but the hardiest of shrubs and scrawniest of rodents and insects. Leon, true to his nature, doesn’t eat meat, and seems to be a bit uncomfortable with the sight of blood.

Strengths: Leon is an experienced commander of military and paramilitary forces, more knowledgeable than most mages when it comes to things like demons and blood magic, and, when he wishes to be, a combatant of fearsome strength and no little speed. This makes him quite suited to his role as the Inquisition’s Commander. But what qualifies him above all others is his humanity, deeply flawed and at times uncertain, but giving him an empathy and ability to relate to other people, to understand them in ways that those who hold themselves too high above their troops will never quite be able to manage.

9:44
Spoiler: show
With the strength of his body unreliable to the point that he's unwilling to count it, his remaining strengths are almost all those of mind and personality. Even in the condition he's in, he's patient, intelligent, and an excellent strategist. He knows how to lead, effectively if not in the inspiring way of more charismatic figures he could name. He has a head for logistics, and knows the ins and outs of the Inquisition's daily workings probably better than anyone.


Weaknesses: That same empathy, however, can leave him desolate for extended periods of time when those he commands fall to their foes, and every decision, while made with utmost care and clarity, nevertheless hits him very personally. He does not have the advantageous detachment that his fellow Inquisition leaders can muster, and he suffers for it. He also has to deal with issues and symptoms relating to his unique approach to combat, and this can have physiological as well as mental backlash.

9:42:
Spoiler: show
The symptoms, such as they are, are also accelerating. He hasn’t exactly told anyone that he’s dying, but then
 in a situation like this one, it doesn’t make much difference. He’ll do everything he can until he can’t do anything anymore, and then he’ll expire. He hopes that the Inquisition will have achieved its aims by then—but there’s no way to say for sure. Truthfully, Leon has no way of knowing how much longer he has before his deterioration begins to affect his performance in combat or as a commander. All he can do is pray he lasts long enough, and begin to prepare for when he loses effectiveness.

9:44
Spoiler: show
Leon is now more liability than asset on the battlefield, and it's doing a number on his mental state. He hates the idea of sending others out to fight while he remains trapped behind a desk, but it's the reality of his situation for now. He also finds himself slipping further and further into fatalistic lines of thinking, and is much more easily exhausted just by the strain of an ordinary day than he can ever remember being in the past. The near-constant physical pain and weakness is actually comparatively easier to deal with.


Fears: He fears that the delicate balance between his worse nature and his better will one day be shattered, leaving him either useless at his job or else hopelessly lost to his violence. Right now, he is a man on a tightrope, and he’s never really trusted much to his grace.

9:43
Spoiler: show
At the moment, Leon fears most that too much time will pass and he will not accomplish enough. That he will die with things undone, that Corypheus will outlive him, more or less. He does not make a habit of overestimating his own importance, but he knows that right now, there is no one else in the ranks who could do his job. Perhaps in time that will change, and it has crossed his mind once or twice to train a successor, but... even that's no guarantee. He just wants to survive long enough to see this through—but he fears that even asking that is too much.

9:44
Spoiler: show
He's not afraid of death, he's decided. Not death itself. But the work he'll leave unfinished behind him, and the people he'll leave without him—that terrifies him. Mostly because he's finally allowed himself to believe other people when they tell him that he's important to them and to the Inquisition for who he is, and not merely the position he occupies. If there's anything more bittersweet than that, he's never heard of it.


“For the first time in my life, every part
of me has oriented in the same direction.
I know what I want to achieve, and I'm
more than willing to fight for it.”



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CreditSTR:

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CON:⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [8/10]

⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [7/10]

⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [8/10]

⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [7/10]

⎧ ▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [4/10]

⎧ ▇ ⎭ [0/10]

⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [8/10]

⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [7/10]

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Weapon of Choice: Leon fights empty-handed, and only sometimes with armor. The one concession he makes is that in actual battle situations, he will wear cestĆ«s, a pair of sort of armored gauntlets with blades in the knuckles, that add a little more heft to his already massive blows. One should take care to note, however, that he is not nor does he appear to be, a barroom brawler with fancy toys. On the contrary, it is clear that he has very accurate knowledge of the humanoid form, where to hit someone in armor, how to remove a sword from someone’s grip without getting impaled, and a large number of other things. He has, evidently, been trained to barehanded fighting, not simply resorted to it from a lack of patience or skill with other things. Indeed, he can use other kinds of weapons, he just doesn’t.

Fighting Style/Training: The Seekers are one of the most highly militarized forces in Thedas, and more than that, they are taught to fight not only other soldiers, but also mages—and Templars. The training is extensive, at least on par with what chevaliers receive, with the added skills required to handle complicated situations without the aid of others, meaning that each Seeker has a wide skillset geared towards fighting the dangerous and the unpredictable. Leon’s style is almost ascetic in nature, relying on a bare minimum of accouterments to achieve the required results. He needs no sword nor shield, for he himself is quite capable of being both. Watching him fight, however, is not the most
 pleasant of experiences. He seems to fall under the sway of some kind of cold rage, his strikes brutal and beyond even what one would expect of a person of his considerable size. It is an almost night and day contrast with his everyday demeanor, and even allies are best advised to stay well clear of his path.

9:43
Spoiler: show
Leon is, and has for many years been, a Reaver. But his abilities carry a steeper cost even than the typical member of his kind. While most Reavers only once imbibe the tincture of dragon blood to awaken their potential, Leon has to repeatedly dose himself with it. This is because he can't bring himself to use lethal force if he doesn't have the dragon blood raging through his system, upping his adrenaline output and settling a fog of battle-fury over what is usually a very powerful conscience. It's the repeated dosing that lies at the root of his problem: dragon's blood is a potent substance, and the human body was never meant to withstand it, let alone so much of it. Over time, then, it's poisoning him, and at this point stopping altogether would only delay the inevitable. The loss of his ability to fight would be too steep a cost, and so Leon must balance the considerations as well as he can.

He is as fearsome as ever when he takes the field, thanks to the lessons he has learned in tapping the power he gains by such methods. Reavers are notorious for being stronger the closer to death they edge. In a way, Leon is always close to death. The logic isn't hard to figure out.

9:44
Spoiler: show
More than anything, Leon's stamina has suffered. It's true that he can't hit as hard or move as fast as he used to, but there's an extent to which the battle-rage can compensate for that. What it can't compensate for is the fact that his body simply gives out sometimes. And that's taking less and less time to provoke. Each time he pushes himself to his limit, the limit decreases, and his death accelerates. It forces a maddening calculus every time he fights.


"It's not a nice, clean sort of thing, what I do.
If I am to fight, then I must accept all the ugliness that comes with the decision.
It has never been easy. Not once.
I try not to enjoy it.”

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Place of Birth: Hossberg, The Anderfels
Social Status/Rank: High Seeker; minor nobility.

History: Leonhardt Albrecht is the second son and third child of the Albrecht family, nobility of moderate stature in the Anderfels, which is rather unlike being nobility of moderate stature anywhere else. The king in that country is mostly preoccupied with keeping order in Hossberg, and the countryside is left to fend for itself. This is due to a large number of factors, but suffice it to say that the real power in the region belongs to two entities: the Grey Wardens and the Chantry. The Anders as a group have seen the worst of most of the Blights, and are among the most religious nations in Thedas, so that perhaps makes sense.

Being in essence an unnecessary child, Leon was at a very young age promised to the Chantry, and he entered the cloister for training at around eight years of age. Even as a lad, he was rather large compared to his peers, and as he grew and trained, his teachers were consistently impressed by his performance in all areas: history, tactics, and especially sparring. Initially a promising candidate for the Templars, he was scouted for recruitment into the Seekers of Truth shortly after his thirteenth birthday, and underwent his Vigil at seventeen.

Emerging from that trial successfully as a young man of eighteen, Leon immediately began work for the Seekers. His first few missions were
 not as impressive as his trainers had expected them to be, and for a while, some suspected that the Vigil had gone wrong somehow. Eventually, the true nature of the problem was discovered, and he underwent a special training regimen with a High Seeker named Ophelia, after which he customarily discarded all weapons, shields, and armor he’d come to rely on and fought only with his hands. The unique aspects of this training seemed to solve the problem, and over the next few years, he built a steady reputation as a consummate slayer of demons. On the few occasions he had cause to act in teamwork capacities, he made for an excellent leader as well, capable of apt tactical analysis of the strengths and weaknesses of his comrades, and in time, he was promoted to High Seeker.

Recently, Leon has been called by the Divine to Ferelden, where he was given a writ from Justinia herself with a very specific conditional direction: if the Divine and her two most trusted agents are not able to broker a peace between mages and Templars, Leon is to join those two agents in forming a new Inquisition. While the Conclave proceeds, Leon waits in the nearby village of Haven, unsure exactly what he is supposed to do if they succeed.

9:42:
Spoiler: show
As it turned out, the Inquisition became quite necessary after the explosion at the Conclave. No one could have foreseen the outcome of those events; it’s fair to say he wasn’t really prepared for two complete strangers with magical marks on their hands to become the center of it all. That said, Leon adapted as well as he could, and with the contributions of many others, the Inquisition slowly built itself from the ground up. Gaining the support of both the Free Mages in the south and the remains of the Templar Order was fortunate; losing Haven and the casualties they took from Corypheus’s attack was much less so.

But they have proven resilient, and with Skyhold as their new base of operations, they might yet succeed. Leon will do everything he can to make sure of it. He’s staking his life on the outcome, after all.

9:43
Spoiler: show
9:42 was a rough year to be at the helm of the Inquisition. And Leon has always been there, steering through the storm as the Inquisitors found their footing and worked out how they wanted to approach their new positions. He has striven above all to be supportive of them, and decisive where he needs to be in his own leadership. For him personally, the months were marked only by the continual deterioration of his body, but for the Inquisition as a whole and those of greatest personal concern to him in it, there was a great deal more.

The siege at Adamant is still difficult to categorize as a victory or a defeat in total, considering all that happened. But for the most part, he considers it their third great trial after the Breach and Haven, and considers them to have been successful, particularly from his own military standpoint.

The Irregulars saw a great deal of disruption and change as well; he hopes he's been of help to at least some of them as they struggled, though he knows his own reticence may have precluded it, for better or worse. He was happy to assist Asala in the trials put to her by her bond-spirit, and glad he could help Cyrus when he was poisoned with red lyrium. Though Leon himself ended up with mixed feelings about what he did, Cyrus seems to be grateful, and he supposes that's what counts.

When Khari questioned her path and her place in the Inquisition, he did his best to show her that she belonged here, with them, and he thinks he might have succeeded, though of course much of the credit for that goes to Michaël, and much to Khari herself. He currently mentors her in leadership and tactics, a topic also of interest to Captain Séverine, with whom he now spends a fair amount of his free time, trying to figure out what future there is for the Inquisition's templars.

He has fully embraced this mission—this life—as his own. That brings him some measure of peace with what is certain to come for him soon enough.

9:44
Spoiler: show
Leon is duly proud of what the Inquisition and its members have achieved over the past year. Perhaps the most momentous achievements were those that took place at the beginning and end of the year, respectively: the role the organization played in the affairs at Halamshiral and their crucial help breaking the siege of Kirkwall.

But there was plenty in the middle, too. Leon was finally able to track down the Lord Seeker, and put an end to one of the darkest chapters in the history of the order. The Chantry now has a way forward, a trajectory to follow even after Corypheus and Leon himself are long gone. He's confident in SĂ©verine's ability to lead as Divine, and has no doubts about the future of his faith.

So, too, was he able to play a small part in helping Romulus put some things to rest, and in reuniting Zahra with her family. Certainly more personal achievements, but no less important, in their way. Perhaps most personally of all, he's been able to admit to himself how much his friends mean to him, Khari in particular. If it hadn't been for the dark cloud hanging over his very short future, he could count himself a very lucky man, indeed.

Perhaps he is, anyway.

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Spoiler: show
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Credit| Cyrus Avenarius |

"No amount of gratitude would be in excess of what he's done for me."

With time and necessity, Leon has come to gain a certain comfortable familiarity with Cyrus. It almost goes without saying how crucial the other man was in resolving Leon's reaver tonic issue, but over the course of that ordeal, they just spent enough time in each other's company to form a friendship almost by osmosis: even if there wasn't any particularly-intense period of swapping stories or learning about one another per se, those sorts of things happened in bits and pieces, via proximity. It's a surprisingly-relaxing dynamic, for Leon, who admittedly used to be put vaguely on edge by the rather startling sharpness to Cyrus. But they've both changed, Cyrus in particular mellowing to the point where Leon feels no need to guard anything in his company.

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Credit| Asala Kaaras |

"She's proven hardier than I expected."

Leon was glad to be able to assist Asala in some small way with her Spirit Healing, and he's glad that she proved to have the correct temperament to win the spirit's approval, as it means there is little danger now of her desire for vengeance ever overcoming her. It doesn't mean there's no chance, but more even than the spirit's judgement, he is choosing to trust Asala's, and the strength of the moral compass that guides her. He finds her pleasant to be around, though it is difficult still, to avoid thinking of her as more like a child than she honestly is.

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Credit| Marceline BenoĂźt |

"Lady Marceline is an adept diplomat and a sharp thinker."

Leon and Marceline have settled into an effective working relationship, alongside their counterpart Rilien. It was a little rocky at first, but things have mostly smoothed over. He values the fact that Marceline’s perspective is very different from his, and believes, at least, that she values his for the same reason. On a personal note, he finds her charming, in that carefully-crafted, sly sort of way that noblewomen sometimes have, and in truth, they get along better than he expected they would, usually in those moments when Marceline will allow herself to relax the formality that seems to be her default, and speak of matters other than pressing business. It hasn't escaped him, however, that she isn't as... strongly-tied, to the Inquisition's other members as even he manages to be. Part of that must surely be because her life lacked for little before she took up with them. It's not a problem, of course, and he hopes that she continues to be able to find the support she needs, even if that is in other places than the rest of them look for it.

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Credit| Zahra Tavish |

"Ah... how do I put this? She's certainly different."

Which is something of an understatement, when it comes to Leon's personal experiences. It's not every day a friendly acquaintance and ally lays one on you in order to punctuate a ruse. As embarrassing as the whole thing was for Leon, that had more to do with the circumstances and his own hangups than anything Zahra actually did. Oddly enough, it might have jumpstarted their friendship in earnest, though not in the way it would sound if he said that. She's funny, Zahra, and not always intentionally. It's pleasant to be around.

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Credit| Vesryn Cormyth |

"I suppose if anyone knows quite how he feels, I'm it."

The parallels in their positions are easy to see. Though Leon's own troubles are not due to a foreign spirit residing in his mind—and thank goodness for that, even if Saraya's presence has been on the whole very positive for Vesryn—they are otherwise not entirely different. The feeling of being slowly betrayed by one's own body is not an easy one to swallow, especially perhaps for people used to being so physically capable. Vesryn seems to have plenty of support available to him by way of dealing with all that, but if Leon senses an opportunity to be of assistance, he certainly will. Vesryn has done more than enough for them all to deserve that.

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Credit| Kharisanna Istimaethoriel |

"I don't know that I've ever been this invested in another person."

Leon is proud of Khari—extremely so. He thinks she gives him a little too much credit for her success, but at the same time, he doesn't intend to ask her to stop doing it. Just being in her company is enough to lift his mood regardless of the circumstances. It hasn't all been light and sunshine—she's given him more than one much-needed reality check, and he's shed more than a few tears either in her presence or because of her, but the end result is a profound bond that fair-weather friendships or untried ones can never hope to replicate. Khari's happiness and success are as important to Leon as his own, and the current state of their relationship is something he hopes to preserve for as long as it's possible. Bonds like theirs are rare, as far as he can tell, and he doesn't expect to be gifted with another in his lifetime.

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Credit| Romulus |

"I think few people are capable of such changes as his."

Romulus has made a different man of himself, that much is clear to anyone who cares to observe. Leon sort of figured that he'd have to, given the circumstances, but he didn't foresee the changes being quite as momentous as they have in fact been. He also didn't foresee being friends with the Lord Inquisitor, but there it is. They get along well perhaps because they're both accustomed to listening as well as speaking, and for all that initial social interaction was awkward, it's become surprisingly easy after three years or so of working on it.

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Credit| Rilien Falavel |

"A most capable ally... and perhaps something like a friend."

Leon knows that Rilien will always be Lord Lucien's man first and foremost. But he no longer has any reason to suspect that this in any way hedges his commitment to the Inquisition's goals. They have worked closely together now for three years, and in all that time Rilien has never once done anything or made a single choice without the benefit of their organization and its members in mind. He's been especially helpful to Estella, no doubt, but his impact can be seen elsewhere as well. And of course, his competence at his job is almost staggering; one thing the Inquisition seldom lacks for is the information spies can grant them. Even when they seem to lack just about everything else.

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Credit| Estella Avenarius |

"She has grown into someone quite capable."

In some ways, Estella was just as worrisome as Romulus when they first became the Heralds of Andraste. Her issue was that she simply wasn't in a good position to be a leader, and Leon feared her relative lack of both skill and confidence would see her killed quite before the Inquisition was able to achieve its goals. He's most pleased to have been shown wrong on all counts, as Estella has grown almost unbelievably in terms of both her skills—both combative and diplomatic—and her self-esteem in the three years the Inquisition has been active. Since she's never been anything but congenial and kind, he's never had any particular issue getting along with her, either, and their working relationship is very effective. Personally, he likes her a great deal, though tine constraints mean he rarely encounters her outside of formal settings.


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"I must believe it's about what we do with our time,
and not how much of it we have."

So begins...

Leonhardt Albrecht's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus made his way up the steep mountain path, with only the Tranquil, Rilien, at his back. The density of the snowfall increased, as did the strength of the wind. Romulus shivered visibly several times, thankful that at least his cloak and gear had been returned. He was not accustomed to this climate yet, and was beginning to think he never would be. And now, with a hole torn in the sky and some link connecting him to it by the hand... it was difficult to say what was before him.

The path led upwards until a simple road would no longer suffice, and a sturdy wooden ladder presented itself. Romulus led the way, climbing up onto the platforms of wooden planks that allowed them to continue their ascent. Down below, he could hear the ever present sounds of fighting, the rumbles of demons smashing down into the earth, and from above, the booms of the Breach as it expanded hungrily across the sky.

The ladders led them into what looked like a cave network, which had evidently once been part of some livable complex, if the supplies were anything to go by. It was abandoned now, though, and the weather had seeped in over time, freezing water to parts of the floor, now slick and nearly textureless. With soft feet they navigated, both inclined to silence.

Rilien, as the others had called him, was the first one to break it. "You do not recall, why it was you and she who survived the explosion?” Logically for a Tranquil, his tone held no accusation, nor even curiosity, though there was something in it beyond the perfect neutrality they were known for nevertheless. He’d taken a position to Romulus’s left, slightly behind, and one of his knives was already drawn, flipped back so the blunt side of the blade lay against his forearm. He carried it like someone who’d done so all his life.

Romulus was familiar with the Tranquil, at least in part. It was not as prevalent in the Imperium as it was in the south, but the Magisterium was known to pass it as a punishment for those that stepped too far out of line. None of the Tranquil he had ever encountered were much like this elven one. They could hardly take care of themselves, let alone lead operations and skillfully protect themselves. He'd seen more than one person already look to Rilien as a source of authority. Romulus made a mental note not to underestimate him.

Didn't mean he would provide him with everything he knew, though. They had limited time, of course. But the question itself did not demand he give up anything meaningful. He lacked an adequate answer, in reality. "I do not remember," he said simply, before coming to a stop at a corner, and signaling for Rilien to halt as well.

Two wraiths wandered slowly, almost mournfully down the hallway beyond towards them. Romulus held out two fingers briefly so Rilien might know what was incoming, if he did not already. Romulus was not accustomed to working with others, certainly not the Tranquil. When the wraiths came in range, almost around the corner, Romulus led the charge out, shield protecting himself from the first magical blast. He rolled smoothly forward, stabbing up through the head of the left wraith, and ending it, the green mist soon fading up into the air. Beside him, the other dropped, too, victim to a clean, deep cut horizontally across its neck.

"What Estella recalled, in the Chantry... I remember that as well. Waking in a strange place, seeing her there with me, running from creatures, up a path. I remember the woman at the top. She glowed, and reached out to us. After that... nothing." He frowned, trying to remember, and wondering why only certain pieces were available to him.

"Estella also remembers what she was doing in the Chantry in the first place.” Rilien’s eyes were thoughtfully narrow, but he clearly chose not to press that line of questioning at the moment, though he was evidently aware that it was there to be pressed.

The rest of the journey through the cave complex was relatively straightforward, and aside form the occasional stray shade, easily dispatched by one or the other of them, they encountered no difficulty. At the end of the climb, they emerged into what looked like the beginning of a gradual downhill slope. Slightly into the distance, a pale green light could be observed rising towards the sky, though it was obviously not part of the Breach itself.

"This is where we lost the scouts.” This time, Rilien took point, treading lightly over the snow. It proved to be unnecessary in terms of reconnaissance, however, because they could hear the characteristic noise of a battle before they could see what was making it.

They rounded a corner of trees alongside the path beaten out of the snow, to find four battle-weary scouts standing near one of the Fade rifts, with no visible enemies around it. Romulus paused, inspecting them from a distance. They looked to have only just escaped from a combat, judging by their wounds and their state of disorganization. But there was no evidence of a foe...

At least, not until the ground beneath him turned a pale, sickly green, shifting and swirling like a whirlpool. Romulus had the clarity of mind to dive forward out of the center of it, but soon after a powerful force from below pushed up, hitting him across his entire body and turning what would have been a smooth roll into a hard smack into the dirty snow on his side. A demon had launched itself from the ground, with long, thin limbs and bony, clawed hands. The face at the top of its tall body was marked by a number of holes which perhaps served as eyes, and one gaping maw that opened, and screamed.

Romulus observed all this from his back, right up until the screaming started, which sent waves of debilitating pain outwards, as well as considerable force. He found himself buffeted by it, unable to rise, at least until the soldiers formerly by the rift intervened. An arrow struck the demon solidly, knocking it back a step, and Romulus scrambled to his feet, ducking under a clash slash and targeting the thing's legs. A stab from his pugio into the back of its knee drove it down to a more manageable height.

Moments later, Rilien leaped onto the creature’s back, driving a dagger into its bony shoulder and using it to push himself further upright, but the demon bucked violently, gripped by the need to escape from what was rapidly becoming its death, and the Tranquil was thrown off and crashed into a nearby snowdrift, the knife embedded where he’d left it.

As soon as Rilien was removed from it, however, Romulus took his place, stabbing his own dagger into its back, and grabbing the Tranquil's blade with his shield-hand, ripping it free. With considerable arm strength he pulled himself high enough to target the head, and thrust the blade right into the back of it. The demon released a horrible shriek, causing Romulus to lose his grip and fall several feet onto his back, but it soon fell limply forward. It crashed into the snow, and lay still.

Getting to his feet, Romulus was bothered by yet another expansion of the Breach, lighting up the palm of his hand, but he ignored it as best he could, pressing his hand into the side of his leg as he pulled free his dagger. After yanking out the other and tossing it at Rilien, he centered his gaze on the rift before him, and held out his hand. The arc of green energy was established again, the rift destabilized again, and finally destroyed, allowing no more of the fearsome demons to press through.

The four scouts that remained alive nursed their wounds, the healthiest among them helping another one to stand. "Thank the Maker you came," she said, breathing heavily. "I don't think we could have held out much longer."

Rilien inclined his head. "The way we came is clear. Get back to the forward camp and have your injuries treated.” She nodded, and, still supporting her teammate, led them back towards the caves. Wordlessly, Rilien turned and continued down the pathway, the Temple of Sacred Ashes now coming into sight, or at least what was left of it.

They entered through an area that must once have been the courtyard, though now it was nothing more than a hollowed-out shell, the ground blackened and scorched beyond recognition. In contrast to the crash of battle, the area was eerily quiet. Here and there, figures that looked like men and women in armor had been seemingly petrified where they stood, still holding arms, their faces twisted into visages of surprise, fear, or in some cases grim determination.

"The Breach is through here.”


His heart was thunder, crashing in his ears a thousand times louder than the ring of steel.

But he could hear that, too, in the same distant kind of way he could hear the shouting of the others. Mist and smoke from the fires rolled across the valley, obscuring the view from the slit of a bronze-colored helmet, but he had no care for that, because he could feel them, smell them even, like tainted lightning, and they were all so much unnatural chattel.

The force with which he swung tore his hand clear through the spectral greenish thing, the same color as the tear in the sky that he did not quite understand. That was far beyond his reach at present, though, and so he contented himself with this, ripping his fist back through the deconstituted cloud that remained and moved to the next. There was always another, and he felt them, aiming projectiles at his armor, which was already coated in clumps of frost, that crackled and shattered when he moved, shedding from him like old scales from the back of a dragon.

A rage demon rose up next, and he moved forward to meet it, hesitation a thing long left behind, at least for this moment. The demon too charged, bellowing its rage at him, clarion in the din, but still not so loud as his heart. They met with a full-bodied crash, and his hand closed around the front part of its throat, where its windpipe was. Magma flowed over his hand, armor and all, and he felt the blistering sensation as it started to burn the skin that lay beneath.

Beneath his helm, he smiled.

His other hand jabbed repeatedly at the demon’s gut, coming away coated in rapidly-cooling lava each time, until it was protected by a layer of stone forged of the fiend’s belly, and then he drove it forward again, pulling the thing towards him with his left hand and driving the rock-covered fist right into its forehead with his right. It scrabbled at him with long arms, leaving welts in his plate, but its extremities were far too cold to burn him the same way its innards could. Stunned from the blow to the head, it slackened, and he flexed his fingers, driving them forward one last time, clenching them over whatever he could hold, and tearing it back out again.

It went completely limp beneath him, and he dropped it, discarding the molten stone it called a heart to one side, his right gauntlet steaming from abrupt exposure to the cold.

He scraped the cooling stone off and glanced around, seeking his next foe. Instead, he found that he and his soldiers had cleared most of the area, but that the shifting green crystal a dozen feet away, hovering at shoulder height, was still present. He’d tried to tear that apart, too, only to find that his hands passed right through, and so they’d turned to killing everything that came from it instead. Now, however, he was out of ideas.

No sooner had he had the thought than something caught his attention from his peripheral vision. His entire frame tensed, but then relaxed. Humans. There was no need to kill humans today. The one in front was unfamiliar, dark-haired and lightly-armored. He recognized the crest on her cloak. The other one wasn’t human at all, he discovered upon turning his head, but a Qunari. He didn’t know her, either, but they were approaching from the direction of the forward camp.

They approached the rift first, and he watched with surprise as the one in front looked down at her hand, and then thrust it upwards, in the direction of the anomaly. A beam of some kind of light issued from her palm, and she staggered backwards a step, and he heard the sound of his heartbeat gradually recede, overtaken by a whine of increasingly-high pitch, one that ended with a loud bang.

He blinked, to confirm what he was seeing, and upon opening his eyes again, the rift was still gone, as though it had never been there at all.

Leonhardt exhaled, and took a step towards them.

The Qunari woman was the first to notice his approach, wide golden eyes turning upon him. They alighted on Leonhardt for a moment before they widened in what appeared to be either fear, shock, or a mix of the two. She said nothing except for a timid eek and clutched at her collar. Quickly she took a defensive step backward and stood behind the shorter woman. If it was an attempt to hide, it was a poor one, considering the Qunari stood nearly a foot over the other one.

He sighed behind his helm. He supposed that was to be expected, though a cowering Qunari specifically was rather new, and something he doubted he’d see again. “They told me you might be able to do that,” he said, stopping in his tracks and holding both hands up at the level of his chest. Not that this would be really reassuring to anyone, considering the fact that he wasn’t armed to begin with, but it was the intention of the gesture that he hoped to convey.

“It’s Estella, isn’t it? I’ve met a few friends of yours. They insisted on helping when they found out what happened to you. They’re further ahead, with the rest of the troops.”

He watched her eyes go wide as she processed what he was implying, and then she visibly swallowed, slumping slightly in what could only have been relief. “Thank the Maker for that,” she said, and then took a step in his direction. “I’m Estella, yes, and this is Asala. We’re supposed to help you push to the Temple.”

He nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do. I’m Leonhardt Albrecht, and I command the troops here. Follow me.”

Over the clamor of soldiers and their arms and armor, they pressed forward, Estella and Asala following behind Leonhardt. As they pushed forward, broken and shattered cobblestones crunched beneath their feet. They passed by hastily constructed bulwarks and large chunks of rock most likely thrown from the temple in the explosion.

Their path fed them into a larger battefield and the din of battle grew as they closed the distance.

This was, he knew, the last major area they had to clear before they would be granted access to the Temple. There were enough soldiers here to handle it, but they were going to take heavy casualties unless the tide of battle turned quickly, and Leonhardt scanned the field with a heavy gaze. The other Lions he’d met had told him a little bit about Estella, and he knew of Asala, if only through a brief mention in a progress report, but the information he had should be sufficient.

“Asala, please remain here. I’d like you to support the whole field, if possible, but prioritize Estella when you have to. Estella, follow me.” He glanced sideways at the young woman, and adjusted his gauntlets slightly, trying to get comfortable now that one of them was slightly misshapen. “Please remain at a moderate distance, however.” It would be better for him if he could move without fear of hitting her, however accidental it would be.

Deciding to keep his wits about him as much as possible, he waded into the field directly thereafter, going right when a glimmering shield appeared to his left. He’d let Estella take advantage of the positioning that would offer, and fend off enemies from the unprotected side. It was mostly shades and those green wisps down here; certainly no more rage demons that he could see.

This time, when he went to work, he fought down the threatening haze, focusing on defending rather than outright aggression. They needed to punch through the front line, after which it wouldn’t be too difficult to set his troops up in a wedge, which would allow them to flank both sides and crush the pockets of demons in a double-pincer.

He drew back and slammed his gauntlet into a shade’s nose, following up with an elbow to the back of its head when it doubled over, and something cracked under the force, a signal that he could move onto the next. With a forced step forward, he brought his knee into the gut of the next one, catching its head in both hands and twisting sharply to the side. More cracks, another down. Ranging near him, but at the modest distance he’d requested, Estella brought her blade down on another, felling it. She was panting slightly, but her forward progress had yet to falter, so he left her to it, and eventually, they broke the line.

Leonhardt whistled sharply, and the remaining soldiers lined the wedge with their bodies, cutting off any attempt at demonic pursuit. He waved Asala down from her position on the hill, and the three of them cleared the line, leaving the troops to finish off the remnants.

“This way. We’re almost there.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
It was enormous. A crystal structure, just like the rest, except for the fact that it was several times the size and positioned directly below the Breach in the sky. Estella wasn’t actually so sure her mark could close this, given the size of it, but it wasn’t as though there was any choice but to try. The two groups had met up just outside the Temple, and she was relieved to see that both Rilien and Romulus appeared to be fine, or at least none the worse for wear. It was reassuring that she wasn’t the only one in this situation, because it meant that she wasn’t really the only hope for this.

But their work wasn’t done yet. Glancing to her right, she saw what looked like a likely way down, since there weren’t really any stairs directly from the point they’d entered. Steeling herself, she started down that way, vaguely aware of Rilien breaking off from the group to direct the other soldiers who’d arrived with them, meaning that she, Romulus, Asala, and Leonhardt were left to make their way down.

They hadn’t been walking for more than a minute or so when something extremely unexpected happened. A voice, disembodied and deep, spoke from seemingly everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“NOW IS THE HOUR OF OUR VICTORY.”

Estella stopped dead. Something
 no, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Wincing at the volume, she shook herself and continued forwards.

Asala however, remained still for a few moments longer, staring up into the Breach and then all arpind. She winced and took a step back, before noticing the others moving ahead and quickly moving to catch up. "Wh-what... Who is that?" she asked, still searching.

Romulus slowly pulled his hood back upon hearing the booming voice, a frown lining his face. He spun in a full circle as they walked, as though trying to find the source of the voice, before eventually settling on the floating crystalline structure of the Breach. "It's... coming from the Breach, isn't it?"

"BRING FORTH THE SACRIFICE."

“I think so,” Estella replied, once the echoes of it had died down. “But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve heard it before
” It fell quiet for a while after that though, as they wended their way further down towards the Breach. Their path had faded from clearly-supported architecture to whatever was left after the explosion, and it was treacherous going, though it seemed mundane enough, at least until she caught sight of a soft red glow ahead of them.

“That’s
” She turned around, almost by instinct, seeking Rilien, but of course he was further up. She wondered if he’d sensed it already. In his absence, her eyes found the gap in Leonhardt's helm, the massive man encased in burnished armor, and he finished her sentence for her.

“Red lyrium.” He didn’t sound quite as surprised as she’d expected, so maybe he knew something about it.

“I’ve only seen it once, but
 it’s not good that it’s here.”

He seemed to nod, though it was hard to tell with the helmet. Giving the stuff a wide berth, she continued down the path, hoping it was not a sign of things to come. Meredith had been
 terrifying was too mild a word. Fearsome seemed about right.

Her gaze fell from the air around them and Asala instead looked to the shards of red lyrium embedded in the walls and sprouting from the ground. "Maybe.." she said whilst seemingly in thought. "Wh-whatever magic was used to destroy the temple drew from the lyrium beneath," she said, the grip on her collar tightening.

"It c-could've corrupted it. Whatever happened here was... Terrible," she continued, a tone of sadness in her voice.

"KEEP THE SACRIFICE STILL."

This time, the voice was followed by another, this one feminine, much higher-pitched, and filled with the obvious tone of fear.

“SOMEONE! HELP ME!”

It was starting to sound less like strange echoes and more like a scene of some kind, like a play, or
 a memory, perhaps. She didn’t recognize the woman’s voice at first, but Leonhardt clearly did. “That’s
 Divine Justinia’s voice.” Estella wasn’t sure how he knew that, but she didn’t doubt him.

“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?”

The third voice, impossibly, sounded exactly like her own. “What
? That’s
” If this was a memory, was it her own? Despite her certainty that she was the third speaker, Estella still didn’t recall any of it. Her pace quickened—they needed to reach the bottom, for surely that was where the answers lay, if there were any to be had at all.

Romulus was the first to reach the ledge closest to the bottom of the ruin, and he dropped down, stepping forward as the others followed closely behind. The crystalline structure of the Breach snapped and reformed rapidly before their eyes, seemingly reacting to the encroachment of the two that bore marks on their hands. When Romulus came close enough, a crack coincided with the lighting of his mark, and the echoes began again. The Divine cried out, and Estella answered, the same as before.

"She called out to you for help," Romulus remarked, quietly, as Estella stood close enough beside him to hear. He held his mark out, as if offering it to the Breach. Suddenly there was a flash of light and a rumbling like thunder, temporarily rendering their sight useless. When they could see again, a shadowy veil had formed in front of the crystal, and images floated above them. A shifting shadow, incredibly tall, with long, sharp fingers and bright red flames for eyes hovered. It reached out with a hand, curled fingers arcing towards a woman in elaborate Chantry robes, her arms suspended out to the side, leaving her helpless.

Through what looked to be a shadowy doorway, a darkened representation of Estella entered the area, saber in her left hand, knife in her right. Her posture tensed immediately when she took in the scene, and the knife fell from her fingers. Romulus appeared beside her, his face hidden under the shadow of his hood, but the gear and the posture, unmistakable. The Divine, as Leonhardt had named her, managed to turn her head towards them.

"RUN WHILE YOU CAN! WARN THEM!" The great shadow slowly turned its head towards the newly arrived pair.

"WE HAVE INTRUDERS. SLAY THEM." Another flash of light followed, and the vision vanished, leaving the crystalline structure of the Breach behind, unchanged.

“You were there when she died.” That was Leonhardt, and he looked from Estella to Romulus, but made no aggressive motion. “And yet it seems she was slain by another. One we did not find.”

Estella had to admit that it certainly looked that way, and those really did seem to be herself and Romulus, so why was it still so difficult to remember? She furrowed her brow, and sighed heavily. In any case, it could wait. The Breach had to come first. She moved her attention to Asala, who seemed to be an especially nervous person, and pitched her voice as gently as she could. “Do we just do the same thing as before?” Maybe something that big would require both of them.

She nodded in the affirmatory, but there was something else. Asala hesitated for a moment, casting her eyes upward to the Breach. "But... It is closed but not s-sealed," she said. Her mouth worked for a moment before her eyes dropped back down to the ground below. "You both w-will have to reopen and close it p-properly but..." There was another pause.

"Be r-ready. Something may try to slip through," she added, pulling her cloak tighter over her shoulders like she felt a sudden chill in her bones.

This bit of information seemed to ripple upwards through the ranks of the assembled soldiers, but by that time, they looked to have been positioned already, largely around the rim of the depression in the ground that the four of them now occupied. Most of them were armed with bows, and took careful aim at the area around the rift, bows half-drawn and readied for whatever emerged from it.

Romulus rolled his shoulders and neck briefly in preparation, while the soldiers and archers that came down with them took up defensive positions and prepared for the battle. After sparing a glance at Estella to make sure she was ready, the two simultaneously lifted their marks up to the Breach, twin arcs of green energy shooting from their palms and striking against the crystalline structure. It seemed almost to flinch in on itself, reforming and cracking rapidly, until it began to shake with the force being applied to it.

Finally, it shattered altogether, opening up the rift with a gaping hole. Almost instantly a purple-hued shape shot through, like a ball of crackling electricity. It flew through the air right behind Estella and Romulus, where it halted, hovered, and quickly expanded. In mid air the impressive physique of a pride demon formed. It roared, shaking with fury as it landed with a mighty crash against the ground, shaking everything around it.

The first arrows to strike it clattered harmlessly off of the thickened skin on its shoulders and back, and it let loose a deep, guttural laugh. Below, Romulus quickly downed a second of the vials of liquid. He tossed it aside and drew his knife as the fight began, the pride demon stepping forward to launch its first powerful attacks.

Estella herself, slower to recover than Romulus had been, was still dizzy for several seconds after he’d run off, but she was gathering her wits and her breath to follow him when a chance glance from the corner of her eye informed her of something quite unexpected. Beneath her feet, the dark grey ground was swiftly turning black, and was that green?

Not especially eager to find out what that meant, she made to leap off the patch, but her feet hadn’t made it two inches from the dirt before she was hit from below with a—she supposed it was like a vent in the ground, as one might see from a geyser. Whatever it was, it hit her hard, and blasted her off her feet, knocking her to the side, where she landed in an ungainly heap and rolled several times, ending in a sprawl on her back, arms out to either side and a disconcerting tingling sensation in her legs.

Asala had said
 what had Asala said? It was so hard to think. Struggling to her feet, she staggered sideways with a groan. The rift had been closed, but not sealed, so they had to open it. Which was where the Pride demon had come from, which meant
 it was still open. She looked to her left, but Romulus was engaged with the demon, too far away to be of any help, which meant


She had to try and close this thing on her own. Absurdly, she felt laughter starting to bubble in her chest, and wondered to herself if she was succumbing to hysteria from the strain. But really, it would have been humorous if it weren’t so urgent—the idea that anyone might have to rely on her for something so important. She couldn’t even be relied upon not to get herself killed.

But despite her thoughts, she forced her numb feet to move, shuffling back to the rift, avoiding the blackened spot on the ground and raising her hand towards it. As before, a column of viridian light lanced outwards, and she grit her teeth against the discomfort of it, stretching closer. This time, when the boom sounded, a cloud remained, but the crystal formation was gone. That wasn’t right


She looked back down the field, to where the others had the demon engaged, to see it on its knees. Already? She knew they were good, but
 it occurred to her that maybe what she’d done and that were connected somehow. Maybe she’d weakened the demon by destroying the rift structure? Still, it didn’t look fixed, like the others, and she prayed she hadn’t ruined their chances of sealing it properly.

Prayed, but dared not hope.

The demon did not stay down for long, and when it rose again, it appeared even angrier than before, perhaps now taking its opponents seriously. Romulus circled around in front of it, noticing that the arrows loosed at it were now piercing the skin, and leaving thin trails of blood leaking down. Whatever Estella had done seemed to have weakened its defenses.

The pride demon’s eyes settled on Romulus, and it brought forth a large hand, creating a sphere of electrical magic in its palm, soon launching it directly at the man. He didn’t so much as try to get out of the way; the lightning passed right through him, but judging by his reaction, he only barely felt it. His clothes were crackling and singed, but he seemed almost entirely unaffected. He rushed forward under the demon’s arm, and nimbly leaped up, pushing off the side of its leg and plunging his knife into the thing’s stomach. He carved a short line, spewing blood behind him, before the demon tried a more mundane approach.

A swift backhanded smash collided with Romulus, hitting him in the back and pitching him forward. He landed hard on the scorched, stony ground and rolled several times, stumbling back to his feet. The fall probably would’ve broken a few bones, had it not been for the benefit of a shield placed over him by Asala just before he hit the ground.

With Romulus out of immediate melee range, Estella saw Leonhardt step in to draw the demon’s attention, a resounding smacking noise reaching her ears even over the intervening distance, as he drove an arm for the back of its knee. It worked, too, and the creature listed to the side, staggering to recover its balance with one leg near to buckling. Several more arrows thudded into it while it remained thus preoccupied, and its next blast of lightning was hasty, aimed right at the armored man now circling around to its front.

She was about to shout a warning when without notice, the rift’s crystalline structure suddenly reformed, and this time, it spilled a small wave of more minor demons, closer to her than the others. One landed nearly on top of her, and she threw herself to the side, tucking into a roll and drawing her sword on the way back up. She glanced quickly back to where the others were.

The lightning never did find its target. Instead, it bounced harmlessly off of another barrier that had since become associated with Asala's magic. The woman herself, in fact, was not too far away, standing only a short distance away from Leonhardt. This time, her staff was the instrument that she had wreathed blue hued Fade, the tip of which was planted into the ground.

Closer inspection revealed the barrier to not be just a simple shield this time, but a full dome shielding both Leonhardt and Asala from the wild lightning cast by the pride demon. While her eyes remained open, the concentration in them was readily apparent, even as she mouthed something to herself. Once the fingers of lightning had safely vanished into the air, Asala lifted her staff into the air and twisted it so that the bottom tip whipped upward.

The dome mimicked the gesture, lifting into the air and shrinking so that when it struck underneath the chin of the pride demon, it was a condensed sphere. The barrier held enough force behind it to keep the demon stumbling.

The demon did not seem to particularly enjoy that. It sucked in air and loosed an enraged roar, beating its chest and covering itself in a rocky exoskeleton to act as a shield.

Upon seeing the formation of the armor plates around the demon, Romulus was forced to back away, his options for attack entirely limited. He looked to Estella, to make sure she was in a position to hear him. "Estella! Whatever you did before, do it again!"

“Right,” she muttered, bringing her saber down with both hands in a broad slash that felled the nearest shade. “Kill the demons, do the thing to the rift. I can do this. I think.” She wasn’t sure when she’d fallen into the habit of talking to herself, but it tended to happen the more strain she was under, which meant now was just about right.

There were probably too many demons here for her to realistically handle, but as usual, her allies were there to save her—most of the arrows had diverted towards helping suppress the movement of the smaller demons, useless as they were on a Pride-creature covered in stone. She had the distinct feeling she owed Rilien her life, again. “One day I’ll get around to paying those.”

With the suppressing fire, she was able to take them more or less one at a time, but the third foe came as a pair, and though she felled the first, she did so at the expense of the second raking claws across the side of her abdomen, finding a weak spot in her leathers and sinking its talons deep into her skin. She bit down on the scream that threatened, lunging forward to relieve the pressure and also stab the end of the saber up under its chin. Blood ran in rivulets down her side, most of it dripping from her hip to the ground, while yet more slicked down the side of her leg.

But she was free, for the moment, and so she forced herself to let go of the wound and instead use her free hand to disrupt the rift again. This time, when it exploded, she was ready for it, and skittered away from another of the vents in the ground, shedding more blood as she went.

A check of the others informed her that it had worked; the demon, still armored, was kneeling again, clearly in pain, and it looked a lot like Leonhardt was trying to rip stone plates off it with his hands, something which didn’t work until he jumped for one, bearing down with his considerable body weight and upper body strength alike, the plate protecting the demon’s lower spine peeling away slowly and with great resistance. To help, Asala erected a barrier and slowly expanded it beneath the plate that Leonhardt was pulling back. Together they were able to tear it away inch by inch.

As soon as there was an opening to a vulnerable spot, Romulus flew into it, stabbing the pride demon in the lower back. Instantly it arched backwards and howled in agony, and it began to spin around, thrashing its arms about in an attempt to swipe away anyone nearby. Romulus, however, was attached to the thing's back, and hung on tightly to the armor plates that remained, while he worked to dig the knife deeper, and cut across the vital spine.

Eventually, he got it, as the pride demon's legs ceased to respond, and it collapsed heavily onto its face, the armor plates sloughing off entirely now that it lacked the magical strength to maintain them. The soldiers present launched repeated stabs down onto the thing, and Romulus slid over the back to come to rest at the head, where he stabbed his blade cleanly into the back of the neck, and silenced the demon.

He did not revel in the victory, instead immediately removing his blade from the neck and climbing smoothly back to the ground, where he headed over to Estella, closer to the Breach. "Can you help me close it? It needs to happen now." He had clearly noted the wound in her side. If there was any concern in his eyes, it was hard to tell.

She made a pained noise, but nodded. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she could, but that hadn’t stopped her from trying in a while. Together, they lifted their hands towards the rift—and she immediately regretted it, because the pain that ricocheted around in her muscles and bones was much greater than before, great enough that she straight-out fell over, though thankfully she was able to keep her arm outstretched, and that the green light issuing from it flickered, it regained strength as soon as she stopped moving.

The thunderous rapport sounded again, and she blinked up at the sky exactly once before she knew only darkness.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
Image

This time, Romulus woke on a soft bed, in a warm house.

The comforting crackle of a firepit came from nearby, and the first thing he saw was the gentle burning of a candle on the night stand next to him. His armor was off, sorted neatly into a pile at the foot of his bed, as were his weapons. The house itself was unfamiliar to him, but the sound of the wind outside, the drifting snow, was starting to become otherwise. No, he had not traveled far.

The house was small, two rooms, but well furnished, seemingly someone's home judging by the decorations. It didn't look like any sort of medical lodgings. The bed itself was quite comfortable, far more so than what Romulus was used to sleeping on. He stirred, groaning as he sat up. Everything still hurt slightly, if he had to guess from the effort of trying to close the Breach, but how long it had been since then, he couldn't know.

The creaking of the bed under him as he moved drew the attention of a nearby elven woman, young and blonde haired, with the markings of some Dalish god upon her face. She blinked several times, and then took a few steps forward, looking first at Romulus, then at Estella, who lay on another bed across the room from him.

"You're awake!" she said, grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear. She turned her head expectantly, and when Estella started to awaken as well, she nearly jumped in place. "You're both awake!"

"What happened?" Romulus asked, his voice weak from lack of use. He cleared his throat. "Where am I?"

"You're still in Haven," the elven girl answered, already turning to leave, "and you did it! You stopped the Breach!" On the way out, she gently shook Asala by the shoulder. The Qunari woman had been asleep in a nearby wooden chair. The elf pushed open the door to the outside, sticking her head out and calling to some others.

"They're awake!"

Both the noise and the light jarring woke Asala and once opened, her eyes fell on Romulus, and then Estella in short order. She straightened in her chair for a moment, but once whatever it was that she saw pleased her, she allowed herself a small smile and quietly relaxed again, rubbing a spot on her forehead under her horns.

Estella, on the other hand, woke groggily, but not so much so that she wasn’t immediately upright, pushing loose chunks of dark hair back from her face. “Lia?” Blinking several times, she scrambled out of bed, at right around the same time several new people entered all at once, crowding the door in an attempt, apparently, to be the first one in. Estella had opened her mouth to say something else, but any effort to do so was immediately muffled when she was swept up into a crushing hug by the person who’d managed to get in the door ahead of the others.

It was a youthful elven man, from the pointed eartips visible even through his brunet mane of hair. He was much taller than most elves, though, and from the bareness of his face, he’d grown up in a city. The embrace was soon made that much more stifling by the addition of a second man, stockier and human, with hair the color of straw. The last one through the door was a Qunari, as large and imposing as any of his kind, but unlike most of them, wearing a smile, of all things. He didn’t continue the attempt to suffocate Estella, but he did chuckle, reaching down and scrubbing the top of her head with a grey fist. All three wore dark red tunics similar to Estella’s, down to the silver stripes on the sleeves.

“Welcome back, Stel!" That was the elf, and he and the human released her, at which point she dropped at least half a foot, looking rather red in the face, though it seemed to be embarrassment more than anything. Still, she smiled, a small one, but one that reached all the way to her eyes.

“I’m so glad you guys are all right.” The smile faded, but the elf clapped her on the shoulder.

“Us? When we saw that explosion, we thought
” He trailed off, glancing at the others, then sighed. “Well, it’s just good that you made it. We got here as soon as we heard, and we’ve been helping out this lot for a while.”

The Qunari nodded. “We are supposed to bring you up to the Chantry, actually.” He turned his eyes to Romulus. “Both of you.”

"We're glad you made it, too," the elven girl, Lia said to Romulus, after she was finished with her turn smothering Estella in a hug. Romulus sat somewhat awkwardly on the bed, where he had observed all of Estella's friends enter and greet her. Lia, he could guess, was conscious of the fact that no one had arrived for him. "They've been saying you helped a great deal. Some of the scouts owe you their lives, they said. The two of you are all anyone's talked about the last three days."

"Wasn't my doing. I've chosen nothing so far." He stood, beginning to don his outer layers of clothes, and his cloak.

"All the same, you saved them from demons and the rift. Not just anyone could do that." Romulus seemed mostly to ignore Lia's comment, glancing over at Estella.

"We should get to the Chantry, if you're ready." Truthfully, he was worried about how much this had spread in three days. Haven was an isolated community, but with recent events, there were many people coming and going, and wagging their tongues. He noted that the mark on his hand was still present, if not particularly painful. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to just go on his way. Whatever his course of action, he hoped to establish it soon.

“Um.” Estella looked down at her clothes, then sighed, patting down her hair for all of five seconds before she threw on her cloak and belted her sword into place. She didn’t seem concerned with armor, presently, which probably had something to do with the fact that her friends were all without, though not one of them had failed to bring some kind of weapon with them. “Yeah. I can go.”

Something appeared to occur to her, because she leaned out from behind the Qunari to look in Asala’s direction. “I think I probably owe you. Again. So
 thank you.” The others had already started moving for the door, and the human, who was in front, turned back to them, his hand on the door.

“Uh
 also, there’s a bit of a crowd out there, so stick close to us, just in case. They’re
 well, you’ll see.” Having delivered his warning, he pushed open the door and stepped down off the small front porch.

And crowd was a bit of an understatement. It looked like the entire population of Haven was out there, waiting for
 something. The two of them, apparently. Estella immediately located herself to the inside of the Qunari, apparently not eager to face so many people, and the group started forward.

Romulus wasn't sure whether to pull up his hood or not. Having that many eyes upon him at once was... well, he didn't think he'd ever had this many people looking at him before. Having the others, Estella's friends, was a comfort, but the eyes of the crowd didn't care, even for a sight as strange as two Qunari in a group in Ferelden of all places. Romulus moved forward, the rest in tow, and there were guards ahead, even, soldiers who had probably fought in the battle, there to keep members of the crowd away in case they wanted to reach. Asala, naturally, tried to avoid the crowd completely and broke from the group, taking a back way elsewhere.

"That's them," he heard a woman say in the crowd, which was uncomfortably silent for its size. "They stopped the Breach from getting any bigger." Romulus looked up, and even from just outside he could see that it was true. The Breach was still present in the sky above the Temple, but no longer did the light reach down to the earth itself, nor did it spew forth fire and demons.

"The Heralds of Andraste," another one said, a man, and Romulus frowned at the weight of the title. He walked a little faster, heading towards the steps ahead.

"Do we know, though? Did they both work to stop the Breach?"

"I thought they were supposed to close it."

Their voices faded behind them as they moved on. Smaller groups were scattered throughout the village, awaiting their arrival it seemed, wanting to simply watch them on their way up to the Chantry. There, the entire collective of Haven's Chantry sisters were gathered outside the doors, which they opened for the approaching group. Romulus was grateful to be inside, away from the eyes of the villagers. The Chantry appeared to be emptied out entirely.

Up ahead, he could hear arguing, and the familiar sound of an upset Chantry chancellor. Romulus walked swiftly the length of the chantry towards the voices, and pushed open the door that led to them. Estella's friends stopped to wait outside, and presumably guard the door.

The door led into a somewhat-spacious chamber, done up in such a way that it must have once been a library or someone’s office. There were several bookshelves along either side wall, and a hearth against the back. Currently dominating the space was a large wooden table, overlaid with what looked to be a series of maps, the largest and most central ones being of Ferelden and Orlais. Several small tokens were spread over the map, some of them in the shapes of predatory birds, painted black, and others were plainer, the wood unvarnished. Improvised, probably.

As expected, Chancellor Roderick was present, as was Rilien, but this time the person having an argument with the Chantry official was an exceedingly tall, quite broad man in what looked like the typical robes of a clerical scribe; they were dark green and extremely simple. His hair, a blonde approaching platinum, was pulled into a rough tail at the nape of his neck, and he glanced up at them with violet eyes when they entered. He looked quite different, but few people were made in such proportions, and the easy guess was that it was Leonhardt, something which he confirmed by speaking in the same voice.

“Ah, you’ve awakened.” His tone, however, was much softer than it had been before; mild, even. “When you collapsed again after stabilizing the Breach, we were worried the marks would
” he shook his head. “Well, anyway. I’m glad to see you’re both awake.”

“Yes, yes, excellent,” Roderick put in, his sarcasm evident. “Now arrest them both. They must be taken to Val Royeaux for trial.”

Leonhardt blinked down at him, apparently quite sanguine about the whole thing. “I’m not going to do that, Chancellor. And you shouldn’t want me to. They saved us, regardless of how it happened. And they tried to save Justinia as well.”

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” Roderick seemed ready to offer further protest, but he was cut off by Rilien this time.

“It is High Seeker, if we are to lean on the formalities.” His tone was flat as ever, but the Chancellor bristled. “Regardless of whether they are or are not guilty of anything, the Breach is still a threat. If we ignore it, we court destruction, and they are the only measures we have against it.” He nodded towards Romulus and Estella, both standing on the opposite side of the table.

“This is ridiculous! If anyone created the problem in the first place, it must surely be them! Who else is there?” Roderick was gesticulating with greater emphasis at this point, in contrast to the collected demeanors of the other two. “And if they are responsible, we can’t just let them walk around freely; they must be questioned!”

“Yes.” Rilien’s agreement seemed to throw him off, and for a moment, the Chancellor gaped like a fish. “We must learn who they are and what their purposes were, but that does not require their arrest, nor their trials. There is no evidence that they attempted what you accuse them of, and mounting evidence to the contrary.”

“Nonsense! I will believe none of this until someone can explain to me what they were doing at the Conclave and how they survived it when no one else—when even the Divine did not.”

All eyes in the room turned to the pair of them.

Estella spoke up first. “I’ve said it already, but if it makes any difference, I’ll say it again.” She took a deep breath, moving her legs so that they were shoulder-width apart and folding her arms behind her back before she started to speak, directly to Roderick. “I’m with the Argent Lions mercenary company. Several days before the Conclave, I received orders to take my squad, along with two others, and serve as part of the peacekeeping force there. My commander thought it would be good to bolster them, because there was always the danger of a fight breaking out, and since the parties involved were mages and Templars, it could get dangerous very quickly.”

She paused, and Leonhardt nodded, almost as if to encourage her to continue. “So, I went, along with my squad. We were ten in total, and with the other two groups, there were thirty-one of us. My team was assigned to the inside of the Temple. The others were going to be ranging the nearby area, in case of anything interfering from outside.” Estella pursed her lips, looking at the ground for several seconds before she raised her head again.

“After that, my memory gets patchy. I don’t know exactly what happened, only that at some point, something went wrong, and
 someone called for help. I remember heading in that direction. I also remember that at some point, Romulus was with me.” She cast a glance at him, but looked back at Roderick almost immediately afterwards. “The next thing that seems clear was
 running. From something terrible. And then a woman, bright and hard to see in any detail, reached for us, and we took her hands. After that, I woke up in a cellar, with this mark, and no idea what had happened to me.”

Roderick seemed to be giving that some thought. Leonhardt spoke next. “The other Lions corroborate her story as far as the circumstances, and Rilien knows this girl quite well, Chancellor. We have little reason to doubt what she says. More than that, I believe the Divine was calling her—them—for help. I heard it myself, else I would find it difficult to believe as well.”

Roderick still looked skeptical, but it was evident that he was the only one who was, and so he switched tacks. “But there are two people in this position, and while one accident might be believable, two is too miraculous for credibility. What does the other suspect have to muster in his defense?”

Romulus had spent the time while Estella explained to weigh his position. The truth, if he told it, was not pleasant. It did not favor him; if anything, it made him seem more guilty. And though he believed himself to be innocent, despite his lack of memory, the Chancellor seemed very inclined to think the opposite, even without a word spoken on his part. Then again... Roderick was in the minority here. The others seemed, at least in part, to be on his side, thanks to his efforts and willingness to help fix the Breach. And with a high-ranking member of the Seekers of Truth here... it seemed inadvisable to lie. Nor would silence do any longer.

"I was dispatched from Minrathous after the Conclave was announced." The Chancellor appeared about to press him further before Romulus spoke, and now that he had, he was left with his mouth hanging slightly open. "I am an agent of Magister Chryseis Viridius, her will and her blade. She took an interest in the events of southern Thedas, and commanded I observe and report on the Conclave's result." He kept his hands folded in front of him while he spoke, his eyes locked on a figure set upon the war table before him.

"I was not to be detected, or become involved. I do not remember how either occurred. I remember only the events Estella has already relayed." Two people, raised in the Imperium but not of ideal Tevinter stock, as they might describe it, the only two to survive the Conclave. It did strike Romulus as odd. The work of a Divine? That was a leap he was not willing to make. But he would not rule out the possibility.

"If I am to be executed for my failure, so be it. But know that I speak the truth. Neither I nor my domina had any intention of disrupting the Conclave."

Aside from Rilien, of course, there didn’t seem to be a face in the room not currently wearing an expression of surprise, including Estella’s. She blinked several times, but then her features shifted briefly to a sort of intent thoughtfulness before they smoothed out again.

Roderick, on the other hand, was practically apoplectic. “A Tevinter spy? Surely this is all the proof we need!”

Estella frowned. “I’m from Tevinter, too, you know. I might not work for a Magister, but I’m related to more than one. If that’s enough to prove guilt, then I’m guilty too.” Her tone suggested just the opposite, of course.

Leonhardt sighed, holding up a hand to forestall anything further, probably from Roderick specifically. “It’s
 not quite the same, but
 yes, it’s a complication. Even so, there is nothing about being an agent of the Imperium that makes one likely to or even capable of engineering destruction on this scale.” The hand moved to rub at the back of his neck, and he looked over towards Rilien.

“You know more about this kind of thing than I do. What do you make of all this?”

“If he were lying to protect himself, he would have done a much better job than that.” Rilien currently leaned against the side of the hearth, his hands folded into his sleeves, observing the byplay with a placid face. “And I believe that is obvious to all of us.” He moved his eyes for a long moment to Roderick, then returned them to Leonhardt.

“I am less concerned with the possibility of his guilt in the foregoing matters and more concerned with the fact that his allegiance is clearly elsewhere. This matter no longer has an apparent solution, and resolving it will take time.” Having said that, he addressed Romulus directly. “Suppose we let you free. What would you do?”

His eyes finally moved from the war table, to meet Rilien's, and he lifted his head slightly as well. "I would follow my directive and return to Minrathous, to report all that has occurred, all that I have seen and done, to my domina." His mouth was set in a hard line as he contemplated adding more. "I do not know how she will react to... what has been done to me." He glanced down at his bare left hand, and the mark upon it. "But there is no choice. I am not free. I am a slave."

“So
 how about a different question?” That was Estella, and her tone was thoughtful. “What do you want to do about all this?”

The question, though it was perhaps the obvious one, seemed to catch Romulus off guard. It was not one he was often asked, for it did not often matter. He hadn't wanted to grow up without parents, or be sold as a child to a wealthy family, or to take a life as a young teen, or a great many things afterwards, but he lived with it because there was no choice. He didn't see much choice here, as he would not betray Magister Chryseis for this mess he'd been entangled in. But there was a thought, buried beneath the surface.

He cocked his head slightly towards Estella beside him. "I would like to stay." He paused, his brow furrowed, clearly in thought. "After the explosion, I found myself preventing further damage from the Breach. I believe my domina would approve of this. I also believe she will be willing to entertain the thought of me staying here." He shifted his gaze back to Rilien, believing he would understand best of those present. "It offers her a unique advantage, if I were to remain. I would ask that you send a message to her, and explain what has happened to her slave. If she desires me to stay... I will stay, and do what I can to help."

“It will be done.” Rilien inclined his head slightly, but his attention was swiftly diverted to Roderick, who had been uncharacteristically silent for a while.

No longer, however. “None of this is for any of you to decide!”

Delicately, Leonhardt cleared his throat. “Actually, it is.” He smiled for all of a second, almost uncomfortably, and moved to one of the adjacent bookshelves, producing a tome bound in thick leather and metal, setting it down carefully on the map table. “I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I believe you will recognize this document, Chancellor.”

Though he didn’t say it, Roderick nodded tightly.

“For the rest of you, this is actually a writ from the Divine. It was given to me before her death in the event of, well, not this exactly, but something ill befalling her. It grants myself and those I should choose to appoint the authority to do what I’m about to, which is declare an Inquisition.” The smile flickered again.

“Which, really, is just to say that the lot of us are going to be working together until the Breach is closed and those responsible are identified and apprehended. Sound fair?”

It certainly didn’t satisfy Roderick, who threw up his arms and stormed out of the room. “I wouldn’t expect much Chantry support, nor an easy alliance with any nation. It will be a difficult task.” The dry observation was Rilien’s, but he nodded anyway. “I will also lend my skills to this endeavor, and more importantly, those of my agents. I will write Ser Lucien as well, to inform him that I will be commandeering his lieutenant for an indefinite period of time.”

Estella still looked a little stunned, but Rilien’s words were apparently enough to bring her around, because she was nodding even as he finished speaking. “I
 yes. I’ll help, if I can. And thank you. For, well
 not executing us, I suppose.” She winced.

Romulus merely nodded, believing he'd said more than enough already. His hope was that Chryseis might actually be pleased with the developments, insofar as his new position went. Of course, it was entirely possible that she would simply want him dead, for giving up her name and her decision to meddle at the Conclave.

Whatever happened next, he knew that the day's events had changed everything. An Inquisition had been born.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leonhardt awoke with a small start, looking down at the parchment he’d been writing on and sighing. He supposed he could be forgiven for dozing, considering he’d barely slept in the last week. Predictably, attempting to run the logistics of an Inquisition was extremely difficult, even for someone with not-inconsiderable command experience. This wasn’t quite the same as leading people to battle, after all, and for the past four days, he’d let the three Lions' lieutenants run the drills with the troops and shut himself in this side office, taking care of not only his own tasks, but most of those that would be better suited to someone with a more diplomatic bent.

Rilien had helped some, of course, but the Tranquil was busy with his own matters, those involving espionage, the scout regiment, and who knew what else. Leonhardt trusted the fellow, to a point, but it would be foolish to believe that the elf had been completely straightforward with him. He was, after all, a Bard, at least of a sort.

Frowning down at the ink-splattered draft letter he’d been working on, he crumpled it up and brushed it off the desk into a garbage receptacle, and started again. If all went according to plan, he could at least leave answering all the inquiries from curious nobility to someone else, starting as soon as possible. But in order to do that, he had to arrange to rendezvous with the person who’d be taking over that task.

Lady Marceline,

His hand remained steady even with the sudden knock on his door, but he sighed again and put the quill back in its inkwell. If this was about the supplies again—

“Lord Albrecht, you have a, uh
 visitor.” That was Reed, one of the guards on shift for the Chantry building at the moment. “At least, I think they’re here for you.”

Leon felt himself make a face. How, exactly, could that be uncertain? Setting his current work aside, he stood from his chair, unsure what to expect, but also undeniably curious.

“All right, Reed, send in my mysterious guest.”

The door swung open, to reveal that Reed was wearing a very skeptical expression, mixed with a bit of caution, as though he weren’t quite sure what was going on, which wasn’t entirely unreasonable, considering that the visitor marched in right after him, looking not entirely put-together in any recognizable fashion. They were quite short, wearing a scarlet cloak with a large, cowl-like hood, and some kind of steel mask fastened over the lower half of their face, with several small, vertical slits, presumably to allow them to breathe. Their armor was a strange assortment, clearly scavenged from several different sets, leather and chain and a few plates, scratched and scuffed with use.

The sword—if it could be called that—on the figure’s back was held there with a series of straps rather than a proper scabbard, and appeared to be bladed only on one side, but very thick on the other, giving it the appearance of a rather large, oddly-shaped cleaver more than anything properly used as a tool of warfare.

The figure stopped not more than two feet from the edge of his desk, and from the flash of white visible in the gaps of the mask, they were grinning, tipping their head quite far up to meet Leonhardt’s eyes with peridot-green ones.

“That Maker of yours must really have liked you, because it looks like he could have made two people from the same stuff instead.” The voice was feminine, though not especially so, and carried a certain rasp to it. She reached up towards her face, unhooking the mask and pulling it away from her, making it evident that she was tattooed over the whole of her visage, in the distinctly-Dalish fashion.

“I’m here to volunteer for your Inquisition thing.”

Whatever he’d been expecting, this—she—was not it. “My
?” It admittedly took him a second to process all of this, from her strange appearance to the incredibly blunt way she’d stated her intentions. He supposed he could appreciate that, in a certain way, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the comment about his height; surprisingly, it was not one he’d received before, probably because of politesse.

“Right. The Inquisition.” After a few seconds’ delay, Leon got his wits about him and resumed his seat. He would have offered her one as well, but he didn’t really have anything else by way of office furniture, so that tactic was not an option.

They’d received a few volunteers over the past week, often those drawn by rumors of the mysterious abilities of the so-called Heralds of Andraste. Apparently, the popular interpretation of the story Romulus and Estella had told was that the woman in question was the Bride of the Maker, and though he didn’t think they should endorse such speculation, silencing it was all but impossible, and probably detrimental to the cause, so they’d left it be. But this woman didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d be here for a reason like that.

“If I may ask
 what is your name, and why do you want to volunteer?”

She scrunched her nose, almost the expression a person would make if they’d smelled something foul. “Kharisanna Istimaethoriel. But if you could do me a favor, don’t ever tell anyone that, and just call me Khari.” She pulled her hood down, apparently quite content to make herself more comfortable despite the lack of seating, and yanked a long, almost equally-red braid out from underneath it, throwing it over her shoulder.

“And I want to volunteer because the massive spooky green thing in the sky is a big deal, and you lot seem to be the only people doing anything about it. It’s really not complicated, is it?” She shrugged, and placed her hands on her hips, though it didn’t seem to be an attempt at aggression, merely a way she felt comfortable holding herself.

“If you’re worried about me being useful, you’re welcome to put me through my paces. Wouldn’t mind fighting a guy like you.” She grinned, jagged and feral, and it brightened her eyes.

Somehow, he had no trouble at all believing that. Leonhardt gave it some consideration, but the truth was at this point they were so desperately in need of manpower that they were taking farmers with pitchforks, if they wanted to join. Everyone was put through some training, anyway, so it wasn’t really her ability to fight that he was worried about. He had a sense that she knew what she was doing in that respect, but they were in need of more than just soldiers, and he wondered if she might not serve some other purpose just as well.

“I
 don’t believe that will be necessary,” he replied, though part of him did wonder if it might not be worth it just to get himself out of this office for a little while. “That said, if you have any particular training I should be aware of, that might make a difference.” She was clearly Dalish; perhaps she knew some of the things they were traditionally known for? She didn’t look much like someone to put under Lia’s watch, but appearances had fooled him before.

If possible, her grin widened. “Special training? Yeah, I’ve got some of that. My mentor’s a chevalier-errant; I know a lot of what they do. Oh, and I get mad and hit things, in sort of an
 organized way, I guess. Like those nutty dwarves in the whatsit—the Legion, or something. I dunno. I’ve only ever actually met one dwarf, and he was drunk at the time.” She waved a hand, as if this were unimportant to the point, then suddenly seemed to realize something.

“Oh. Oh. You’re talking about elfy stuff, aren’t you?” There was a pause. “That’s not really my area. I can survive fine, and find a trail if I have to, or move
 kind of quietly. But none of that sneaky-sneaky arrow business, no.”

Leon supposed this was a very good lesson in not supposing too much from what he could see. Still, chevalier training was definitely unusual, even from an errant one. Still, it was just believable, though he’d definitely have thought her insane if she claimed to have received instruction at the Academie. He considered her for a moment, then nodded to himself.

“All right then. I don’t see any reason to decline your offer of assistance. I’d normally tell you to go see the Quartermaster about the standard kit and a bunk somewhere, but actually, if you’re amenable, I think there might be something you’re better suited to.” That would indeed require a bit of testing, but if she proved up to the task, he thought she’d do better working outside the rank-and-file. There was a distinct sense of
 independence about her, and he wasn’t sure how well she’d fit in with the main body of the army.

“Of course, your wages would be scaled appropriately.”

Khari snorted. “As long as I have something to eat and somewhere to sleep, I don’t care about that stuff.” She shrugged carelessly, her demeanor wholly reflective of her words. “But as long as I’m out in the field, you can put me wherever you damn well want, uh
 ser? Milord? Serah? Sorry, I’m not good at the title thing.”

Now that was something he could sympathize with, and Leonhardt smiled slightly. “If you have to use one, Commander is fine, but you’re welcome to just call me Leon, Miss Khari.” He held out his right hand.

She shuddered. “As long as you don’t call me ‘Miss’ again, you have yourself a deal, Leon.” She gripped his hand with surprising strength for one so small, and nodded, the solemnity broken when her grin reappeared.

“But I’m serious about that field test. Anytime you feel like a spar
”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind, but I think I’ll throw you to our Lions, first. After that, we’ll see. Welcome to the Inquisition.” He settled back into his desk as she left, unable to keep the slightly bewildered half-smile from his face. Either he’d just found them a diamond in the rough, or he was really, really going to regret this conversation. He found that he was actually looking forward to discovering which. He shook his head and returned to his writing, quill scratching mindfully across parchment.

Maybe he was getting used to this Commander thing, after all.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
It had taken them about a week from the time he’d summoned Estella back to Haven to make the trip out to Val Royeaux. The Inquisition proper was yet without horses, but the Lions were not, and an explanation to her comrades was all that was necessary to secure the required mounts, and so the three of them had managed to cover the ground a great deal more quickly. Cyrus, Estella’s twin and apparently quite the expert in magical matters, was a more experienced traveler than Leon would have guessed, and of course a Seeker and a mercenary were both no stranger to the road, so they made efficient time, more perhaps than they would have with a larger party.

Not, he believed, that this had much to do with the Revered Mother’s reasoning for recommending that the young woman rather than her counterpart take care of this. It was sound argumentation, at any rate, and something that could only help them, even if it was simply by getting more people to talk about them, to see that there was more to them than some set of anonymous shadow heretics.

Anything would help them at this point. Additionally, of course, Val Royeaux was where he was to meet his own contact, someone the Divine had put him in touch with prior to her death, via a circuitous family of connections that began with Rilien’s bardmistress and ended with a well-traveled noblewoman apparently willing to take on the diplomatic endeavors their cause would require. He had only corresponded with the Lady Marceline Benoüt via letter thus far, but he had found her to be keen of wit at the very least, and Rilien assured him that they could do much worse, in that odd fashion he had that probably shouldn’t properly count as reassurance but somehow did anyway.

They’d dismounted about ten minutes ago, and left their mounts with a stableman not too far from the gates, which they now approached. As was ordinary in the middle of the day, they were open to entrance, with a couple guards posted mostly for show. It wasn’t like any bandits were just going to march into the heart of the most powerful nation in all of Thedas.

They had taken only the first few steps inside the gate before they were approached. It was a woman, an elf judging by the shape of her ears and the wideness of her eyes. On her face she wore a mask, like most of those that resided in Orlais. It was of fine make, crafted of silverite and studded with sapphires down the right cheek. The mask cut off at the tip of the nose and bottom of the cheek, the nose of the mask curving upward and giving the mask an avian appearance.

As she approached with her hands tucked into her sleeves, it was clear she stood a few inches shorter than Estella. "Ser Albrecht?" she said with beautiful voice, pleasant and soft to the ears, "and Lady Herald, I presume?" She then bowed deeply and rose again. "I am Larissa. Mistress Marceline expected your arrival."

From beside Estella, Cyrus looked ever-so-slightly miffed, probably due to the fact that he’d just been ignored, but the expression was gone so swiftly it might never have been there at all, replaced by a smile that one might best describe as ‘courtly,’ one of those worn by people born to nobility and its subtle trappings as well as the obvious ones. A charmer’s smile, if one would.

“All these years, and I’ve never once been to Val Royeaux. Clearly, this was a grievous error on my part. Perhaps I shall take up ornithology?” There were a lot of things that could have meant, but the best guess was that it was some oblique form of flirtation.

Larissa took the comment in stride and turned to bow to Cyrus as well. "Of course milord, but may I suggest caution? Orlais possesses many dangerous genus of bird. Your studies may prove... detrimental."

Cyrus raised both brows, looking quite unthreatened, for what could easily have been interpreted as a veiled threat. “In that case, I think I shall like it here even more than I expected.” Larissa simply smiled.

Leon resisted the urge to sigh. Deeply. He’d forgotten how young his charges really were. Not that he was an old man, but he’d been a Seeker since these two were just hitting adolescence, and that did make him feel strangely ancient. “Yes, well,” he said, clearing his throat to draw everyone’s attention back to him. “While I’ve no doubt that you both have wit enough to banter for days, we do need to see the Lady Marceline, and if she’s expecting us, I doubt we want to make her wait.”

Estella shot him a look he interpreted much more easily than anything the other two said, and it was gratitude, so at least he wasn’t frightfully boring to everyone, he supposed. Really, the sooner they left, the better; his sensibilities were far from Orlesian in character, and already the city seemed far too
 ostentatious, for his liking. It was even in the architechture.

"Of course milord. If you would, please follow me," Larissa said, turning and leading the group into Val Royeaux proper. Their path took them through the city, under brightly colored awnings and immaculately kept buildings. Along the way, they passed many more citizens who donned masks much like Larissa's, but each slightly different. Music seemed to follow them wherever they went, be it from windows of the buildings, or from an adjacent street. The capital of Orlais seemed to earn her reputation.

They reached a long thoroughfare crossing what seemed to be a giant reflecting pool when Larissa spoke. "Mistress Marceline awaits in Le Masque du Lion Café in the Summer Bazaar. Please," She said, leading them over the bridge and into the bazaar. Merchants hawked their wares in the bazaar, and a turn later brought them to the café in question. It was partly open air, giving them a view of those situated with in.

It was here Larissa stopped them. "I apologize. It appears mistress is still in her meeting with Marquis DuRellion. Please be patient until their business is concluded," she told them, turning her head toward a pair of nearby patrons, one male and one female. It seemed that these were the two in question

The woman, apparently the Lady Marceline, wore a fine black dress adorned with purple accents and stitching. Her mask was also made of silverite like Larissa's, but hers was cut in the middle of the cheek. On either side, feathers were worked into the metal and raised, possessing a coat of purple flake paint. The man, DuRellion, also wore a mask, his covering the majority of his face, showing only his mouth and chin, and a mustache was carved under the nose.

Even over the ambient din of the café, their conversation could be heard.

"The Inquisition cannot remain in Haven, Lady Marceline. Not if you can't prove it was founded on Justinia's orders," the man said with his arms crossed and his back straight in the chair that he sat.

"Your Grace, you must understand, now is not the best of times. More and more flock to your town daily," the woman said in a warm and kindly tone.

The man shifted his weight in chair and shook his head, "My house lent the Divine those lands for a pilgrimage. Your Inquisition was not part of the arrangement." His brows furrowed and he raised his hand to point at her. "We were overjoyed and honored to lend Haven to the Divine, she was... A woman of supreme merit. I will not see an upstart Order to remain on her holy grounds."

Lady Marceline's lips formed a straight line, though a hint of sadness remained in them. "I understand your Grace, I truly do. Divine Justinia was a wonderful woman, and she will be dearly missed by all." She paused, seemingly out of respect for the deceased, but then continued. "But it is the Inquisition-- Not the Chantry that shelters the people who come to mourn the passing of the Divine. My Lord DuRellion, the Divine would not wish us to squabble like this, and she would not want her death to divide us."

She then reached out to place a comforting hand on the Marquis's arm, lending him a warm smile. "We face a dark time. Lord DuRellion, she would wish that we band together, forge new alliances, and face this coming storm together, not apart."

The Marquis sighed and shook his head. "I... What you say is true, she would not want us to quarrel. I will think on it, Lady Marceline."

"That is all I ask Lord DuRellion." With that, they began to stand, and that was when she caught the eye of Leon. "Before you take your leave Marquis, if you would allow me, I would to introduce you to the Herald herself," she said, leading him to the group, and Estella specifically.

"Marquis DuRellion, I present to you Lady Estella Avenarius."

Leon couldn’t help but think to himself that he should have warned Estella of this possibility. She probably thought she was coming here to talk to clerics, not nobles, and there was a brief flash of undisguised panic on her face before it swiftly disappeared, forced under what could only be a veneer of calm. Clearing her throat softly, she dropped into a curtsey. As far as Leon could tell, it wasn’t a bad one, either, though the stiffness in her shoulders betrayed her continued discomfort.

“Y-your Grace. It is good to meet you. The Inquisition extends its gratitude for your generosity in this trying time.” She smiled thinly, and Leon’s brows rose just slightly. The correct noble form of address, and more or less what he figured was the right thing to say. That had actually gone much better then expected.

“Please also allow me to present High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and Lord Cyrus Avenarius, my brother.” Well, that explained it. If her brother was a lord, she must have been noble at some point in her life, right? Leon inclined his head by way of greeting, as did Cyrus, though it was hard to mistake that the latter was more interested in his surroundings than the introduction.

Behind the Marquis, what can only be described as a pleased look crept into Marceline's face.

DuRellion bowed in response and spoke, "A pleasure Lady Estella. High Seeker, my Lord," he added, greeting Leon and Cyrus in turn. "I apologize, but I cannot stay. I have matters to attend to, surely you understand. Lady Marceline?" He said, turning to the woman, "We shall speak again, I have no doubt. Until then... The Inquisition may remain."

Marceline curtsied in response and said, "Thank you, your Grace." With that the Marquis took his leave.

Once out of earshot, Marceline turned toward Estella and nodded with a satified look. "Aside from the initial grimace, you handled yourself especially well Lady Estella. Now, as for introductions: My name is Lady Marceline Élise BenoĂźt, Comtesse of the West Banks of Lake Celestine and the owner of the LĂ©cuyer Vineyards brand of wine," she said with another curtsy. "I am told that I am to handle the matters of a diplomatic nature for the Inquisition, correct?"

Estella looked immediately to Leon, and he spared her the necessity of a response. He’d been warned that Lady Marceline was of distinctively Orlesian temperament, so to speak, and he’d dealt with that before. “We have been reliably informed that it is well within your capabilities, milady,” he cut in politely. “And as I’m sure the Marquis has aptly demonstrated, it will be a task of no mean challenge, nor significance. I’ve been handling most of it myself up to this point, but I have an army to provision, and our mutual acquaintance Ser Rilien has
 other matters to handle.”

He was conscious of the fact that they were still in a public location, after all, and proclaiming for all listening ears that the Inquisition had spies and a truly impressive, if still nascent, network of information handlers was not the best way to curry favor with the public. Even if it became obvious, it must never be said.

All of it gave him a headache, quite frankly. He’d been glad to be the youngest in his family, so as to never have to deal with this kind of thing, but unfortunately, he’d had more than one encounter with politics since becoming a Seeker, and these days he anticipated many more.

"The Marquis?" she laughed, though it was a mild, even thing. The expressions she had worn with the Marquis were gone, replaced with something far more neutral. "His position is not as certain as he makes it out to be. The DuRellions are Orlesian, and despite their Fereldan relations, if he were to wish to lay claim upon Haven, he would have to petition the Empress to negotiate with Fereldan on his behalf." She frowned at this, and slowly shook her head. "Unfortunately, her Radiance is preoccupied with concerns far more larger than petty land disputes."

She shrugged and spoke again. "However, it is better to allow him to believe that it was his idea to let the Inquisition remain in Haven than to force the matter ourselves. I would far rather have him as a potential ally than an enemy."

“Really?” Cyrus broke back into the conversation, and though he didn’t roll his eyes, the same thing was implied by his tone—bored, skeptical. “With potential allies like that, will we have time to deal with our enemies? Seems better to cut rotting ropes before they snap unexpectedly.”

Marceline smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Perhaps, but there is a difference between idle complaints and a concerted effort to undermine us," the smile then fell out of her lips and something far more solid replaced it. "I will not stand for the latter."

"We would rather build bridges than burn them." It was Larissa who had spoken that time. "Shall I gather the ser and the young lord?" She asked Marceline, whom nodded her approval. With that, Larissa took her leave.

“I for one will be glad to leave the bridge architecture to you,” Leon said wearily. Maybe he’d actually be able to sleep at some point in the future, though he didn’t think it likely, for more than one reason. Well, that could all be dealt with later. Right now, they had one more matter to attend to, and that was taking the Revered Mother’s advice.

“It has been recommended, soundly I think, that we seek out some of the members of the clergy here in Val Royeaux, so as to better acquaint them with our organization and our Herald.” The one that wouldn’t scare them too much, anyway. “I was going to head to the Grand Cathedral, but if you have any more pertinent suggestions, I’d be grateful to know them.”

"It sounds as if we are to build bridges even now," she said, a knowing smile on her face. "Personally, I would suggest we pen a letter first, describing our intentions and to give us time to prepare but..." she said, her ocean blue eyes peering at Estella from behind the silverite mask. "I believe it would serve our purposes better for them to meet the Herald as she is now. We do not wish to manufacture her as something she is not."

"That and I do not believe the Chantry is in the mood to be recieving letters... So then. To the Grand Cathedral. Ser Albrecht?" She asked, gesturing for them to begin and make their way there.

Leon nodded, and turned to lead the way.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
They left the café with Leon leading the way, Lady Marceline only a step behind him. To get to the Grand Cathedral, they would have to go back over the Avenue of Reflective Thought over the Miroir de la MÚre, the giant reflecting pool that sat under the bridge. It was a beautiful piece of architecture, Lady Marceline had found, and the trek over the bridge was relaxing at worst. Unfortunately, other matters would see that they not reach the bridge. As they made their way across Summer Bazaar, a crowd had gathered.

Lady Marceline had slowed her step to investigate the cause, and stopped outright when she saw the root. The crowd was surrounding a Revered Mother who was flanked by a templar and others of the Chantry cloth. "Ser Albrecht," she said to get his attention, before she pointed toward the head of the crowd. "I believe I have found your clergy." Well, that would make finding them easier, however, she did not particularly enjoy the thought of what the crowd meant.

Crowds could easily turn into mobs, and a mob would not look too fondly upon the Herald of Andraste. Especially if provoked by the Chantry.

Though if she was worried, it did not show on her face. In fact, it was quite even, refusing to betray even the slightest of emotion.

The Revered Mother raised her arms and lifted her voice, carrying it above the murmurs of the gathered people as they wondered what was about to happen. "Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!" She stepped forward to the edge of the platform she stood upon. It was hastily erected, but effective nonetheless at making the otherwise unimposing woman rise above the crowd.

"Together, we mourn our Divine. Her naĂŻve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderers. Well, wonder no more!" She swept an arm out dramatically, pointing it directly at Estella and narrowing her eyes. "Behold, a so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell." She shook her head. "We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!" Some of the crowd looked shocked at the strength of the accusation, and all looked to the Herald and her allies to see their response.

The sudden charge, perhaps combined with the vehemence of it, seemed to catch Estella off-guard, and she took half a step backward, raising both of her hands in front of her to the level of her shoulders in a placating gesture. “N-no, please Revered Mother, you misunderstand. I don’t claim to know the will of the Maker or Andraste, only to have the desire to close the Breach. This isn’t—I want nothing else. We have no other aim.” Her tone was earnest, borderline pleading, and she wore openly an expression that conveyed the same.

Lady Marceline allowed Estella to speak without any intervention from her. Estella sounded earnest in her admissions, far more than she could muster and her agreement would more likely harm than help. She wisely chose to let Estella to continue. They needed to see the Herald, not her.

“She speaks truly,” Leonhardt said, his tone carrying about the authority one would expect of a Seeker in such a situation. “The Inquisition’s sole purpose is to close the Breach before it is too late.”

“It is already too late,” the Mother replied, gesturing to her left. Most of the heads in the crowd turned, and their eyes fell on a small group of heavily-armored men and women, most of them recognizably wearing the armor of templars. The man in front, perhaps in his mid-forties, had well-tended grey hair and more elaborate armor than the rest, whereas the woman half a step behind him wasn’t dressed as a templar at all, though the Seeker’s eye was prominent on the half-cloak that was draped from one shoulder. She was tall, taller even than the man in front, probably of a height with Cyrus, her complexion deep and her face dotted with contrasting white paint. Though the others wore swords and shields, she carried no weapons.

“The Templars have returned to the Chantry!” The Revered Mother declared this with triumph, frowning down at Estella and the others. “They will face this Inquisition, and the people will be safe once more!” As she’d spoken, the group of them had started to advance up the stairs to the platform, and the man in the lead passed in front of her as though she weren’t present at all.

The woman behind him wore a scowl, in contrast to his neutral expression, and as she drew even with the Revered Mother, she drew one hand back and delivered an unexpected blow to the cleric’s head, catching her in the other arm as she started to fall forward and tossing her limp form at another one of the assembled Chantry brothers, who caught her with a grunt, falling to his knees to break her fall. The woman’s lip curled slightly, and she shook her head with evident disdain, following the apparent leader as he continued across the stage.

From slightly behind her, Marceline could hear a smothered laugh, which quickly became a cough, and resolved itself as nothing more than a clearing of the throat. It appeared the whole spectacle was amusing at least one of the Avenarius siblings, and it wasn’t Estella. She threw a hard glance behind her before turning her attentions back forward.

The templar that had accompanied the Revered Mother, a striking woman with long, dark hair in elaborate braids, reacted with surprise to the blow struck against the cleric. Clear anger flared in her eyes, but the leader of the group of templars stepped in front of her, grabbing her sword arm quite firmly above the elbow.

"Still yourself, Knight-Captain," he ordered. "She is beneath us." The templar woman's mouth opened as if to protest, but she seemed to think better of it, pressing her lips tightly together instead, and nodding.

"As you say, Lord Seeker." Her disagreement with him was thinly veiled, but she made no further protest.

"How dare you?" Marceline stated. Her tone was not one of anger, but something far more colder. The even, icy tone continued into her next words. "What is the meaning of this? What do you hope to accomplish by striking the Revered Mother?" The only thing she saw accomplished was a degree of blasphemy unheard of, and from a Seeker no less.

The man finally deigned to react to the presence of another, and turned cold eyes towards them. “Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own.”

This seemed to stir Leonhardt to action, and he stepped forward, his brow heavily creased. “Lord Seeker, what—”

“You will not address the Lord Seeker.” That came from the tall woman, and she stepped down to block Leonhardt’s path. He looked genuinely surprised at this.

“Ophelia? You endorse this?” His tone was one of obvious incredulity, and he looked at the woman in front of him as though he were seeing her for the first time, which nevertheless he clearly was not.

Her silence was stony, but the Lord Seeker spoke up. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andrate’s prophet, to say nothing of the other one.” His lip curled, and looked to Estella as though she were something on the bottom of his shoe that smelled foul. She visibly winced. His eyes found Leonhardt again.

“You should be ashamed, for you do shame to us.”

He angled himself to better regard the crowd as a whole, for they were watching with rapt attention. Raising his voice, he continued. “You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!”

“This is ridiculous—” Leon was clearly not inclined to simply weather the words in silence, but Lucius shouted over him.

“You are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!” He scoffed. “If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

“B-but
” That was Estella again, though her tone was much more tentative. It was clear she didn’t take being lambasted very well. “The Breach, it’s so much bigger than this, don’t you see? If we don’t do something, none of the rest of it will matter.” From his former position some distance away, Cyrus approached his sister, moving up behind her and laying a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t physically intercede between her and the Lord Seeker, but his body language was an obvious message nevertheless, and though his expression was still placid, his eyes could have been flecks of stone.

A gust of air slipped past Marceline's lips, sharing what she thought of this Lord Seeker's respect. After her initial indignation, Marceline went flat, unimpressed by this thug in the armor of a Seeker. "Whatever it is you have to say, it will not matter to him," she said to Estella, "He is too blinded by his own percieved destiny to see reason."

The Lord Seeker didn't seem to care what Marceline said, reacting violently instead to Estella's words. "Oh, the Breach is indeed a threat. But you certainly have no power to do anything about it."

The Knight-Captain the Lord Seeker had addressed before stepped forward at his side. She drew the eyes of some of the other templars, but her own were leveled at Estella and her friends. "Do not think you have the authority to dictate the Lord Seeker's path. Or the wisdom to question his judgement." Lucius glanced at her, her words seeming to swell his visible sense of righteousness.

"I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void," he said. "We deserve recognition. Independence!" He glared again at Estella, as though she had somehow personally wronged him. "You have shown me nothing. Your Inquisition... less than nothing." He turned to his templars at large. "Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"

He turned, and led the entire group of them away from the gathering, not once looking back. The templar Knight-Captain, while her expression was still quite stony, offered Estella a brief wink on her way out, before she confidently strode after the departing Lord Seeker.

Estella blinked, apparently surprised, and released a long sigh. “I think that actually managed to go worse than I expected it to.”

"You are within the heart of Orlais, it could always go worse. At least this did not end in a death. Only a headache," Marceline said, rubbing her temple behind the mask.

As the crowd was beginning to disperse, so too were Marceline and the others before the sight of some familiar people caught her eyes. She smiled, though this one was genuine and held a sweetness not yet seen within it. She had thought that she'd meet her family at the gate, but it seemed their distraction had held them up enough for her husband, Michaël and her son, Pierre to catch up with them.

The man was thick, nearly as thick as Leon, but far shorter and not as stout. He wore a mask of similar make and style as Marceline's, though its edges were rounded to not become a liability in battle. He wore a varient of the chevalier armor under a purple cloak, and on his back rode a child, barely a teenager, also wearing a mask. Larissa followed behind them, a clipboard under her arm as she stared at the Revered Mother who still laid on the ground.

"Uh... Marcy, did I miss something?" he asked curiously, pointing at the Revered Mother.

"Yes Micky, you did. I will tell you along the way. Come, we have a long journey ahead of us," She said, reaching to lay a kiss on his cheek. "I do hope that you all brought your coats."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
Well, Val Royeaux had been
 something, he supposed.

Still, it wasn’t exactly surprising that politics had gotten no less absurd in the years he’d been away from it. All the posturing and the grandstanding far outdid any stage production he'd ever seen. If the Lord Seeker had been a rational man and could hear himself talk, he probably would have been ashamed. The only destiny that demands respect here is mine!

Good. Grief.

It was so dramatic it was funny, but then Cyrus didn’t think it would go over well if he laughed like he felt like doing. Even the one he hadn’t quite been able to clamp down on fast enough had gotten him a rather nasty look from Lady Marceline. If Cyrus had believed in the Maker, he would have thought him either insane or incredibly fond of making other people that way, one of the two. Perhaps both.

He walked close to Estella as they approached the gates back out of the city, Marceline’s family now in tow. Ordinarily, he might have engaged in joking or banter or something of the sort, but even he was not oblivious to her distress, and that mattered more to him than any of the rest of it, which meant that even his good humor about the whole thing was rapidly evaporating, and though in any other circumstance he might have liked to stay and take in the sights, right now he couldn’t put the place behind them fast enough.

Which was perhaps why he didn’t bother to disguise his scowl when someone called out from behind them, accent thick with the distinctive Orlesian lilt. “Wait, please! If I may have a moment of your time?” He turned with the rest of them, hand resting between his sister’s shoulderblades, just at the fingertips, and stared flatly at the stranger. She seemed vaguely familiar, this elf woman. Her hair was short, dark, her robes clearly those of a higher-ranked mage. At a guess, she had some pull in the Circle here.

Fiona, that had to be it. Grand Enchanter of the pitiful little thing Val Royeaux called a Circle, one of those places where Templars had far more say in what went on than blindly-faithful thugs in armor should ever have in anything academic. He was torn, as he usually was, between pity and scorn. “Grand Enchanter.” His tone was cool, bordering on chilly. “Should you not be somewhere else? Perhaps preparing your rebellion to throw themselves on more Chantry swords?” She led it now, as he understood. Even living sometimes literally under a rock, he’d heard that much.

“I heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see this Herald of Andraste with my own eyes.” And indeed, they fixed intently onto Estella, studying her with interest. “If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are a wiser option.”

“Your people? A few smatterings of ill-trained youth and elders, smothered by a lifetime under a templar’s hand? At least the Lord Seeker has power. What do you offer that trumps that?” He needn't have to see them to feel Lady Marceline's eyes try to stare a hole deep in him. He ignored her.

She frowned at him, but as he’d suspected, she didn’t become cross. She cared too much about getting them to agree. “We have lived long under a yoke, it is true, but we hold our own even now. Beyond that, we offer the moral high ground. You saw the High Seeker. You heard him. You think he wouldn’t happily kill the Divine to turn people against us? That he wouldn’t happily do the same to a Herald?”

Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “Terms?” Their conversation was a staccato, a quick back-and-forth, undiluted by pleasantry. Perhaps a different negotiation tactic than others would take, but one he knew from experience worked.

“We’re willing to discuss this, but not here. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe: come meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.” She consciously broke off their exchange, seeming to remember only then that she should probably have been speaking to Estella. “I hope to see you there. Au revoir, my lady Herald.”

She turned, apparently uninterested in giving any further details here, and departed. Cyrus scoffed. “Spineless.” He muttered it under his breath, shaking his head.

“Cyrus.” The voice was Estella’s, but the tone was hard to identify. There was a note of admonishment in it, though. “I appreciate the help, but did you have to be so hard on her? She’s only doing what she thinks is best. At least she didn’t try to set a mob on us
” She snaked an arm around his back and gave him a one-handed hug from the side, but then stepped away, her face pensive.

“Even if the mages don’t have that much power, we still need allies, and
 and we should probably try to help them. To stop the killing, if nothing else.”

He sighed through his nose. “I assure you I haven’t ruined your chances to do any of that. The Grand Enchanter, if she’s not a fool, understands how poor her position is. She’s desperate, Estella, and she would put up with far more than some pointed comments to help her people. Did you really wish to hear her try and inflate her position, or advance theories she cannot possibly support about who is responsible for what happened at the Conclave?” He shrugged. “Now she knows: we’re willing to talk about terms, but we won’t be duped into believing she’s in a position to dictate them to us. Someone else can go in and do the gentler part later.”

He might have been upset, but he wasn’t an idiot. Really now.

"At the very least, we will not rule them out as potential allies," Marcy was the one to speak, her arms crossed. Then she tilted her head toward Estella. "But we must first take stock of our resources and count our options. We should not form an alliance solely out of pity. Remember, we must also gain some benefit from the relationship as well."

Marceline then took a few steps toward where Fiona had departed, putting her back to Cyrus and the others. "Your brother does possess a point however, though he does lack a certain tact," she said, glancing back at him. "Her position is indeed perilous, and now she understands that we know it. We will have the upper hand in any future negotiations." She then turned and made her way back to the group, but not before pausing to look at Cyrus again.

"Also, please do remember that it will most likely be me that shall have to, as you say, 'go in and do the gentler part'. I would ask that you not make it unnecessarily difficult for me, if you can help it at all Lord Cyrus." A tempered smile spread across her lips, but humor appeared in the corners of her eyes.

Cyrus switched gears as quickly as he blinked, smiling pleasantly. “Wine is all the sweeter when drunk after something bitter.” But then he sighed theatrically and inclined his head. “I find it difficult to believe anything I could do could put a situation beyond your skill to salvage, milady, but I shall endeavor to remain charming henceforth.” He placed a hand over his heart.

"I will greatly appreciate it Lord Cyrus. It is all I ask for,", she said, continuing to wear the smile.

Leonhardt, who’d been silent up to this point, made a vague gesturing motion with one hand. “While this has given us all a lot to consider, I think it would be best if we made haste back to Haven, no?” His tone suggested that he was eager to depart, and perhaps in the interest of just that, he started forward again, leaving the rest of them to follow.

"Maker yes, lets go." The agreement came from Michaël, who'd watched his wife's politicking with boredom. It was clear that it hadn't been his first time seeing it. He followed Leon shortly after.

Estella did too, though the exchange seemed to have lifted her mood a little, if the lighter expression on her face was anything to go by. She wore the faintest of smiles, and tugged at his sleeve. “Come on then. Everyone else should know what we learned.”

“As you say, Stellulam.” He felt his mood settle back into baseline contentment, and his posture eased considerably. He let her tug him forward, moving compliantly back towards where they’d stabled the horses. Once everyone was mounted and back out on the road, he elected to strike up a proper conversation with Lady Marceline, in part because she seemed more amenable to it at the moment than most of the others did.

“An interesting career move, joining a movement that will take you away from court and your home.” Naturally, there were other reasons to do so, but she didn’t really seem like the kind of person who would do something which presented her with no personal advantage. Her husband, maybe; he had that knightly air about him, honor and so on. But Marceline was different, a bit more like himself, if he was picking up on the what he thought he was.

"Perhaps, but I do not believe I am leaving the court entirely. I will still be required to speak with nobility and conduct business. The only change is that I am now doing so for the Inquisition's best interests." She spoke with a gilded tone and her face betrayed nothing, undoubtly due to years spent cultivating her mannerisms to suit her purposes. It was to be expected of an Orlesian, especially one who seemed as Orlesian as Marceline.

Her head then tilted toward Cyrus and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Interesting was the word I used to describe this opportunity as well," she turned and gestured back toward Val Royeaux as it slipped into the horizon. "You have seen the petty squabbles that threaten to drown us all. The Chantry denounces anything and everything that frightens them, and, my apologies for this High Seeker," she added for Leon's benefit, "but how the Templars' righteous fervor blinds them to the real danger at hand."

Then her gaze shifted from Cyrus to behind him, at the boy that rode beside his father. Her smile then melted away, revealing the worried mother beneath. "I would see that this world still remains so that my son may live his own life within it." She looked back at Cyrus, her face quickly returning to the porcelain mask. "If we are fortunate, then perhaps our service within the Inquisition will see me rise above my current station as well."

Of course. Orlesians, always looking for some way to rise in the ranks of nobility. He didn’t even think there was anything wrong with it, really. Cyrus was fairly sure he’d met fewer than three people over the course of his entire life who would sacrifice power for anything else at all. The number who would sacrifice anything else at all for power was much higher, and that wasn’t nonsensical, since power was the means by which just about anything was achieved. One need only look at history to understand that.

“Many birds for a stone then.” He nodded, as if satisfied, then turned his attention to Leon. “Speaking of the Lord Seeker
 has he always been like that?” It was difficult to believe.

“No,” the other man replied immediately. “He has not.” For a moment, that seemed like it was going to be the only thing said on the matter, but then he sighed deeply and continued. “He has always been a zealous man, but not nearly unreasonable—I can’t fathom why he would be acting like this now. Less still can I fathom why Ophelia would allow it without protest.”

“Ophelia? The woman who struck the Revered Mother, perhaps?” He fought to keep his amusement contained, but that had been quite funny, particularly considering what the cleric had been trying to do. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t been contemplating something similar himself, regardless.

"Senseless," Marceline said, shaking her head.

“Yes.” Leonhardt was quite quiet, for such a large man, and it was difficult to hear him. “She is
 she was my mentor, my instructor. She is the reason I am a Seeker at all, and the reason I fight the way I do. But she has never had the ardent fervor of the Lord Seeker—she has always tempered him, in a fashion.” He shook his head.

“I do not understand what has brought this about, but it is not something we will be able to ignore.”

“Yes, that much is apparent.” Cyrus pursed his lips. “Well, you know what they say. When it rains, it pours. Let’s hope no one minds being a little damp.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The room in which they’d laid out the table and maps had grown crowded, but as far as he could tell, only maybe two of the people in the room didn’t strictly need to be there, and he wasn’t about to insist that Cyrus and Marceline’s assistant Larissa leave, so they would have to make due.

Leon stood at the center of his side of the table, facing the side with the door. Rilien was to his left and Marceline herself his right, and as before, the other side included both Estella and Romulus, as well as Cyrus, who’d stood slightly off to the right to enable Lia to get through. She had a scout report, and he’d felt it pertinent for the others to hear it as well, thus the assembly.

For a moment, he glanced down at the map. The little bird tokens that indicated the locations of Rilien’s agents were expanding further outward as their network established and solidified, but his own troops, represented by plain shield tokens, were split only between Haven and the Hinterlands, for the moment. Marceline's tokens, identified by a quill, represented the support of the nobility, but these were few and far in between and mostly consisted of minor nobles seeking to gain renown by offering what little aid they could. Fortunately, he now felt they had the numbers and the fundamental training to begin expansion into other territory, which would enable them to begin closing more rifts, and hopefully find some clues as to what had caused the Breach in the first place.

His vision blanked for a moment, and Leon remained perfectly still, not allowing it to show. It had happened before, but it was becoming more frequent, and right on cue, he felt a splitting pain lance his head. It faded as quickly as it had come, and he blinked, raising his eyes to acknowledge Lia. “I understand you’ve been busy, of late. Please, tell us what you’ve discovered.”

Lia looked the slightest bit embarrassed, and it didn't seem to be due the presence of anyone in the room. She glanced sideways at Estella briefly, as though looking for some form of reassurance from her longtime friend. Seemingly unsure of what to do with her hands, she set them upon the tabletop, her fingers lightly brushing the surface.

"Yes, uh... there was a bit of an issue, involving a scouting patrol in the southern Hinterlands. They didn't report back. I searched with a team, and... found an Avvar, instead. He told me they'd taken my scouts hostage, dragged them off to a marsh called the Fallow Mire. I'm sorry, Commander. I should've expected them, made sure the scouts knew to expect trouble..." She looked to be taking the events none too well.

Leon shook his head. “Things of this nature happen. What’s important is that you know where they went, and that means we can get them back.” Another organization probably would have rather left a small scout party to their fate than gone to the effort it would take to recover them. It was war, after all, of a sort. But this was a war that Leon was running, and he didn’t want to do that, so he wouldn’t, and he doubted anyone here would protest the decision.

“A small party would probably work best. Do you know anything else about the area?”

"Yes, actually..." Lia continued, uncertainly. "The Avvar in question was actually quite helpful. His clan has demanded to meet the Herald of Andraste, if we want our scouts back. They... didn't say which one. I didn't ask." She winced. "He had a really big maul. But, I did follow him. I think he knew, but he didn't try to stop us. The Fallow Mire is... probably the worst place I've ever seen. The rain never stopped. The entire region has a bit of an undead problem, and the rifts have just made it worse. The Avvar have control of an old abandoned fortress at the south end of the bog. Didn't see any easy ways to reach it."

She tapped a finger a few times against the table. "There's one other thing. Before we left, I came across an elf. He was... odd. I don't know how to describe him. Sort of... regal? But definitely not, in his mannerisms. He seemed to know a lot about the area, some magical architecture or something. He said it was elven, and old, and that it could help stop the demons and the undead, but he needed a mage to make it work."

Lia shrugged. "I didn't get a reason out of him, but once I mentioned I was Inquisition, he expressed interest in meeting us. Said his name was Vesryn Cormyth, and that he'd wait for us there. Looked like he could handle himself, too." Her expression seemed to imply that this was an understatement. "I came back here right after that."

“Well now.” Cyrus broke into the conversation, his eyes having sparked to life with vivid interest as soon as the words magical architecture appeared. He was regarding Lia with an intent expression, but when no more information was forthcoming, he continued. “If it’s old and magical, I do believe I could stand to take a look at it.” Whether he had any interest in the rest of it was debatable, but at the very least he didn’t seem to mind, and he turned to Leon.

“I volunteer for this assignment, High Seeker. It is, after all, precisely the kind of thing I’m here for.” His tone was light, his face reflecting mirth, but there was an undertone of that same very serious curiosity still threaded under the words.

Leon considered all of that, and nodded. It seemed best to send a group that could handle both things. The Fallow Mire was home to at least a village’s worth of people, and if there were undead in the region that could be stopped, it was the kind of task they should be undertaking. Not only for the support it would lend them, either, though he was comfortable couching it in those terms if that was what it took. And Cyrus was quite correct, even if Leon suspected his priorities were quite misplaced.

“Very well. Since the Avvar have demanded to meet a Herald, we’ll need to send one. Estella, please accompany Cyrus to the Mire. Meet with these Avvar, and this serah Cormyth, and see what you can’t do about our missing scouts and the undead. Lia, I want you to go with them and push our stake in the area out as they advance. With some work, we’ll be able to keep some soldiers there after the two of them leave, in case this solution is only temporary.” He paused a moment, considering. He knew Cyrus was knowledgeable, but he’d never seen the man fight, and Estella was, while a professional, not enough by herself. Best not to rely on the unknown, either, no matter what he looked like.

“I suggest you take Asala with you as well. Her skills will prove useful in a pinch.”

Estella nodded her acquiescence, turning to Lia and speaking quietly, such that he only barely heard. “We’ll get them back.”

At that moment, a knock sounded on the door, and Leon furrowed his brow. “Yes?”

“It’s Reed, ser.” He sounded slightly uncertain, but Leon knew he wouldn’t interrupt unless it was necessary, so he called for the man to enter, which he did, followed by a stranger.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, ser, but we have another visitor. Of sorts. An insistent one.” He shot a look at the person behind him, but at Leon’s nod, stepped aside and allowed the newcomer to enter fully.

“Is there something I can help you with?” His tone suggested that there had better be.

The stranger who followed Reed into the chamber occupied far more room than was expected. He was a burly Qunari, sporting large horns and bulging muscles, arms folding over his chest in a casual stance. His expression, or lack thereof, was set in a permanent state of disinterest. He regarded everyone with a leveled stare, and cleared his throat, “There is. Excuse my interruption. We've heard of the Inquisition. Hard to miss it.”

The tension in his arms loosened, and he took another deep breath before continuing, “This is an opportunity. Captain Zahra Tavish wishes an audience on the Storm Coast. We're a mercenary group with a ship of our own, looking for another staunch contract. And she has valuable information.” He shifted towards Leon, and arched his heavy eyebrows, “From the looks of it, you don't have much in the means of sea-faring allies.”

Rilien stirred as soon as the Storm Coast was mentioned, moving forward to the table proper. “We have other reasons to make a venture to that location as well.” He looked down at the map for a second, his head tilted to the side, and continued in the same tone. “We’ve received news that Grey Wardens are disappearing from Ferelden, and no fewer than three of them were last known to be in that area. It is also presently plagued by a cult group of bandits calling themselves the Blades of Hessarian. I suspect these things are unconnected, but each is a reason for us to extend our presence into the region.”

Well, that was indeed several good reasons. Both this and the matters in the Mire seemed equally time-sensitive, so the logical move was clear: those who weren’t headed for the Mire would go to the Coast.

“Very well. Romulus, if you would lead a second team to the Storm Coast, we can deal with all three matters. Prioritize whatever seems of most immediate concern to you when you get there, but anything we can find on the Wardens will likely be of import. Lady Marceline, if you would be so kind as to accompany him, I believe you will be able to negotiate matters with Captain Tavish. Take Khari and anyone else you think you might need, assuming they aren’t already heading for the Mire.”

Marceline turned toward her assistant, who stood in the corner with a clipboard in hand transcribing what seemed to be notes. "Larissa, will you be able to contend with the paperwork while I am away?" she asked.

The woman looked up from her notes and nodded. "Yes Mistress. You do not have any pressing engagements, and I am able do what remains."

Marceline smiled in response, the appreciation clear in her expression. She smiled and looked toward Leon in order to allow him to continue.

He returned his attention to the Qunari. “Tell your Captain to be expecting us. We will hear what she has to say.”

The Qunari finally uncrossed his arms, and tipped his head, “I'm no good with introductions, but I am Aslan.” He clicked his tongue, “You'd know that soon enough.” He did not bow, nor offer his hand: only nodded as somberly as he'd entered. Like a wayside observer, absorbing whatever information he could. “That I will. I appreciate your audience, and we'll be looking forward to seeing you again.” Rude or no, Aslan made a grumbling sound in his throat and excused himself out of the chamber without Reed's help.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Saraya, as ever, was unimpressed.

Vesryn often felt he had to overcompensate for the cynicism, to combat the foreign opinions and often negative emotions that entered his head. He'd long since learned how to force them away from becoming his own. And he'd always been an upbeat, incessantly light-hearted elf. Saraya's grumblings, for lack of a better term, weren't going to change that. If anything, it just made him glad she was stuck with him. He could only imagine how dreary her experience would've been if she were forced into the head of some moody elf, full of dark emotions, or Gods forbid, a human.

Still, Vesryn had been elvhen'alas, a dirt elf, when they had first met, and in the eyes of many of the Dalish, that was halfway or more to shemlen. Thankfully, Saraya was not Dalish. Eventually Vesryn had even come to believe that it was better that he wasn't Dalish. Fewer false notions already ingrained into his mind, or some such. That he'd been so unconcerned with the legacy of his people perhaps made him the best, most open-minded candidate for learning about them.

The Inquisition did not know what to make of him. There was the other notable elf, that darling redheaded one, Khari he thought he'd heard, but her condition had an explanation. Sometimes Dalish just didn't like being Dalish. It wasn't impossible to believe. Not everyone wanted to live in a wagon on wheels. But Vesryn lacked the tattoo, something he was thankful for; he found his face quite pleasing just the way it was. What he did have was a very unique suit of armor, a powerful build not common at all among his people, and an air of confidence unheard of among the city elves, and different from that of the Dalish. He felt threatened by nothing, and furthermore, felt there was nothing he had to prove.

It was unsurprising to him, then, when he was called to meet with the army commander, Leon something-or-other. Clearly he was wasted on the front lines, not that he wouldn't absolutely excel there, but his talents and backgrounds were beyond the average recruit. He was special, and he walked like he knew it when he entered the Chantry at Haven's highest point. He was garbed in armor, lion's pelt cloak and all, as he planned to train on the ice following the meeting, and vastly preferred to train in the same gear that he would fight in.

Vesryn found a guard standing outside the commander's door, and offered him a charming smile, before pressing a fist to his chest and bowing shortly. "Vesryn Cormyth, here to see the commander."

The guard’s expression was best classed as skeptical, but in a weary sort of way, like he’d seen one too many things stranger than Vesryn by this point to be all that surprised by an elf in shining armor, so to speak. “Right. He said he was expecting you.” With very little ceremony, he turned, walked a couple paces, and knocked on the door. “Sir, it’s the new fellow.” There was a short pause, and a reply that was a little too low for Vesryn to make out through the door, but the guard seemed to have heard it, because he nodded and opened the door, gesturing in clear invitation.

The office itself was exceedingly spartan in nature, and likely not the largest such space the Chantry had to offer—it had about enough room for a bookshelf, a writing desk with a smaller table next to it for parchment overflow, and not much else. The one concession to comfort was a thick rug underfoot, but even that was comparatively plain. Several maps lined the walls, many with pushpins stuck in various places, a few having lines of variously-colored string between them.

It was almost comically small for the size of the man who occupied it, hunched over the desk in a slightly-ungainly way, which was only reinforced when he stood from his chair at Vesryn’s entrance and promptly knocked his head into the light fixture over the spot, which had clearly been put there with someone much shorter in mind. It might have been smarter to place the desk elsewhere, but from the size of the room, there wasn’t really any other option. A rueful sigh followed, and the commander stepped out from behind the furniture, extricating himself from potential hazards in so doing.

Vesryn, meanwhile, had burst into laughter, his grin spread across his face, and he threatened to bend over, almost needing to support himself with hands on knees. "I'm sorry," he managed, slowly composing himself. "Really though, that was... how many times have you done that to yourself?"

“Far too many to count.” The reply was immediate, dry, and slightly self-effacing. The commander rubbed at a spot near one of his temples, his own smile considerably milder, but still present. “Laugh now, but the moment someone needs something from the top shelf, I’m a bloody hero.” He dropped his hand, appeared to reconsider that slightly, and then shrugged. “Well, to shorter people than you, at least.”

He pushed back an errant piece of hair dislodged by his collision, resetting the damage without being fazed much by it, apparently. “Anyway, welcome. I’m going to go out on a limb here and suppose that you must be Vesryn. I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable, but alas, I really don’t think anything in here will be of any assistance with that.” The commander put forward a hand, currently gloved in some kind of thin leather, by the look of it, though whether that was for warmth or something else wasn’t clear.

“It’s good to meet you. I’m Leonhardt Albrecht, but Leon’s quite sufficient, if you don’t mind.”

Vesryn clapped his own leather and plate gloved hand with Leon's, his grin never fading, his eyes now wandering up to the commander's hair. "That really is magnificent, well done. A striking shade, as well, if I'm any judge. Truly, this must be the most dashing Inquisition in history." Of course, it had only recently become even more so.

Leon appeared to give that some thought, and an eyebrow arched upwards. “And I’m sure Lady Marceline is already planning to take advantage of that somehow,” he mused, releasing Vesryn’s and chuckling good-naturedly. “You ought to be careful, though, or you’ll find yourself being asked to give our Heralds outfitting advice.” He gestured vaguely to his shoulder, probably to indicate the lion pelt that rested over the elf’s own.

“I, however, am engaged in the rather more mundane task of trying to keep them alive, and I daresay I’d rather have your skills on that end of things. I hear tell that you’re quite something, on a battlefield.” He didn’t indicate who he’d heard from, but the options were fairly limited; most likely, it had been someone in the group that had initially met him in the Mire. The words seemed to be just as much an invitation for elaboration as they were a statement, however.

"My reputation precedes me," Vesryn replied, bowing slightly. He'd always wanted to say that. Straightening, he finally appeared to become at least a little more serious. "I'd have done more of the fighting in the swamp, but sadly your Herald insisting on doing the most dangerous job herself. She handled herself well enough, though." It was hardly all that he thought about that particular encounter, but those thoughts were for Estella, when he could find a moment with her. She was proving to be quite popular.

"I spent some years with a mercenary company in Orlais, a small outfit called the Stormbreakers. Fun bunch, even if they didn't have the prestige of a certain group of Lions. Beyond that... roughly a decade of constant training and experience on the road." He wasn't trying to hide the fact that he wasn't divulging everything, for Vesryn had learned by now that he wasn't a very good liar. It wasn't that he didn't want to let them in on his little secret. He just knew that there would be unavoidable dangers if certain types learned of his condition. The Inquisition was, to some degree, a Chantry based organization, and there was a chance some among them would simply see him as being possessed, without bothering to fully understand. Not that Vesryn could make them.

Saraya, meanwhile, regarded Leon with what Vesryn could recognize as an alert wariness, sizing him up for any potential threat, while affording him a high level of respect for his obvious physical prowess.

Leon seemed to accept this all with a great deal of sanguinity, however, and nodded with an air of contemplativeness. “Much of what we do is
 surprisingly ordinary, in truth,” he confessed, folding his hands behind him. “At this point, the regulars are mostly responsible for holding regions we’ve already pressed into, and of course many more will be mobilized as their training periods end and if we should need a more traditional army at some point.” He didn’t seem to be a person of much excess movement, and where others might have fidgeted just from habit, he was quite still.

“Where the work really is at this point is on two fronts: the organizational one, which is mostly myself, Lady Marceline, and Rilien, our intelligence man, and then of course out on the frontiers, so to speak, with the Heralds themselves. Closing the rifts, establishing base camps in new areas, meeting with potential allies where it is necessary, that sort of thing. The occasional rescue mission, though with luck we won’t need many more of those.” He inclined his head in Vesryn’s direction. “There’s need for people everywhere, but I think it rather apparent what you’re most suited to. That said
 you are a volunteer; it seems only appropriate to give you the majority say in what you do.”

There was a certain... anxiousness, was really the only way to describe it, when Vesryn had seen the Breach on his way in. Not from himself, either. It was Saraya, that made him feel it, and it was the same feeling that she'd given him when they first had heard about the events at the Conclave from a traveler. Having spent a decade and a half with her in the company of his mind, Vesryn had become attuned well enough to her reactions. This was not fear, for if they truly feared the Breach, they could simply go the other way. No, Saraya was made anxious by the Breach for some other reason, and Vesryn wanted to know what it was. She never objected to his investigation. He, admittedly, had felt some nerves upon seeing the thing, and how it seemed to exude the Fade, but there was no noticeable difference in his head.

"I will admit, I have some interest in elven and magical history. I know, I know, not a mage, not a Dalish, but the Inquisition seems poised to go quite far, if it gets some support, and this Breach is unlike anything we've seen. I'd love to accompany your advance teams, in the event they need a shield or just someone always in good spirits. It's a good cause too, what the Inquisition is doing. Makes my decision easy."

Leon smiled at that, a quick flash of teeth, then nodded. “No one here is really typical or what one might first suppose,” he pointed out simply, then shrugged. “Though most of them could benefit from a shield and even more from good spirits, I expect. Thanks for coming by—I’ll make sure to start sending you out with the Heralds.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
It felt better than it perhaps should have to be out of the damn office for a while.

Leon was grateful, actually, that his duties included supervising the training of the troops as often as possible. The Lions' lieutenants, and, if he were being honest, even their non-officer members, were exceptionally well-trained even for professionals, and so they could do a lot of the teaching and drilling in his absence, but he refused to shut himself away in a building all day out of the reach of most of his people and pretend like being here, where they could see him, wasn’t important. He much preferred dealing with soldiers to dealing with either diplomats or spies anyway, and that was in part exactly why he had the role within the organization that he did.

Currently, he was only observing drills; he suspected he might be coaxed into some kind of informal spar later, but for the moment, it was more important that he get a better sense of how they were doing. Down in the ranks, Hissrad and Donnelly were shouting drill commands, which the men and women under their supervision followed with varying degrees of competence and accuracy. They were already looking better than they had a month ago, and he told Cor, standing to his left, as much. To his right, Reed nodded an agreement.

“Well
 they’ve been working hard,” the young elf replied, shifting his weight slightly from one leg to the other. Another thing that seemed to hold fairly universally of the Lions was that they were quick to give others as much of the credit as they could for anything, be that shifting praise between themselves or putting it at the feet of their trainees. It was an admirable sort of humility, but almost disconcerting to find so universally over what was otherwise a very diverse group of people. He wondered if they’d all picked it up from their own commander or if he’d simply selected them in the first place because they had it. Still, sans Estella, there was a quiet confidence to each of them, a sense that they knew that they were skilled and valuable, but refused to make any noise about it.

It made them incredibly easy to work with.

“They have,” Leon agreed with a smile. It was hard not to, perhaps, when the Breach was still there in the sky and no one else in the world seemed to have half an idea what to do about it. “But they’ve been instructed well, also, else their hard work would not have achieved so much.” Cor pursed his lips, but nodded with what appeared to be some reluctance.

“We’re working hard, too,” he admitted, glancing over and up at Leon. “She’s one of ours, after all; we can’t not help her. Plus, Lia’s with you guys now, and after that whole thing with the scouts...” He grimaced. It was obvious that Cor held a great deal of affection for both of his friends, and the sentiment was more than likely shared by the other two as well.

Leon hummed thoughtfully. “I know our supplies yet leave much to be desired, but is there anything in particular you think you need?”

Cor exhaled through his nose. “Help?” Thinning his mouth, he explained further. “Our squads can help a little, when they see a line-mate doing something wrong, but we don’t want to disrupt your command structure too much by having troops ordering each other around. And if you take our twenty out of the equation, there’s only three of us, some spare people with previous mercenary or military experience, and
 well, that’s it. It’s fewer than ten people running drills for what’s eventually going to be an army.”

And that was indeed where the personnel problem was hitting them the hardest: mid-level officers. Leon himself was doing most of what he’d usually have captains and up do, but the burdens of lieutenants fell on the scarce volunteers they had with command experience, and it was bound to wear them as it wore him. Thinking of that brought to the forefront again the massive migraine he could feel building in the back of his head, and he sighed. “You’re right. Start picking out troops with a knack for the drills. I at least need to promote you some sergeants.” He couldn’t ask them to keep doing all this work for the pittance he was currently able to pay them.

Nearby, Leon could hear the telltale clacking of two wooden practice swords bouncing off of each other. Not too far away, but away from the main body of troops, a man was practicing with a boy. The man, Ser Michaël, a Chevalier and Lady Marceline's husband, was sparring with their son, Pierre. Michaël bore his full plate backed by a purple and black cloak that seemed to be the Benoßt house colors. He easily held off his son with a single practice sword in one hand, while the boy struggled with two hands.

Michaël had been giving his son encouragement and guidance, but had quieted when Cor spoke. Though his attentions seemed to be held on the conversation they were having, the spar with Pierre continued, though he was still able to effortlessly hold the boy off. At least, until Leon finished his last sentence. A surprised yelp cut the air then, and Pierre's sword was in the snow, with Michaël's own pressed gently against the boy's shoulder. The man gave his son an apologetic look, before he laughed.

"I will make a Chevalier out of you yet. Come," he said, tusseling the boy's hair and shouldering his sword. His hand fell to the boy's shoulder and they finally made their way to Leon.

"Commander Leonhardt?" He asked, "If I may suggest something?"

Leon turned his attention to MichaĂ«l in full at that point, rather than half-observing the training as he had been before, and lifted a brow. “Of course, Ser MichaĂ«l. You have a recommendation?” While technically speaking, the chevalier was outside the Inquisition’s command structure, Leon had never seen the harm in a second opinion, especially one from someone well-trained in martial matters, as was all of present company, excluding, of course, the lad.

Michaël smiled and nodded before he began "Perhaps I may be able to allievate your problem somewhat. I am a Lieutenant for the Chevaliers, with knowledge of their tactics and training methods. Methods I sometime see the Lions utilize in their own regiments," he said with a warm smile for Cor. Michaël then placed a hand on his hip, and noticably puffed his chest out, though a playfulness remained in his green eyes. "I would offer my services, if you have need of them, Commander."

The boy next to him simply shook his head, and looked to Leon with a wry smile. "Please. Let him help. When father gets bored, he uses me as an excuse to train," Pierre explained. Michaël said nothing in turn, but his chest sagged in response to the comment. The sword on his shoulder then shifted however, and reached across to tap the boy lightly on top of the head, a smile on his lips the whole time.

Leon’s violet eyes picked up a glimmer of amusement at Pierre’s words, and he spoke partly to both of them. “It would seem I have little choice, in that case.” His gaze shifted up to MichaĂ«l. “In truth, I would be grateful for the assistance. As, I am sure, would the Lions.”

Cor’s smile was much more obvious evidence of the fact that he was entertained than anything on Leon’s face, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know about that. To hear the commander tell it, Ser MichaĂ«l, your methods haven’t improved much since your days of tripping in formation when there were pretty girls around.” It was clearly an inside joke of some sort, a reference that Leon didn’t have, but from the sounds of things, the Lions would work quite well with Lord BenoĂźt’s help, which, while it would not alleviate the growing pains the Inquisition experienced, would at least go partway there.

Cor's joke however, took the rest of the air out of Michaël's chest. Instead of puffing himself out, he hid his face with his hand, and rubbed his eyes. He said nothing at first, only muttering, "Lucien," under his breath. Pierre also laughed at the joke, but turned away from his father so that he could not see, no doubt lest he risk another tap to the head.

Michaël waved his hand in the air, and said, "I deny everything."

"You can try, love, but that does not mean it is not true," a voice cooed from behind them. It was Lady Marceline's, who came from the road leading back to Haven proper, with Larissa close beside her. Larissa carried a clipboard in hand, but was currently not writing anything. She was, however, laughing gently. "I apologize," Marceline told Cor as she pulled up beside her husband. "I believe I am cause of that," she added, leaning up against him.

Michaël for his part, said nothing and continued to look out over the horizon, as if trying to pretend nothing was happening.

“No fault of yours, Lady Marceline,” Cor replied easily, with a modest bow. It was clear enough that he and she had met on a previous occasion, probably through the Lions’ commander. “And it does seem to have worked out for the better, no?”

Leon’s attention was temporarily drawn away from the byplay by the approach of another, however, and he found himself straightening a little bit unconsciously. He wondered if she was here to
?

Khari, who’d been marching not unlike a chevalier herself, slowed slightly upon spotting the group, or perhaps the size of it. At one point, she almost stopped, but then seemed to think better of that and soldiered on until she was standing in front of the lot of them. There was a moment where she looked like she was thinking, and then she dipped herself at the waist. “Uh
 hey commander
 everyone.” She grinned, nodded to Cor and Reed, glanced back and forth between Marceline, MichaĂ«l, and Pierre, and then settled her eyes on Leon himself.

“I had a question: does anyone around here have like
 glassware and retorts and alembics and stuff? Like for potions? Fancier than the local alchemist, I mean?” She raised a hand to scratch at the back of her head, pulling her red braid over her shoulder on the way back. She was without most of her usual gear at the moment, which made her take up a lot less space than usual, and she seemed conscious of the fact that discounting Pierre, she was by far the shortest person in present company.

Leon wasn’t sure what the purpose behind the question was, but he wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to ask. The smile on Khari’s face always looked like trouble to him, and while he was mostly sure she wouldn’t do anything damaging, there were perhaps things he’d be better off knowing about only in the event he needed to do something about them. “Rilien would have equipment like that, if I’m not mistaken,” he replied. The Tranquil was an alchemist of surpassing talent, among his many other virtues and useful skills.

A thought struck him, then, and he angled himself slightly differently. “Khari, I don’t believe you’ve met the other BenoĂźts. Lady Marceline you know, but Ser MichaĂ«l is a lieutenant with the chevaliers, and Pierre here is their son. MichaĂ«l, Pierre, this is Khari. She’s one of our irregulars.” That was what he’d settled on calling the volunteers and recruits who didn’t work inside the usual armed force structure.

At precisely the moment Leon had enunciated the word ‘chevalier,’ Khari had stood ramrod straight, her full attention clearly fixed on the introduction, and if possible, the haphazard grin on her face widened, until she may have been showing a few too many teeth. “Chevalier, huh?” To her credit, she acknowledged Pierre to a greater extent than most would note the presence of a child, but it was clear where the majority of her attention had diverted. “Bear mauls the wolves or tower in a storm? Because if you’re a tower person, we’re gonna have a problem, you and I.” The way she said it gave the lie to the last sentence; she was clearly extremely excited to be talking to a chevalier, apparently to the exclusion of taking to the rest of them.

"Bear mauls the wolves, of course. Shields just get in the way," Michaël said chuckling with a grin of his own. Then he stopped and glanced over to Cor and Leon, his face settling into an awkward look. "Er... Not literally of course. I understand the value of a good shield wall," he explained.

Pierre simply rolled his eyes and huffed, which earned him another tap to the top of the head with the practice sword.

Leon sighed softly, shaking his head and leaving the two of them to their tactical discussions, as it were. He diverted his attention to Marceline, who probably wasn’t out here in the cold to watch the troops practice. “Is there something I can help you with, milady?”

"Yes, Ser Leonhardt," Lady Marceline replied. If she seemed at all perturbed by the tactical discussion being carried on by her husband, she did not show it. In fact, by the way she carried herself, it seemed as if she dealt with it often enough. Glancing first at Khari, and then the rest of the troops, she turned back to Leon. "I would ask for access to detailed personel reports on the individuals serving the Inquisition," she said.

Larissa then went to her clipboard and began to write something, though Leon could not see what. "In return, Larissa and I will pen letters to some of our contacts in order to obtain more experienced soldiers to fill your needs," She said, glancing to the woman beside her, already hard at work.

There were far too many individuals to assemble more than basic dossiers based on the standard forms each volunteer had dictated to Reed or Tanith upon his or her entrance into the Inquisition, with things like next-of-kin information and the like, but he supposed more than that might be in order for the officers and irregulars, at least, so with some reluctance, he inclined his head. It would probably mean even more hours in the office, but the idea had relevance, and they really could use any more people those letters might gain them.

“Very well. I will see what I can assemble in the next few days to that effect. Cor, if you would be so kind as to poll the others and get names for likely sergeants, I’ll try to run a round of minor promotions within a fortnight.” The pressure at the back of his head felt like it was ratcheting up to become a full-blown tension headache, but he ignored it for now. Rilien would have something for that, or else he’d just work through it. He had before.

There just usually wasn’t quite so much at stake.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
"Please, do not do... that anymore," Asala begged her two most recent patients as they left the tent she used to address the injuries of the Inquisition's soldiers. She had just spent the last hour mending Vesryn's broken nose and a small rib fracture on Khari, not to mention all the bruising. Apparently, they had gotten their injuries from the bright idea of sparring with each other, which sounded absurd to her. The disapproval she felt had been plain to see on her face. She'd said nothing about it of course, and quietly worked on their injuries until she'd done all she could for them. "Do not... just... please rest for the rest of the day. Please?" she continued to plead.

"But darling," Vesryn said, as charmingly as he could manage, "I just needed an excuse to come and see you. Those golden eyes... how could I stay away?"

“Hey Asala, you have anything for nausea? ‘Cause I think I’m about to be sick.” Khari made a face in Vesryn’s direction, which, considering all the bandages on the left side of her jaw, might actually have hurt a little bit. Not that she was making any sign of it, however.

The tent flap slapped closed then, more to hide the blush blossoming across her cheeks than out of anger or anything of the like. That one comment flustered her, and she didn't know what else to do. Certainly not how to respond to it. Her heart beat quickened her and her cheeks were on fire, and remained that way until what Khari had said finally processed. "Oh!" she squeaked, and reached into a satchel she had on her hip, fishing through the contents until she came across a light greenish potion.

She stared at the tent flap for a moment, debating on what she should do before reach down to peel the flap back partially at the bottom. There, she threw the little vial under it to Khari. "Ta-ta-take that!" she stuttered through the flap. She was too flustered to digest the comment for the joke it was, though it probably didn't matter anyway and would've taken it for face value regardless. Asala then turned back to the interior of the tent, closed her eyes and rubbed her face, willing herself to try and calm down.

"Uhh?" a soldier said, sitting on a cot at the far end. Her eyes snapped opened and she stared at the soldier in surprise. "Oh! I-I am sorry," she apologized. The little comment Vesryn made had made her forget that she still had a patient. She crossed the tent to come to a kneel in front of the shoulder. "I am so sorry," she apologized again, causing the soldier to reach out and grip her gently by her shoulders.

"It's fine," she said with a smile, and Asala accepted it, nodding her appreciation. "A-a sprain, correct?" She asked the soldier who nodded. "Please remove your boot," she asked. The soldier then removed her boot as asked, and in moments, a healing spell was in Asala's hands. She set about gently messaging the area of affliction, marked by an area of blue on her ankle.

The next visitor to the tent, as it happened, did not appear to be in need of any medical assistance, but he did come burdened down a bit. With the sound of a clearing throat, given that knocking was impossible, Leonhardt lifted the flap of the tent and stooped down inside. Fortunately, it had been erected to be able to comfortably hold Asala, so the extra three inches he had over her height were insufficient to cause any structural damage to it, and his head cleared the roof, if he kept to the very middle, which he did. He held a large, wide basket in both hands, the fragrant smell issuing from it promising herbs.

“Your pardon, Miss Asala. I’ve been cultivating some royal elfroot behind the Chantry, and it was sufficiently grown to trim today, so I thought I might see if you had any use for it before I added it to Rilien’s supplies.” The basket also contained a carefully-folded square of scarlet fabric, though he made no comment on it.

Asala paused for a moment to look at Leon before she glanced back to the woman in her care. "One moment, p-please," she asked Leon with an apology written on her face. She took a few more moments to continue to massage the woman's injury, before the spell faded away. Standing, Asala took a step back to let the woman stand and test her ankle out. "It will be tender for the rest of the day, but with rest you should be fine tomorrow."

The soldier stood on the foot and nodded with a wide smile. "Thanks. I will," she said, slipping her boot back on. As she made to leave the tent, she paused for a moment to salute Leon with a "Commander," before she took her leave.

Now done with her patient, she diverted her full attention to Leon. She initially recoiled, forgetting just how big the man was, but caught herself soon after. She nodded and inclined slightly in thanks before she accepted the basket, taking a seat on the cot to inspect its contents. "Ooh," she cooed. The herbs were exquisite, especially to be grown in this weather. She took one in her hand and turned it over, sniffing it tentatively before setting it back in the basket. For a moment, she forgot about the size of the man and spoke plainly. "These are wonderful! Thank you!" She said, glancing between him and the basket. She could find many uses for royal elfroot.

Then she caught sight of the fabric that accompanied the herbs. "Oh?" she said aloud, plucking a corner of the cloth. As she pulled, it kept coming, and coming, and coming until she held a rather large scarlet cloak in her hand. She flicked it with her hands to open it to its fullest, and she looked at him with confusion.

He smiled slightly, the expression looking a little bit out-of-place on what would more naturally be a stern visage, the way it was hewn, but was genuine all the same. “Estella told me you lost your cloaks, in the Mire. Hers was easy enough to replace, but we do not have many Qunari volunteers. I fear this one may actually be a bit too large; it’s one of mine. But you’re welcome to it until we can get you something more suitable.”

His eyes turned to the empty cot, where the soldier had been only moments before, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with something, a weight that made it seem almost remote. “I must thank you, as well. For healing her, and the scouts. And those who occasionally give a little too much to their exercises, as it were.” The smile returned, and he inclined his head, resting a hand flat over the left side of his chest. It was almost courtly, but not exaggerated.

“Also, if I may make a request?” He straightened, letting his hand fall back to his side. It was clear that she was quite free to say no if she had too much otherwise occupying her. This was not a ‘request’ from the commander of the Inquisition, only one from Leon.

Asala didn't answer in words, but her brows rose over her eyes and her eyes were expectant. She truly was curious as to his request.

In answer, he shifted his attention down to his hands, which were currently covered in leather gloves. He removed them carefully to expose his skin, and it was clear from one look that they’d taken a lot of abuse over some number of years, most likely. His knuckles were quite callused, and even the rest of his skin had a sort of worn-looking texture to it. There were dozens of old scars on them, from little white nicks to what seemed to be a still-healing burn over the majority of the back of the right one. It had clearly already been attended to, though.

When his gloves came off, Asala stood and quietly approached, her eyes glued to Leon's hands. She took his hand sgently in her own, turning them over and inspecting every square inch intently. She frowned at all of the scars his knuckles bore, but her gaze lingered on the burn wound. Now that she got a closer look, her brows furrowed and her frown deepened. Any awkwardness she had initially vanished as she concentrated on the man's wounds.

Leon didn’t seem to mind much; it was almost as if he’d expected a reaction of the kind. “I have a tincture,” he explained, with a hint of ruefulness, “Which I use to keep my skin flexible and prevent my hands from drying out, but I can’t use it while the burn wound is still healing. I was hoping you maybe had something that would serve the same purpose, but without the irritation? I hate to impose, but Adan’s significantly busy with the ordinary supplies, and Rilien rarely has time to brew as it is.”

"You should have came to me sooner," she said, her tone that of a scolding. She let her grip on his hands loosen and went to her satchel. After a moment or two of fishing, she produced a small container holding a white subtance, and when she twisted the top off the scent of aloe and lavendar filled the tent. She dipped a pair of fingers into the mixture and then proceeded to spread it over Leon's burn. "This will ease the pain and irritation," she explained, closing the container and handing it to him.

"In the meantime will prepare a balm that will both aid in the healing process and keep the skin pliant. I will need time to make it however, but the elfroot you brought will help immensely," she added with a smile.

Leon massaged the balm in the rest of the way, and a few of the lines at the corners of his eyes seemed to ease a little as it disappeared. “I did properly medicate with potions,” he defended, though nothing about his tone was harsh or even especially defensive. He must have been right, though, because the burn was clearly healing, and unlikely to leave too much by way of scarring, unlike some of the older wounds he’d clearly sustained. “It honestly seemed rather
 trivial, compared to the other things you’ve been healing of late.” he smiled, and replaced his gloves over his hands.

Anything else he might have said was interrupted when Reed entered the tent. “We’ve got another one, Commander. Though, uh
 I don’t think he’s here to volunteer. Pretty sure he came for Miss Asala.” Reed nodded to her, then exited the tent, Leon not far behind.

Asala's eyes went wide and she pointed at herself, clearly confused. She glanced between Leon and Reed, before she finally spoke. "Me?" She asked.

A curt voice then cut in from outside the tent, the tone low, but not altogether unfriendly. "Get out here, Kadan. I cannot fit in there." Asala gasped at the voice, her hands going straight to her mouth. Without another word she darted past Leon and through Reed, bursting through the tent flap.

The man who'd called stood as tall as Leon, though the pair of horns from the top of his head gave him at least a few inches on the man. The Qunari's face was bronzed in color, but his hair was the same alabaster white as Asala. He too wore a thick cloak, though judging by the neck it was fur lined. Asala was taken aback by the sight of him, but it didn't take long for her to respond. "Meraad!" she exclaimed, jumping into his open arms in a wide hug.

"That is better," Meraad said, chuckling as he swung her in the air. When she finally pulled away from the embrace she looked up with a wide smile on her face. "What are you doing here?" she asked, "I thought you were in Redcliffe."

"I was. But you were taking too long, so I came here," he replied, seeming rather unimpressed by the question as if the answer was obvious. Asala laughed and simply pressed into his chest. "Impatient," she muttered, before adding something in Qunlat.

"Oh!" she said, pulling back away from Meraad and turned to Leon. "I am sorry Leon, this is Meraad," she said, gesturing to the man. "He is Kadan," she then shook her head, remembering he may not understand the word. "My, uh... Brother."

Leon, pausing to assist Reed up off the ground where Asala had knocked him in her haste to get past, patted the harassed-looking soldier on his shoulder and murmured something at low volume. Reed gave a salute and left, apparently not sad to be doing so. Turning back towards the two Qunari, the Inquisition’s commander tapped a fist over his heart. “That word, I do know,” he said, with a mild smile that was quickly becoming rather familiar to those that knew him. “Shanedan, Meraad. Welcome to Haven.”

Meraad seemed surprised, though whether it was due to the Qunlat greeting or the sheer size of the man, it wasn't clear. Asala knew it was even rarer for Meraad to look someone eye to eye. However, after that initial surprise he grinned and put a fist over his chest in greeting. "Ataas shokra," he responded, "And thank you. For keeping my sister safe," he said, before glancing around at the other soldiers. "Ish," he added with a grin.

“You may have that the wrong way around,” Leon replied easily, glancing down to Asala. “In any case, I’ll let the two of you catch up. Miss Asala, if you need anything further for your work, please do not hesitate to inform me; I’m usually either with the troops or in my office, and if you can’t find me, Reed can always take a message.” With that, and a polite nod, he excused himself from their company.

"Oh. Yes. I will find you again, when the balm is ready," she said eagerly before turning to Meraad.

She had been so busy, she forgot how much she missed him.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The Inquisition, Cyrus had learned, was far too busy an organization for most of its members to run into each other with any great deal of frequency, unless they chose to seek out one another’s company. As of the present, he wasn’t one of the people ever particularly sought out, which was actually a novel and interesting experience for him. He was used to being the most popular man in a room, for a wide variety of reasons that usually came down to a combination of three things: his looks, his intelligence, and his power, sometimes but not always in that order. The solitude was
 different, and he may have actually preferred it, most of the time, but he had spent so long in the company of others, whether he liked it or not, that he wasn’t without a certain habitual predilection for it. Sometimes. The tendency was particularly acute whenever he remembered that he should eat something.

The way his teacher—master, really, but that word was loaded when spoken from Tevinter lips here in the south and so he did not use it—had made sure he ate regularly was by requiring his presence in the dining room for at least one meal a day, at the same time as the rest of the household, and so he’d grown quite used to supping with others, when he did so at all. It had proven good practice, for certain other aspects of his life, though not any of the ones he considered most important. Certainly not the challenging ones.

Usually when he ate here, there were only one or two others around at most, but this time, the long table in one of the Chantry’s side rooms was occupied, not only by himself, but a motley assortment of the others—Estella, who’d dragged him here to begin with, Leonhardt, the commander, who took up enough space for one and a half ordinary people, and Vesryn, the elf with an interest in history and a
 distinctive sense of fashion. He’d swept into the room behind his sister—because he was incapable of merely walking anywhere—and settled himself with the ease of someone completely at home in his skin into a spot to her left, across from the commander.

He dished Estella her food first, manners bred and trained into him with long years in the courts of the magisters, before taking his own portions from the modest vessels that lay in the middle of the table. “Good evening Commander, Vesryn.” He spared each a nod before settling back to eat.

“Hello, Cyrus,” the commander replied first, returning the nod with his customary informality. “This is a bit of a surprise. I seldom run into you. Have you found accommodations to suit you?”

Cyrus smiled, the expression more than a little sardonic. “‘Suit’ is a strong word for a tent, but it will do for the moment.” He’d roughed it worse before, of course, and this tent was at least one of those meant to stand in one place for longer than a single night, and there was a fair bit of space in it for his various books, both owned and borrowed, as well as the various artifacts and trinkets he carried around with him. He shared with Thalia still, but that was in large part because she didn’t irritate him much and he irritated her less than basically any other human, so it worked out somehow.

He’d even moved a desk into it, so he felt he was quite well-off indeed, compared to most places he’d lodged the last couple of years.

There was comfortable silence for a bit, or comfortable for Cyrus, anyway. He didn’t know how anyone else felt about it, and frankly probably wouldn’t care much even if he did know, with one very glaring exception. Eventually, however, his curiosity got the better of him, as it was wont to do, and he glanced back up at Leon. “I’ve borrowed several books from the Chantry library; quite the collection, for such a small village. I was most interested on a volume on the Seekers of Truth. Common knowledge in the south, I’m sure, but an institution the Imperium is quite without.” He lifted his glass; it was filled with a red wine which was pleasant enough, if not excellent. Only the members of the command structure and the commander’s so-called ‘irregulars’ ate here, and while the little luxuries were quite few, he did note their presence.

Taking a sip, he replaced it, his fingers toying absently with the stem. “Is it true you can kill a mage by burning the lyrium right out of his bloodstream?” He asked the question in a light tone, but one that was clearly only a ruse for the powerful inquisitiveness that undergirded it—Cyrus was quite intrigued by this little tidbit he’d come across, and since he knew Leon was a Seeker, he saw no reason not to ask directly.

Vesryn, meanwhile, took a long drink from his glass, eyes moving to watch Leon. His brows were quite raised, possibly in mild alarm.

Leonhardt seemed taken aback by the question, and coughed a few times before reaching for his own wineglass, quaffing a few gulps with the inelegance of someone who needed to cleanse his throat, clearing it with a final cough, and blinking several times. “I
 ahem. I have no idea what book you managed to find that in,” he began, sounding somewhat impressed almost despite himself, “but it isn’t quite that simple.” He sat back against his chair, sighing through his nose, and then shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Among the particular abilities of some Seekers is the ability to burn lyrium in the blood, yes, but most of us who can do so are only capable of causing pain with such a technique, not death, and it applies just as much to Templars as mages. Anyone who has consumed lyrium over time, actually. Very rarely, one of us will manifest the ability to, ah, kill with the technique.” He looked somewhat uncomfortable with the idea, but it was not difficult for someone as astute as Cyrus to figure out which group Leon was in.

“Truthfully, it is most often used for interrogation. It requires a focus few can achieve, and it kills
 slowly. If death is the desired end, there are much more merciful methods by which to bring it about.” He smiled uncomfortably, and beside Cyrus, Estella shifted slightly, betraying her own unease, her eyes gaining a wariness they had not previously had.

“Fascinating.” Cyrus murmured the word in a tone that betrayed the complete genuineness of the sentiment. Of course, he had no cause for fear himself; lyrium was the tool of inferior mages, those who required assistance to enter the Fade, something he obviously did not. He was quite inclined to ask further questions about it, actually, because he did have some interest in lyrium, for its properties if not its practical use to him. “That suggests almost that you’ve interacted with the Fade in some way, though of course the connection between magic and lyrium is ill-understood at best.”

His sister’s discomfort did not fail to register with him, however, and he shifted the topic slightly in hopes of putting her at ease. “Evidence of consistent lyrium use only appears in those ruins which postdate the fall of Elvhenan, though I believe it was employed in some manner before that time. Of course, I cannot claim to have visited every such ruin; perhaps in time I will discover otherwise.”

Vesryn set down his cup, swallowing, and shoved a spoonful of food into his mouth. He was indeed sharply dressed, but still appeared more the mercenary than anything else. He didn't dress like a noble, but rather a well paid swordsman, with a bit of flair like he fancied himself a dashing rogue. The lion cloak he seemed fond of wearing was currently draped across the back of his chair.

His manners were not quite as well trained. His elbows were up on the table, and he didn't seem to care about speaking while there was still some food in his mouth. "You've interest in these ruins, then?" He studied Cyrus. "I'm rather fond of them myself. I could share some locations with you." He paused, then smiled, more to himself than anything. "If I were inclined to, of course."

“I suppose you could, were you indeed so inclined.” Cyrus agreed, his answering smile pleasant, but his eyes sharp. It sounded as though Vesryn was implying that he did not yet have such an inclination, which was fair enough. Those with knowledge were often loath to part with it for free; such was the nature of the most arcane and valuable pieces of information. Those were powerful things to have, after all, and few would give them up readily.

“If it is any particular
 incentive, it may interest you to know that my visits are not merely to the ruins themselves. I am able to see what such places resembled when once they were whole, and on occasion, what events took place there. I have seen the glory of the army of Arlathan, marching to battle, and structures that reached high enough to scrape the clouds.” His tone was one of clear knowledge—he had a great enthusiasm for these dreams he had, and an uncommon ardor for their subject matter. Still, he banked that for the moment, almost like he were pulling something back inside himself that had begun to radiate outwards, and almost physically reset himself in the present. His mind did tend to wander, when he thought of those places—he’d not described the surface of it, even, but he too was jealous with his knowledge, and he would readily admit it.

“You should see his journals,” Estella added, glancing askance at him with more obvious warmth than he’d received from her since their argument a week prior. “His drawings are beautiful; it’s almost like seeing it myself.” She smiled tentatively, then looked back down at the crust of bread she was slowly picking apart.

“You’re somniari. A dreamer.” That interjection came from Leon, who seemed to be quite willing to participate in the conversation now that the subject had changed. “I’d heard the world still had one—he was discovered a few years ago. I did not know there were two yet living.” For a moment, he also abandoned table manners and leaned forward, his academic interest obviously overcoming whatever disdain and wariness Chantry folk were supposed to have for magic. “Are there others, like you?”

Cyrus laughed, the sound full-throated and rich. “Seeker, there is no one in the world like me. I have gone to great pains to ensure it. But yes. I am one of three recently-known dreamers in the Imperium, and to my knowledge, none reside elsewhere anymore.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Which means that very few exist who can do the research I do. One is dead, now, and likely would not have bothered to begin with. The other is far too young and inexperienced.” He shrugged a single shoulder. “There is much to be learned from the past. Someone should learn it, I think, and so here I am.” It was, of course, considerably more complicated than that, in many respects, but he doubted he’d bother defining the intricacies to anyone but himself. One day, Estella would know, too, but not yet.

“I confess, my own studies of magic have had more to do with counteracting it and knowing what to do about demons than anything so historical,” Leon replied, a thoughtful expression coming over his face, “which seems almost mundane by comparison. But surely if you’re in the Fade so often, you contend with those as well? What little information there is on somniari indicates that they are especially prone to temptation by such creatures, due to the power they have within it, and without.” The implied question was clear enough, but it was not asked suspiciously, merely carefully.

“Never doubt it, commander.” Cyrus’s reply was delivered with levity, but he was in fact completely serious. “Demons court me almost aggressively as some people I’ve met. It’s actually not so different—there’s an offer I’m not interested in, and then an effort to tell me what I really want. The only difference is, I can actually find some respite from the demons.” He grinned.

“But in the case you’re worried about possession, you need not be. I am far too fond of my face to allow one of those to corrupt it the way they do.”

“That would be your reason.” Estella looked back up, and shoved his shoulder with a hand, not hard enough to actually risk dislodging him in case he was unprepared, but in the manner she’d done a thousand times before. It was familiar, and perhaps a sign that things were returning to some state of equilibrium between them.

“Well, it’s a reason.” Cyrus returned the gesture with a look of mock hurt. “Chief among them, of course, being that I could never abandon my dear sister to the dreary fate of a world without her wonderful, generous, doting brother who loves her so.” He tried to keep his face straight, but as usual, his disguises failed in her company, and the lopsided grin that broke over his visage was pure mischief.

“Aren’t I just the luckiest girl in the world?” she drawled dryly in response. But there was no mistaking the fact that she was grinning too, now.

Vesryn leaned his head upon one of his hands, a silly smile worked into place. "D'awww."

“I know, I know. We’re adorable.” But she was smiling, and so he was lifted. All was right with the world, for now, and he would savor it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
The snow crunched under Zahra's feet as she stepped out of the tavern she'd just recently been occupying. Sure, Lady Sunshine had instructed her to find a woman named Asala, but in the midst of her searching she'd come across this fancy little place. An oasis settled in the mountaintops, filled with the warmth of a crackling fireplace and the sound of a woman's voice, crooning soft-spoken chanties, and tunes she'd never heard of before. There were fairly friendly faces, though they seemed curious as to who she was. Fortunately, it was not a chilly reception. She didn't ask too many questions. Only where she might find this Asala. The alchemists home. Accompanied by a waggling finger pointed in the opposite direction. If the directions were anything to go by all she needed to do was step outside of the building and climb up the pathway.

Before she shut the door behind her, Zahra glanced over her shoulder. Aslan had chosen to come with her as well. In strange lands, familiar faces were welcomed. Especially when her feet were on dry land—or frozen lands, unfamiliar even to her. Never had she seen so many mountains, crested with white caps. Goosebumps raised across her arms, and she rubbed at them with her hands. Never had she been in a place so cold. She let out a low whistle, gestured with her fingers, and slammed the door behind her. He seldom stayed behind, but she'd instructed him to hold the fort while she explored Haven. Best not to have a lumbering Qunari stomping behind her, scowling as he often did. It might not send the right impression. Besides, she'd be right back here. The barkeep had Antivan brandy in her stores, and she had enough coin to spare.

Frostback Mountains. Cold as hell.

She trudged up the slope and pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. As stolid as she'd like others to believe she was, she ached to snuggle closer to the campfires she could just see in her peripherals. There were others there, surrounding the fires, holding out their hands to the flames. In the distance, she could hear the clattering of swords and shields. Shouted instructions that grew more and more irritated. As she made her ascent, she spotted erected tents, and people shuffling in and out of them. It wasn't exactly a colorful place to be, but she supposed the Inquisition was all business, and only a little bit of fun, if you knew where to look for it. She crested the top of the hill and planted her hands on her hips, eying the three thatched buildings. Specificity would have been nice, but she'd always been a gambling woman. There was one with a sign, and so, she choose that one.

Like a yowling cat coming in from the cold, Zahra burst into the building and pushed it closed behind her. A raspy laugh bubbled from her lips. She wasn't sure if she'd chosen right, but someone else was in here. Curled up on stool with her back facing her, hunched over whatever she was working on. Tubes and glass decanters littered the tables, as well as books and other objects she'd never laid eyes on before. The horns did not elude her. Fancy that. A Qunari woman. She leaned her back against the door and chewed at the inside of her mouth, “You a lady named Asala?”

There was a clatter of something and the woman's shoulder jerked out of apparent surprise. Zahra had entered rather abruptly and the woman did not seem to expecting it. A moment passed with the woman staring at whatever it was she had been working on, but she said something low under her breath and turned in her seat to greet Zahra.

"I, uh... I am?" she answered, stumbling over her words. Though Qunari, it was clear that she was still rather young. She twitched, glancing back to what she had been working on. Once she had shifted she revealed a mortar and pestle, with a number of reagents next to it. However, the mortar was currently on its side, and the pestle located not far away, dripping with some substance.

Another round of laughter wheezed from her lungs, though this time Zahra had a hard time recovering. She bent double, clapped her hands to her knees, and knuckled at her eyes. Once she'd properly regained her composure, she straightened back up and pushed away from the door. A smile twitched at her lips, and only faltered when the Qunari turned to face her. Not what she was expecting at all. Hair as white as snow, and pretty as a kitten, “Aren't you? Asala, that is. Y'see, Lady Sunshi—Marceline wasn't specific with who I was supposed to be meeting.”

So meek for one so imposing in stature. Even if she was sitting down, she could tell how much taller she was. Supposing she only had Aslan to compare to, it might've not been a fair observation. Zahra stepped closer and peered over her shoulders, scrutinizing her workspace. Mortars and pestles, some kind of liquid. From whatever fancies she liked to dredge up, Qunari wielded humongous weapons, flexed their muscles, and spoke in bugling volumes. This, in any case, was a pleasant surprise. “She said this Asala would be showing me around Haven. Introducing me to interesting folk,” she continued, absently reaching out for the dribbling pestle.

"She... she, uh, did?" Asala stammered, slowly taking the mortar in hand and steadily pulled it out of Zahra's reach. She glanced between her and the workstation she had set up for herself. Asala then gave her a shakey smile and held up an unsteady finger. "O-one moment, please?" she asked before turning back to the mortar and pestle.

Zahra complied and retracted her grubby fingers, allowing Asala far more personal space than she usually allowed people she'd just become acquainted with. Mostly because she asked so politely. She gave her environment another once over as soon as Asala turned back towards her work. And if she hadn't been so curious as to what exactly she was working on, she might have poked around the place: surrounded by bundles of craggy roots, leaves and strange plants, as they were.

"I promised L-Leon that I w-would do this for him," she revealed, plucking some aromatic purple and green leaves from nearby and tossed them into the mixture before returning to the pestel. A moment more of crushing the leaves, she set the pestle down and moved the mortar over a nearby bowl. Inside, a thick creamy mixture that smelled of honey and oats waited. She mixed the juices with the cream and mixed both ingredients thoroughly.

She then reached for another container, this one a wide mouthed bottle. "I-I am sorry, I am al-almost done," she stuttered again, pulling the cream into the container, before finally fastening a lid onto it. Finally done, she stood quickly and moved around Zahra to grab a scarlet cloak that hung from a nail on the wall.

"Ri-right. Where do... who... uh." She said trailing off, apparently not knowing how to phrase the question she wanted to ask.

Crunching dried herbs, mixing things together to make something else, was unusual. Lest it concocted some kind of new drink, Zahra had no interest in such things. She remembered, in a vague sense, that there had been herbalists in her village, though they'd been nothing like Asala. With paper-thin hands, drooping eyes, always trembling as they worked to cure some ailment—she hadn't thought they were impressive, though she hadto admit that this particular mixture smelled... fairly nice. Appetizing even. She ignored the senseless urge to dip her fingers in and stepped away out of her path, “Leon? Might be he's one of those interesting folk I'm supposed to meet.”

She readjusted her cloak and tilted her head, mouth twisting into a grin, “Oh. My manners. My name is Zahra Killiani Tavish. Captain, at that.” There was a considerate pause, a weighing of options. While she may have drawn out the game as long as she possibly could, and continuously correct Asala's attempts at spluttering out her name, often in misleading ways. It felt meaner than she meant it to be. A silly game played with new recruits. But Asala was not one. And she doubted the game would be well-received. Zahra glanced up at the ceiling and stuck out her hand, “But you can call me Zahra.”

“Well. Now that that's done,” she tipped her head towards the bottle of fragrant slime, “we could bring it to its destination, and we could meet your friends on the way.”

"Yes, uh... let's go to the... Chantry, then?" Asala asked rather unsure. Still despite the moment of hesitation, she threw the cloak over her shoulders and clasped it under her chin tightly. Apparently she found the cold as distasteful as Zahra did. They set out from the Alchemist's house and headed toward the direction of the Chantry, though noticably the woman kept looking back at Zahra, though never far enough to actually meet her eyes.

They were on the way up the slope near a small cluster of houses when they were met by a man walking in the opposite direction. He had a sort of air about him that was easy to identify as belonging to one of those noble sorts, if the fact that his cloak was lined with sable and appeared to be otherwise as much silk as linen wasn’t enough to tell. He paused a moment in his stride upon spotting them, apparently at least acquainted with Asala, though nothing much in his expression gave away any particular feeling on his part. He blinked saturated-blue eyes at the both of them, flicking his glance from one to the other, then lifted a brow.

“Forgive me if I operate under a mistaken assumption, but in the event you’re looking for the tavern, you’re going the wrong way.” He didn’t sound all that sorry, actually, and a little smile flirted with one edge of his mouth.

It was Zahra who answered him first, trailing up beside Asala in order to properly snake her arm around her midsection, “Tavern, love? No. I've already come from that direction. Lovely place. Kitten here is showing me the ropes.” The poor lass seemed petrified of her. Of course, she'd have to rectify that. It wouldn't do if anyone here walked on eggshells around her. At least without her intentionally intimidating anyone. Her hand slowly retracted back to her side, releasing Asala from the possibly unwanted embrace. She wasn't sure if this was someone of importance, but she found his eyes peculiar enough. Bright as the open skies. She shoved her hands under her armpits, seeking warmth, and stared back at him, unabashed. There'd been a soft cry from Asala, and a short sidestep.

The man seemed to be entertained by the byplay, if nothing else, and flicked his glance back and forth between them once. “Ah, I see. You must be Captain Tavish, then. Well, don’t allow me to delay you; I’m sure there are interesting things to be seen, people far more important than I to be met, and so on.” His tone carried a thread of humor, as if there were some joke in that only he could identify. He inclined his head in a motion almost too deferentially-polite, and started on his way.

Haven was a small place. Zahra shouldn't have been too surprised that word had spread of her arrival, though she still was. Important people, indeed. Apparently, he found himself falling short, because he'd chosen not to introduce himself. At least, this one seemed to have some indication of fun in him. She tipped her head in his direction, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"Oh, um, Cy-Cyrus?" Asala asked, stepping forward to catch his attention. "Where... uh, is Estella in the Chantry?"

He paused his step and glanced back over his shoulder. “The commander’s office, last I knew.” Shrugging as though it was of little concern, he faced forward again and left them to their own devices.

Asala passed a smile off to Zahra before she continued to lead her upward toward the Chantry. They passed through the large double doors in to the spacious main hall. Asala led into the hall a ways until she turned and pulled up to a door off to the side. Before she opened it however, she spared a few words for Zahra. "Leon's office is, uh, rather small. So. Be aware of that," she said, allowing her to open the door herself. Zahra's eyebrow quirked up at that, though she seemed far too curious to ask what she'd meant. In any case, she would know soon enough.

The door was already cracked, and so fell open at a light touch, revealing that the interior of the room was, indeed, quite small. Both of its occupants were currently standing, one towering over the other by a full foot, though he appeared to be doing his best not to crowd her. “—just wanted to make sure you’re certain,” he was saying, but then he noticed their entrance, and his shift in attention drew her notice as well, and both faced the newcomers.

The man, in addition to being extremely tall, was colored in light tones, from his platinum hair to his fair complexion, a contrast to the dark blue of the tunic he wore. The girl was raven-haired and had eyes of an identical color to the man named Cyrus, as well as a nearly identical, if more feminine, facial structure. Her brows rose at the appearance of the other two, and it was she who spoke first. “Asala? Is something the matter?”

The room's other occupant seemed to have a better understanding of what must be going on. “Ah. Captain Tavish, I presume? Lady Marceline told me to expect you at some point. I’m Leon, and this is Estella, one of the Heralds.” He nodded politely, and Estella half-bowed, offering a small smile.

So, that was what Asala had meant by small. It's cramped in the way that makes her twitch for space. For the blue expanse of the sea. An oppressive room housing two people, huddled together and discussing something she could not discern. Zahra eyed the occupants and beamed with the kind of enthusiasm she'd had on the beach, slaughtering Tevinter soldiers. Haven was filled with curious-looking individuals. Ones who might have suited her merry little crew aboard the Riptide. At least, they had the good sense for variety. Her eyes shifted back towards Asala, idling in the doorway. And racial acceptance. It was a pleasant surprise. She'd made many bad calls when it came to contracts, but she believed that this was not one of them.

“Captain Zahra Tavish,” she echoed, drawing out the syllables, rolling them over her tongue, “A pleasure to meet you.” Another brilliant smile followed with a languid bow of her own. She straightened up and planted her hands at her hips, dark eyes trailing across Leon's broad shoulders, and falling back towards Estella. Another Herald. There was a moment a familiarity, though she was fairly certain she'd never see this woman before. Zahra abruptly snapped her fingers, stepped a little closer and sucked at her teeth, “That's it. The same eyes. Do you have a brother? Because if not, you've a curious double here in Haven.”

“You’ve met Cyrus.” It wasn’t a question, though Estella’s mouth pulled up at one corner, making the resemblance even stronger between them. “We’re siblings, yes. Twins, actually.” The smile faded, naturally enough, and she passed her glance from Zahra to Asala again, tipping her head to one side. “Were you here for some particular reason, or just to meet the Commander? I understand you’ve come with a crew, so I’d like to see them at some point, and thank all of you for helping us.” She didn’t seem to consider it a possibility that anyone would have ventured this far to meet her.

Zahra hummed in reply, and bobbed her head in a nod. Of course, there were twins in Haven. Unusual enough given their location. Honestly, she'd only met one other set of twins in her life. And that was in a rumpled brothel nestled in the darker parts of Denerim. Recalling the event now, it wasn't likely that they were twins at all. There was a poignant pause as she reflected on her time spent there, but Estella was already pulling her back in to know why she'd come all this way, “No specific reason. Marcy thought it'd be prudent to become better acquainted with the Inquisition, and so did I.”

“As soon as they've all landed, we'd be glad to have some proper introductions.” In the tavern. Hopefully. Her crew might've been a rowdy bunch in comparison, but they would fit in just as well. She hooked a thumb towards Asala and grinned brightly, “Besides that, Kitten here had a package to deliver.” She omitted the words sludge and delicious-smelling slime, though she was sure that whatever Asala had to give Leon encompassed both of those things.

"Oh! Uh..." Asala sputtered, apparently surprised at being put on the spot. She went to the pack at her side and fumbled within it for a moment before she retrieved the container she'd placed in it earlier. She held it up for Leon to see. "The balm you, uh, you asked for," she said, crossing the distance to personally hand to him. "Twice a day, if at all possible," she added.

His brows upraised with surprise, perhaps at the timing, Leon accepted the vessel with a small half-smile. “You needn’t have hastened,” he murmured, but he was clearly pleased by it, and pocketed the glassware with a nod of acquiescence to the instructions. “My thanks, Miss Asala.”

Estella was still wearing her own modest smile, and it seemed to encompass the both of them. “It was good to meet you, Captain; thank you for dropping by. I’m sure we’ll run into each other more often as time goes on, and please do let me know when your crew arrives.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
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Those who had been cast down,
The demons who would be gods,
Began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth.
And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars
To the pretender-gods once more,
And in return were given, in hushed whispers,
The secrets of darkest magic.
—Canticle of Threnodies 5:11
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The journey up to Redcliffe proved mostly uneventful. Considering the effort that was going into these negotiations, most of the Inquisition’s leadership would be showing up at one point or another, but in order to minimize risk and maximize efficiency, a multi-stage arrival plan had been put in place. A small team had been sent in first; Donnelly’s squad of Lions, to be exact. Their reputation would get them in the door with no troubles, and they’d been doing much of the Inquisition’s work in the Hinterlands anyway, which meant it was no extra effort to get them that far.

Following behind them was the first party of the Inquisition proper, and that consisted of an even smaller group: both Estella and Romulus, as well as Khari, Asala, Meraad, and Leon, which was a group that would make a statement, if nothing else, simply by being who they were. They’d run into no trouble up the road—presumably any there would have been had been cleared out by Donnelly’s team on the way up, though that had been couple of days ago. Even bandits were usually smart enough not to repopulate an area that quickly, after all.

Unfortunately, the calm was not to last, and they were climbing the incline towards the gates of Redcliffe when Estella first saw the greenish cast to the area ahead of them, and grimaced. That could only mean a rift in the Fade had opened there, and that wasn’t good news for anyone. How long it had been there, she didn’t know, but obviously there wasn’t anyone in the town itself that could close it. As they approached, the crystal shifted and crackled ominously, before doing exactly what she knew it was going to do and spitting out half a dozen demons onto the ground before them. Mostly terrors, but it looked like at least one of them was a Despair demon, as well, and the brief burst of crushing sadness that threatened to claw its way up her throat seemed to confirm it.

The quick staccato of footsteps behind her was not difficult to predict, and as usual, Khari breezed right past any attempt to coordinate an approach or strategize as such, in much the same way she breezed past anyone still walking at an ordinary pace, charging the line of demons with palpable enthusiasm. Then again, strategizing might not have helped much anyway—their approach had clearly been noticed. Possibly even less surprising was the fact that she angled herself right for the Despair demon, the most obvious threat on the field, and she brought her unwieldy sword up and over her shoulder, swinging it down to cleave right into the monster’s head.

But the demon, as their kind did, leaped backwards with supernatural agility, and Khari’s sword met empty air. Pulling the strike back with a look of surprise, she blinked, followed its trajectory with her eyes, and grinned, ducking to the side to get out of the way of the ice magic it hurled for her. “You wanna dance? Let’s go, fiend!” And then she was off again after it.

Romulus charged for the terrors, pulling his crossbow free and loosing a bolt into one's shoulder. It wailed and dove straight into the ground, disappearing in its magical pool. Paying it no mind, he continued his charge for the one behind it, which screamed at him, baring claws, before beginning the same spell, about to disappear into the earth. Romulus replaced his crossbow onto his back and closed in.

Before it could vanish beneath the earth, a strange circle of yellow-green light appeared around it on the ground, and the air within the circle's perimeter gaze off a subtle shimmer. The terror's movements suddenly slowed to a crawl, as it slowly spread the magical pool beneath it in an attempt to relocate. Romulus disregarded the strange sight and closed the gap, using the slow movements of the terror to get in close. He made a dive for the terror once in range, looking to plunge his knife into its chest.

When he crossed the edge of the circle, Romulus slowed remarkably as well, though he was entirely suspended in the air. He simply moved at an extremely slow rate towards the terror, as it steadily sank further into the ground. The world around them proceeded at its normal pace.

Estella had no idea what was causing that, but she noted that several other circles or areas of shimmering gold had appeared as well, on the ground around the rift, and she nearly stopped her own progress into the fray, before she shook herself out of it and continued forward, making a note to avoid them where possible. Keeping pace beside her, Leonhardt didn’t seem to care quite as much, and when he stepped into one himself, she observed the opposite effect: he suddenly accelerated, seeming to move at triple the speed until he emerged on the other side, now far ahead of her and looking almost perplexed, which she could see because he was neither helmeted nor armored.

In spite of that, the hit he aimed at the terror nearest him cracked up into its jaw with a resounding crunch, the creature staggered from the blow, unable to retreat inside the voidlike darkness it had been forming at its feet. He was so tall that he simply reached up and took hold of its head, wrenching hard to the side and breaking its thin neck in what she guessed was several places. He flinched a little when it hit the ground, but she couldn’t see what happened after that, because another pool of darkness was forming underneath her, and she had to dive off it, much more prepared for the horror than she had been last time, and the end of her sword stabbed into its back, puncturing a lung before it could shriek and send her to the ground.

She pulled the blade out and thrust her hand up towards the rift, seeking to disrupt it and give her allies ample time to finish off the other demons.

"I hate these creatures," Meraad stated. He was not too far from Estella, just close enough to see smoke rising from his fingertips, and the after affects of a lightning storm around him. Not long after however, darkness began to form underneath his feet. "Asala!" he called, back stepping out of the cloud and was summarily replaced by a sheet of translucent energy-- one of Asala's barriers.

The terror erupted from the ground and met the barrier instantly, the force of which bowing the shield outward before shattering outright. The act stunned the horror long enough for Estella to disrupt the rift, sending it further into confusion. Meraad began to rush the terror, his hands crackling with electricity. Before he was able to strike however, a barrier formed in front of him, slamming into the terror first and putting it on the ground.

Meraad finished by driving the lightning infused fist into the mass of flesh that was its face.

“Ha!” The sharp cry of victory, however, belonged not to him, but to Khari, and the soft burst of a demon being forced back into the Fade followed, a testament to her success over the Despair creature. The lingering hint of oppressive melancholy lifted as well, and it wasn’t long before Khari could be spotted diving back into the fight, hewing another one of the horrors almost in half with a mighty swing of her cleaver.

Meanwhile, Romulus had finally reached the still-diving horror with his diving attack, his blade plunging into its chest at an incredibly slow rate, but still producing a strong spurt of black blood, and still driving the demon out of its hole. The circle steadily began to shrink around them, and when they eventually passed outside of it, the two tumbled around swiftly, back at normal speed, with Romulus ending up on top, where he ended the terror with a swift stab. He looked up at the rest of the fight, blinkly rapidly, obviously confused.

That left one, until it didn’t, because Leon had gotten to it in the intervening time and taken it down, as well. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed to end up standing on its back, pressing its face into the dirt, but he did, and a well-placed stomp snapped its neck, stilling it permanently. It, like the others, faded away into nothing, leaving them with nothing but the rift itself. Once more, Estella raised her hand towards it, the ribbon of green light bursting from her palm to connect her to the disruption in the sky. She felt the familiar tingling in her arm, but she must be getting better at this, because it was no longer painful to do, exactly, only a bit uncomfortable.

With a muted bang, the rift disappeared, and Estella breathed a sigh of relief, sheathing her saber and glancing between Romulus and Leon. “What
 happened? It looked like you were moving so slowly, but you seemed to be going much too fast.” She shifted her eyes along with the descriptions, and so they ended on the commander, who was frowning thoughtfully.

“At a guess? That rift specifically was somehow able to create localized distortions in time. Though it’s nothing I’ve ever even heard of before, and I’m not sure how it’s possible.” His expression briefly became a grimace. “A question for Cyrus, more than any of us, I should think.”

She had to agree with him about that, and nodded, but anything further was interrupted by the sound of the gate, and she immediately turned her attention towards it. From inside Redcliffe emerged two figures, walking side-by-side, and they were both familiar to her, though one of them was extremely unexpected. The first was Donnelly, who looked at the spot the rift had been and whistled softly under his breath.

“It’s really just gone, isn’t it? Hard to believe before I saw it, honestly.” He smiled briefly at her before his expression sobered again, and he addressed the group at large. “So, uh
 you’re sure the mages were supposed to be expecting us, right? Because we managed to secure the inn for negotiations, but
 the situation’s not at all like we thought.” He turned to the woman beside him, expectantly, as though inviting her to continue.

Estella hadn’t known Aurora very well, but she did recognize her, though it had been some years since she saw her last. “Aurora? I didn’t realize you were in Redcliffe.” She must have been the contact here Rilien was talking about. Which meant she knew who the other one probably was, too. But that was a thought for another time.

Aurora's face was not a happy one, though she did allow a smile to slip through when she recognized Estella. "We'd heard you were the Herald, and I guess that settles it," she said, indicating to where the rift had been only moments before. "That was good work, though I'd expect nothing less from the Lions," she said with a grin angled toward Donnelly, who shifted slightly awkwardly. Aurora opened her mouth in order to say something else, but closed it and raised an eyebrow. Something seemed to have distracted her.

Or someone rather. "Asala?" she asked, the smile on her lips widening.

"Hi Aurora," Asala replied, stepping by Estella and toward Aurora, only stopping when she wrapped the smaller woman into an embrace. "It is good to see you, Ash-Talan," she added, though apparently she was unaware that she was lifting Aurora off of her feet. Aurora did not complain, and returned the embrace until she was finally set back down.

"When we heard about the Conclave we were all so worried. We were so glad when Meraad got your letter," Aurora said, gripping the woman's hands tightly. Her gaze then drifted over her shoulder to the grinning Meraad. "Ah, I see you found her rather quickly," she said with a wide smile, though Meraad seemed confused by something.

Donnelly seemed to catch on quickly to what the issue was, which was good because Estella had no idea why Meraad seemed confused by anything. “Everyone in Redcliffe is like this,” he said, grimacing slightly. “It took talking to Aurora for me to really understand, but
 no one’s expecting us here, and as far as I can tell, they all think the explosion at the Conclave was very recent. Meraad’s been gone for a few weeks, by our understanding, but somehow
 it’s only been a couple of days here, or everyone thinks it’s only been a couple of days, or
 something. I don’t really understand, but the point is, we weren’t expected."

“Not even the by Grand Enchanter?” That was Leon, and Estella nodded to second the question.

Donnelly only shook his head. “No, not even by her. And it’s former Grand Enchanter now, if I’m understanding things properly.”

That caused Aurora to cover her face and gently rub at her temples. "It's a... it's a huge mess," Aurora said, clearly not happy with whatever had transpired. "No, for some foolish reason or another, Fiona thought we would have more of a chance if we pledged ourselves to a Tevinter Magister. So no. Fiona is not in charge any more. A magister named Cassius Viridius is," Aurora said, unable to hide the upset tone.

Asala covered her mouth in surprise, and Meraad's brow raised. They exchanged glances before they looked back to Aurora. "I tried to warn anyone I could, but it was our only option," she said, apparently parrotting something someone else had told her. "I really hope the Inquisition can help. I will not follow a Magister. If it were my choice, I would follow you," she said, her eyes falling on Estella.

Estella’s eyes went wide, but not from Aurora’s declaration of support, surprising as she might otherwise have found it. Rather, the name triggered a memory, and she glanced immediately at Romulus, then back to Aurora. This
 this probably wasn’t good. She wished Cyrus were here—he’d be arriving shortly, of course, and as soon as he did, they’d need to talk about this, because she wasn’t sure under what terms he’d left his teacher or whether his presence might prove of help or detriment to them in negotiating with the man. The fact that southern mages had pledged something to a Tevinter Magister was unusual, for sure, but Estella couldn’t exactly muster the same obvious disgust that Aurora felt, not without understanding the situation further.

“This is quite a bit of information. We ought to get inside, await the rest of our party, and then decide what to do.” The declaration was more order than suggestion, which made sense, considering it was coming from the commander. Glad to have something more productive to do than sit around and speculate, Estella nodded.

“Right. This
 will make things complicated.” Perhaps more complicated than most of the others here would know.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
“She what?” Leon resisted the urge to run his hand down his face. Being kind was one thing, but there was a certain point at which one had to consider other factors. Though
 he supposed he couldn’t really be too upset. He might have done the same thing, in that situation, and considering that it was hard to fault her, exactly.

“Well, you know
 our troops are out there, and it’s not like she’s never done anything by herself before.” Donnelly’s tone was a fraction defensive, and Leon held up a hand to show that he wasn’t going to be making a big event of it. “It was just flowers. I’d have gone with her myself, but she said she needed the walk.” From the way he said it, it was a turn of phrase with a particular meaning for her, and though he sighed slightly, Leon nodded.

“All right. Just
 tell me what direction she went, and I’ll go get her myself.” Ordinarily, he wouldn’t—he’d take his cue from Estella’s comrades and trust that she’d be fine, but she wasn’t just any member of the Inquisition, and he supposed he found it disconcerting that she seemed to be able to stumble upon trouble with such precision. Still, as long as she was fine, there wasn’t any need to make a major production of this, and he could simply retrieve the Herald and escort her back, with no need to inform Marceline or, Maker forbid, Cyrus that she’d left the village by herself.

Donnelly eased, his baleful expression shifting back into his usual good humor. “Sure. Fellow said his wife was buried in Hafter’s Woods, on the hill.” The Lions’ Lieutenant, long familiar with the area from his squad’s survey work, tapped the spot on the command tent’s map, and Leon made a mental note of it. “Stel’s seen the map, too; she’ll know which route to take, so it shouldn’t be hard to find her.”

Leon inclined his head a second time, and Donnelly snapped a brief salute before exiting the tent, leaving the Seeker to contemplate his armor. In the end, he chose to forgo it, layering his clothes with only a cloak, and applying leather gauntlets to his hands rather than the steel ones he used in heavier combat situations. Despite his disinclination to simply let the Herald wander about on her own, he wasn’t really too worried about fighting anything—he knew the troops were proud of the work they’d done clearing out the place, even the fort to the south. There would still be stragglers, though.

Pulling up the flap on the command tent, Leon ducked under it and headed out. Since Donnelly was technically second-in-command of the squads here, there wasn’t a particular need to inform anyone else specifically of where he was going, and he elected for discretion in this case and didn’t.

He was well on his way to the gate when he came upon a scene he wasn’t sure he would have expected: Vesryn was apparently in conversation with one of the locals, who had what looked like a very distraught expression for some reason. They were standing next to what appeared to be a fenced-in yard, as one would use to pen medium-sized animals. His brows furrowed, Leon diverted from his initial path and approached. Probably best to make sure there wasn’t a dispute or something, though he had a hard time imagining Vesryn causing something of the kind.

“Is everything all right here?” he inquired, using the mildest tone in his repertoire, which usually went some distance toward mitigating the fact that he looked the way he did.

The elf turned, smiling a bit awkwardly. "Ah, yes, young James here was just explaining a situation to me regarding his missing ram, what was the name?" He titled his head sideways. The man, with blonde hair halfway covering a rather clearly missing eye, jumped at the chance to enter the conversation.

"Lord Woolsly, sers. A most special ram. He wandered off, you see, as he sometimes does. If he were to be found I'd be most grateful." Vesryn crossed his arms, tracing the toe of his boot absently through the dirt and nodding.

"Of course. But... you do know the Inquisition might be a bit preoccupied to chase lost rams? What makes yours so special anyway?"

"Well, he's always brought the family luck," he said, without any hesitation, "and his advice has helped us make our fortune." Vesryn quirked an eyebrow at him, before glancing over at Leon.

Admittedly, it took Leon a second to make sense of that claim. Vesryn’s point about preoccupation was quite a good one, but at least partly moot, since he was headed out of Redcliffe at the moment anyway, and the commander sighed. “Well
 I can’t promise anything, but since I’m leaving for a bit regardless, I’ll keep an eye out.” At least there wasn’t some kind of dispute here, which was what he’d been more worried about than anything. With a polite nod to both men, he turned to continue on his way out.

"Yes, we'll... keep an eye out." Vesryn left the one-eyed young man a bit awkwardly and with hurried steps caught up with Leon, falling into step beside him. "You know, the talking ram thing might not be entirely out of the question. If that poor kid isn't crazy, it probably means his ram is... well, quite possessed. By a demon." He waved his hands about a bit theatrically, looking back to make sure they were out of earshot, and also out of line of sight. "Stepping out of town for anything in particular?"

The Seeker contemplated that for a moment, then grimaced. “I was rather hoping he was one of those superstitious kinds. Sometimes, folk have their animals give portents by means of bones or special wooden tokens, that kind of thing.” It was more common in less well-populated areas, those where the Chant had not reached quite as deeply into hearts and minds, in part because it was drawn from an old Chasind practice. But then, arguably a possessed animal that actually spoke was quite possible as well. In any case, they would find out if they happened upon the creature, and probably not otherwise. While under ordinary circumstances, that was the kind of rumor he’d have to chase down, Leon had considerably larger matters to attend to at this point.

“As for why I’m out in the first place
” he paused a moment, then decided it probably wasn’t any harm to divulge, though he did lower his voice so that it would not carry any further than necessary. “Estella left Redcliffe sans escort. Apparently, she was not of the opinion that the Inquisition is too busy to be carrying flowers to someone’s grave by request.” His tone indicated that he was actually a bit unsure how he felt about that, because he was. Approaching the gate, he waved up at the woman posted there, who saluted back and began to turn the crank that would lift it to allow exit.

Vesryn laughed softly to himself, clearly using some effort to keep the sound from carrying. "Our Lady Herald isn't interested in delegating, clearly. It's, ah... admirable, if not exactly efficient."

Leon supposed that was as good a characterization as any. The two passed under the gate, which closed behind them with a clank, putting them out on the road back into the Hinterlands. Vesryn seemed to have decided he’d be going along as well, but Leon didn’t mind any. The truth of the matter was, until this evening, there wasn’t really much else to be doing, so there was no reason for him to refuse the company.

“Do you find that the Inquisition’s what you expected, Vesryn?” The commander was genuinely curious. He supposed someone who volunteered might have had some idea what they were in for, but he doubted a great deal that the organization—and more importantly, the people in it—were really what most would first think.

"It's rather inclusive, isn't it?" Vesryn had drawn out his spear, as was his habit, while walking. He poked the bottom end of it regularly into the soft grass and dirt ahead of him. "Considering what it's up against, it's not surprising that it takes all sorts, but still. It was founded on orders of the Chantry's head, its armies are led by a Seeker, and its two greatest weapons are supposedly blessed by Andraste herself. Of course, they wouldn't be alive if a Qunari girl hadn't saved them. And you take elves, too, folk like me who have never spared a second thought for the Maker."

He shrugged, the lion's head on his shoulder bobbing up and down. "I suppose we're all just too focused on doing the right thing to be thinking about who's doing the right thing. In that sense, the Inquisition's exactly what I expected. Too busy plugging skyholes to spend time pointing fingers at one another."

That was slightly more crudely than Leon might have put it, but aside from half a choked laugh, he didn’t give sign of it. His expression settled at a slight smile, actually, and he nodded. He supposed it was quite inclusive, in one sense. Certainly moreso than the Chantry itself generally was. Many of his compatriots would have seen that as a necessary evil, the reliance on Qunari and heathen elves. Leon had his reservations about it as well, but they didn’t have anything to do with different physiologies or religious beliefs so much as the wide variance in personalities. In life, such a broad spectrum of people surrounding oneself was a blessing, he thought, but in an organization with a specific purpose like this
 there were risks.

“As long as the center holds, it will hopefully remain so,” he replied thoughtfully. He was not oblivious to the fact that much of the responsibility of ensuring that would be his, and it was daunting, but no moreso than he’d expected it to be. Flexing his hands under his gauntlets, Leon continued, broaching a subject he found himself curious about.

“So where exactly is it that you’re from, Vesryn? I’d think maybe here in Ferelden somewhere, from the accent, but I’ve been wrong before.”

"Denerim, born and bred," he said, with a hint of mock pride. "Until the late teens, at any rate. Arranged marriages have a way of driving rebellious children from their homes. I visit occasionally. I like to think my parents are proud, even if I never did a single thing they wished. I'm no Hero of Ferelden, swooping in save them from the Blight. She actually did that, by the way, my mother will tell you the story sometime. But, I've done some notable things here and there."

He turned his head, his lips quirked in that almost ever-present grin. "And you? Only the Chasind and the Avvar make men of your size around here, but none of them are half as handsome. You're an Anderfels man, aren't you?"

Leon snorted, and shook his head slightly. “You know, most people manage to guess, but I’m fairly certain that’s not the logic they use to do it.” Usually it was something like his coloration or the slight guttural rasp on the edges of his bass. “But yes, I was born not far outside Hossberg. As third children are really quite extraneous by any standard, I was given to the Chantry before arranged marriages became an issue, thankfully.” Which was good, because that thought was mildly terrifying, really.

“I went in expecting to be a lay brother in a monastery somewhere, leading a life of contemplation. I came out rather wishing I were, as it turns out.” He smiled good-naturedly, but the words were a little too true for the expression to be entirely free of discomfort. “Alas, being so tall made someone think I’d make an excellent Templar one day, and then someone else thought I’d be a good Seeker, and so here I am.” It was really remarkable how little of his fate had been of his own design, when he thought about it.

"I don't think I was supposed to be good at anything," Vesryn remarked, with no small amount of humor. "You should've seen me. I had far too much bone for a place with so little to eat. I ran away to the Brecilian Forest at eighteen, expecting to go back to Denerim in a few days. Turns out I didn't go back for several years."

He sighed lightly, as though enjoying the brief reflection. "Someone else clearly thought you'd make a good Commander. As far as I've seen, you've yet to prove them wrong."

“Well, it’s early days yet,” Leon replied with obvious humor of his own. “I’ve still got time.”

Their trek eventually took them into Hafter’s Woods, whereupon they climbed the hill Donnelly had pointed out. Clearly, Estella was not expecting company, because she was humming to herself as they arrived, intently at work with what looked like some kind of cloth scrap, damp and slowly gaining a coat of dirt. She’d evidently been using it to clean a stone marker, at the foot of which she’d laid half a dozen white lilies. The humming stopped as soon as Leonhardt intentionally stepped on a twig, which snapped under his weight and alerted her to their presence.

Looking up sharply from her work, Estella had moved her hand halfway to the hilt of her sword before recognition lit in her eyes, and she dropped her hand back down, using the other arm to swipe across her brow. Her eyes flickered back and forth between them, her face smoothing over into something impassive that imperfectly masked what might have been anxiety. “Commander? Vesryn? Um
 I don’t suppose you just happened to be taking a walk, did you?”

"Of course not," Vesryn said, gently. "I thought I'd say a few words. Perhaps they'll amount to something." Almost reverently, he laid down his spear, stepped over to the grave, and knelt down beside Estella. He settled his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes. "Hahren na melana sahlin. Emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin. Vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas." The words spoken, he opened his eyes again, and carefully stood. He offered a hand down to Estella.

"We did come to walk back with you, however."

Leon maintained a respectful silence for the duration, bowing his head while Vesryn spoke, but upon the conclusion of what he supposed must be an elvish blessing of some sort, he nodded to confirm what the other man had said. “It isn’t wrong of you to want to do something like this,” he said, nodding to the stone marker, “but I confess I do feel some concern upon hearing that you’ve elected to do so by yourself.” He was careful in the way he said it, because his impression was that her confidence, little of it that there was, was quite delicate, and he worried he might shatter it if he spoke too carelessly.

Estella sighed, looking at the marker for a moment, and then nodded herself, accepting the hand up from Vesryn and using it to get back to her feet. “I know. I only
” Her lips thinned with what he guessed was the effort to find the right words. “It feels like if I’d said anything, there would have been a bit too much of a production about it, is all. This seemed better to do
 quietly.”

Though perhaps another would have pressed the point, Leon felt that his had been made clearly enough, and so he didn’t push back on the matter, instead leading their trio back down the hill and towards the road. Seeking to change the topic somewhat, he said the first thing that came to him. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a talking ram anywhere, have you?”

“A
 what? Talking ram?” She didn’t seem to be sure if he were serious or not.

“It’s a
 bit of a story, apparently. Just, well, if you happen to spot any rams in general as we’re walking, let us know.”

Estella smiled at that, still looking a bit perplexed, but taking the odd request in stride. “Sure, all right. The Inquisition: for all your delivery, exotic animal husbandry, and rift-closing needs, I suppose.”

“I’m sure it will look very good on all of our credentials, someday.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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Estella hit the ground hard, rolling several times before she came to a stop in just enough time to watch three people disappear into the rend in the air, both like and entirely unlike a rift, and though she was forced to cover her ears, she regained her feet as she did, such that by the time it stopped, she was standing again.

For a moment, there was utter silence, or perhaps she’d simply lost the ability to register sound. In any case, she waited what seemed like an eternity for them to reappear, to drop back from the spot like it was all one of Cyrus’s grand jokes, something they’d laugh about later while she insisted she hadn’t been fooled.

But though she counted her heartbeats, her breath still in her chest, they did not return. “Cyrus
” It was hardly more than a whisper, but time seemed to snap back into place as she said it, and suddenly she could hear again, and the fight was back on. It was extremely difficult to make herself care in just that moment, however.

“Cyrus!” It was a ragged shout that time, raw and agonized, and she was halfway through a step towards the dais when someone answered.

“Now, now, Stellulam. No need to shout; I can hear you just fine.” From one of the sides of the room, her brother himself, alongside Romulus and Chryseis, stepped out from behind the line of columns to the right. He wore a broad, almost triumphant smile, and that and the glint in his eyes was rather rare, because it seemed tempered by something, not as haphazard as such expressions had been before. With an almost lazy flick of his fingers, he blasted away the few Venatori standing between themselves and her, and then crossed the intervening distance with a quick Fade-step.

“Cy? What—?” Estella had no idea what had happened, but it would seem that in any case her unvoiced prayers had been answered, and she sent fervent thanks to whoever was listening to begin with. If it hadn't been the middle of an armed confrontation, she’d have hugged him, and she wanted to anyway, but restrained herself for the sake of necessity. She did smile at him, though, shaking her head faintly at his usual lofty mannerisms and his very unusual expression alike.

“Remind me to tell you how I did this, when it’s all over.” His tone was light, but his expression was not, and it was easy enough for her to tell that something was really getting to him. This was clearly neither the time nor the place to discuss it, however, and he turned his eyes towards Cassius, where he stood now near the entrance to the room.

“You’ve failed, old man. I’ve outdone you. Again.” What under other circumstances could have been anything from factual to arrogant to possibly even lighthearted sounded much graver, in the sonorous modulation he used to deliver it, and Cyrus stepped slightly away from Estella, materializing a weapon in his left hand. “Call off your dogs. There need only be one more death here.” It wasn’t hard to guess whose he meant, either.

At the sudden reappearance of those he’d banished but moments before, Cassius seemed to know he was defeated. The strategy had been a good one, unfortunately thwarted by the ill luck of his former pupil being caught up in it instead of the second Herald, but it was clear that he had less left than he needed, that opening the tear had taken a good deal out of him. The Venatori were dying around him anyway—the reappearance of their Herald and his allies had put the wind back in the Inquisition’s sails, and they were rallying, regaining the advantage that had been theirs with the ambush.

And yet despite the obvious disadvantage this had put him at, Cassius was apparently reluctant to surrender. In the end, however, he did. “All right, then. Have it your way, Cyrus. You always did insist upon it. Cease!” The command, he shouted to his men, who were trained and obedient enough to do just that, abruptly stopping and sheathing their weapons, though they were generally prevented from doing much more than that by the equally-trained blades of the Inquisition, which predictably did not see the need to trust the Magister at his word, and reinforced the Venatori submission with edges and points skirting throats, backs, and similarly-vulnerable areas.

It was now, effectively, a hostage situation in addition to a near-rout.

“Give me one reason, Cassius. One reason I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.” Cyrus’s glance shifted to Estella for only a moment, but then he tightened his jaw and moved it back to his teacher.

“Don’t.” The response, swift and sure, came not from Cassius, but Estella, who reached forward and laid her right hand on Cyrus’s left forearm, a gentle and entirely surmountable barrier to him raising his sword. Despite that, she believed he’d stay his hand if she asked him to, assuming she could ask in the right way. He seemed particularly intent on this, and she didn’t know why. “Cyrus, there’s nothing else he can do. You’ve defeated his magic, and the Inquisition has defeated his soldiers. We came here to free the other mages, remember?” She hoped the reference to his own accomplishment would put him in a better frame of mind—for lack of a better phrase, she was playing to her brother’s ego, hoping that he’d take it as enough of a victory that he’d done that much.

She would have thought it’d be unquestionably enough—Cyrus liked to win, of course, but she’d never known him to be a violent person. She could only assume that something was really bothering him, which meant that if he acted from that now, he’d regret it later. Besides, there really wasn’t any reason to kill Cassius, not really. All he’d done was try—unsuccessfully, now—to indenture some people with terms they’d agreed to, and then attacked the Inquisition, which was admittedly part of what the Inquisition had come here prepared to do to him. Looking at it that way, she wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong, whatever his intentions might have been.

“Please.”

“You haven’t seen what I saw.” His reply was soft, perhaps even hollow. The arm under her hand slowly relaxed though, and he let her guide it back down to his side, the Fade-weapon flickering a few times before it disappeared entirely, leaving him empty-handed. Cyrus shook his head slightly.

“Do what you will, Stellulam, but do not underestimate the danger he still poses you.”

That was well enough for him to say, and she was relieved that he’d apparently abandoned the notion of actually killing Cassius, but what exactly they should do with him instead was still a pressing question, and not one she felt qualified to answer. Instead, she turned to Lady Marceline and Rilien, expecting them to have a better idea than she did of what should be done. Chryseis observed the exchange with obvious interest, from where she stood nearby. She'd visibly relaxed when Cyrus had refused to decide her father's fate himself, but if she had a strong desire to sway the Inquisition's decision, she clearly wasn't acting on it.

Lady Marceline, tucking her bloodied hankerchief back into a pocket, raised a hand and signalled for Lia. When the woman approached, Marceline spoke. "If you would be so kind as to fetch Ser Leon and a contigent of guards, I would see Lord Cassius placed into our custody for the time being." As she spoke, her clean rapier rested on her shoulder, Marceline appearing uncomfortable with the idea of returning it to its sheath. "Agreed, Ser Rilien?"

Rilien, who’d already tucked his knives away at his lower back, nodded in the sanguine fashion typical of him. “For the moment.”

Cassius himself seemed disinclined to resist, perhaps even a little relieved now that his immediate death seemed to have been taken off the table, though there was no mistake that the look he shot Cyrus and Estella was one of calculation. “As you wish, then.” His tone was carefully neutral, almost as bled of emotion as Rilien’s own. Cyrus’s lip curled, but he protested no further.

Chryseis exhaled, stepping over towards Marceline. "I appreciate your ability to remain sensible, Lady Marceline. This is not a decision to be made so close to the heat of battle." She turned, nodding briefly to Estella. "You as well, Estella. Your brother and I went through... a great deal, to return here." Romulus, having finished wiping the blood from his blade, returned to her side. The look in his eyes was enough to confirm her words, if nothing else. It shared the same hollowness that Cyrus carried.

Another reference to the fact that something important had transpired while they were gone. Estella wasn’t sure she could make sense of it—though the moment had seemed to stretch for minutes to her, it hadn’t really been that long. Then again, it was time magic of some kind—she had no idea what might have passed for them while so little did for her. In the end, she only smiled thinly and nodded. “It’s, ah
 don’t mention it.” Her mouth thinned, her eyes flickering to Romulus, before a noise from behind drew her attention, and she turned to see Leon entering, with a contingent of Inquisition troops. They must have already been on their way up, to be here now. Perhaps he had anticipated something going wrong, or perhaps they’d simply taken more time than he was comfortable waiting.

Whatever the case was, it didn’t take much more than a few minutes before Cassius was being led away in irons by the troops, with particular attention paid to the bonds so he couldn’t cast, though from the look of him, she wasn’t sure if he had the energy left for that regardless.

Also among those who had entered was Fiona, who looked around at the room full of dead Venatori and blanched slightly. “You’re, um
 well, you’re not indentured to Magister Cassius anymore,” Estella explained, though maybe that was already obvious.

Fiona recovered quickly, to her credit, and nodded. “I
 yes, thank you. But this does present a new set of problems. I doubt very much the king will allow us to remain in Redcliffe after a Magister chased out the Arl. We cannot stay here, either.” She made careful eye contact with Estella, who sighed under her breath, but inclined her head.

“Well, ah
 with regard to that, I believe the Inquisition is in a position to give your people somewhere to stay, if you’re willing to help us close the Breach.” Honestly, she was inclined to offer as much regardless, but she had a feeling that wouldn't go over too well with, say, Lady Marceline.

"It is not as though you possess any other option." Marceline still had not sheathed her rapier, instead she held it point down into the throne room's stone floor, her hands resting on top of the basket. Her facial expression was even and hard, that of a woman who would get what she desired, no matter the cost. She glanced at Estella, whom she held in a gaze for a moment, before returning to Fiona with a hard stare. "The mages will recieve room and board in return for aid in closing the breach, as the Lady Herald said," However, there was an implied but at the end of the statement.

"However, considering the quality of your recent judgements, the Inquisition will take command of the Free Mages. You shall be relegated to an advisory position," Marceline said with authority. Eventually, her stoney exterior cracked a bit with a sigh and a tilt of her head. "I can assure you, the Inquisition is fair in its dealings, and the mages will face no such mistreatment from the rest of our forces. It is a much better option than your previous employer." A polite term for master.

"Agreed?"

“It is as you say,” Fiona replied, heavily. “We have no choice.”

As if the end of the matter were some kind of signal, Cyrus slumped heavily against Estella’s side, a soft groan escaping him as he struggled to keep his feet under him. Whatever had been propelling him up until this point had obviously run out, and now that the immediate danger had passed, he was in clear danger of collapse. His eyelids fluttered, but thankfully, he didn’t quite pass out, having apparently enough strength yet to aid her in supporting his weight.

“Are we done, then?” He muttered it almost incoherently, quietly enough that probably only she could make out the actual words.

Estella immediately pushed back on his weight, solidifying herself under him, maneuvering one of his arms across her shoulders, and wrapping one of her own around his waist. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of magic it had taken to reverse Cassius’s spell, but still his state was alarming to her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him look so utterly spent before, and felt a spike of worry spear its way into her chest. When she spoke, though, she kept her tone gentle, reassuring.

“Yes, Cyrus. We’re done now.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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Romulus found it difficult to just set foot back in Redcliffe, in the time that he remembered, after seeing what he had, and living in it. It felt not unlike a horrid dream, despite it having been entirely real, and only erased by the skill Cyrus had in magic. The thought that he could've been trapped there haunted him. As did the fact that a similar future could await them still.

His normal stony demeanor was replaced by a bit of a daze as they cleared out from Redcliffe castle, which stood empty awaiting the arrival of the Arl back into his domain. The Inquisition would be clearing out soon, but since they were now directly responsible for the mages taking shelter here, it would take a bit of time to organize. Time that was sorely needed for many of them to rest. And while none needed it more than Cyrus, Romulus was plenty exhausted himself.

He was only allowed a few hours, however, before Leon's man Reed arrived to summon him, letting him know that the commander required him for a debriefing. With Cyrus out of commission, and Chryseis still ultimately remaining a third party, it seemed the duty of relaying what had happened fell to the slave. Ignoring the soreness already setting into his limbs, he forced himself up from his cot.

He was allowed an opportunity to scarf down some food quickly, and fully planned to return for more when this was done. A few of the soldiers looked at him as though he were a ghost, and he wondered if he might actually be. He'd simply been erased from time for some of them, those that had been watching, before he reappeared. Romulus did not claim to understand how magic like that even began to work, but he could at least understand why the others might look at him differently. It was the second time he'd walked out of a place no man had a right to return from.

Reed opened the flap of the command tent for Romulus, and he proceeded inside, finding the Inquisition's military, diplomatic, and espionage leaders all assembled and awaiting him. Folding his hands together behind his back, he bowed his head in greeting, and left his eyes gazing down towards the table. Some things would not be changed, even by time-traveling.

The tent was quite a large one, with space for all three of its occupants to have clear working room of their own, plus a smaller version of Haven’s map table for each of them to use when necessary. Rilien was currently standing at that, quite intently focused on something or another there, while Lady Marceline was at a desk, shuffling through a stack of parchments, a quill and inkwell at the ready beside her. Leon, on the other hand, was sitting in a chair, on one side of low table, which was covered with what looked like some kind of food service for the three of them, it was hard to say exactly. Mostly it was all very mobile pickings, nuts and fruit, that sort of thing. There were a few other spartan chairs arranged around the space, and when Romulus entered, the commander stood, offering him one with a gesture.

“If you wouldn’t mind sitting, Romulus, I’m not sure how long we’re going to be here, and I expect you’re rather tired, if our resident magical expert’s condition is any indication of what you’ve been through. You’re also welcome to eat, if you like.” The Seeker himself resumed his own seat thereafter, ignoring the food in front of him and smiling mildly.

“I do apologize for how soon this is, but I’ve always found that memory is best committed to paper as soon as possible, lest some details get scrambled in the intervening time. If you’re up to it, I would like to hear from you what happened today.” Nothing he said was phrased as a command, nor even delivered with the tone of one.

Romulus sank into the offered chair, his posture perhaps not the best, and despite the rest, he still seemed, and felt, quite tired, the kind of tired that a simple night's sleep would not cure. As for Leon's prompting... he was almost tempted to laugh, as the commander couldn't possibly know what he was asking him to describe. Romulus shifted an elbow onto one of the chair's armrests, propping his head briefly upon his hand, before he seemed to think better of it. He still stared somewhere beneath the table they worked at.

"Cassius aimed a spell for Estella and I, meant to remove us from time. If Lord Cyrus and my domina had not confirmed it as such, I'd have thought I was under the effect of some nightmarish horror spell. We determined ourselves to be roughly one and a half years into the future, at which point the Inquisition had nearly been crushed, by the forces of something the Venatori called the 'Elder One.'" He narrowed his eyes at the thought, half-wishing they'd interrogated those they'd found in the future about the Elder One, to learn more of what exactly that was.

Finally, he looked up at the three before him. "Is there anything in particular you wish to know? We escaped from that future, and now a different one will come to pass instead."

There was a moment of silence at that; perhaps the three others simply needed time to digest the information. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing one commonly encountered after all. In the end, Rilien spoke first, looking up from what he was doing to meet Romulus’s eyes. “If that is so
 were you able to ascertain a narrative of what happened? It is possible that whatever this Elder One accomplished early on in that future is identical with what it plans for ours. Were we to know these things, we would be better prepared to face them.”

Romulus shrugged. "Perhaps." Sitting up a little higher in the chair, he exhaled heavily, raking through his mind for the information they'd picked up. The words were so much less memorable than the images, in all but a few cases. "The Inquisition suffered a crippling loss, with one Herald presumed dead, and the other captured. We acquired no allies, and lost our ability to close Fade rifts. The Venatori revealed their full strength, and allowed the Inquisition no victories. Cassius did not lead them, someone else did. We didn't get a name." It hadn't even occurred to them to care about most of these details that suddenly appeared important. None of it would have mattered if they couldn't get back at all.

His eyes shifted to Marceline, taking notes. "You escaped from the ambush, but were assassinated some time later, along with a great many others from Orlais. The Elder One apparently established a puppet, dethroning the most powerful nation in Thedas without being revealed." He looked to the spymaster next. "Many others were killed or captured in an attempt to rescue Estella from the Venatori. You were among them, Ser Rilien. You... were shot down trying to free Estella from... her pyre." His eyes could no longer remain on them, and fell to the ground again.

"The Inquisition still existed, when we arrived from the spell, but it was little more than a desperate resistance led by Commander Leon. The Breach had split across the sky. There... wasn't much of a world left to save."

Lady Marceline's quill quit its scratching for a moment as she looked up to Romulus. A coy smile then spread across her lips as she shook her head. "Assassinated, you say? I can not say I am terribly surprised. It is suitably... Orlesian, wouldn't you say, Ser Rilien?" She asked, glancing at Rilien.

"Fortunately, we still have you and Lady Estella, and with the mages, we have grown in strength as well," she said, returning to the notes she had been writing. "I shall send letters to prominent Orlesian nobility to warn them of such a possibility, and keep an ear open for any opportunistic occasion for assassins to strike." She then frowned again as she continued to stare at the notes laid out in front of her. "Did you discover which nobles were assassinated in particular? she asked.

"Those of greatest importance to stability," Romulus declared, somewhat simply. They were among the few names of dead people in the future that he had no connection with, but he remembered the titles. "The Lord-General, the Crown Prince, and the Empress herself." He swallowed. "I heard this from Khari, after we freed her. She'd been captured in the attempt to rescue Estella."

Leonhardt folded his hands together underneath his chin, his elbows propped on the armrests of his chair. He regarded Romulus less keenly than the other two did; it was clear they were thinking tactics in this very moment, but it would seem that, beyond the initial summons, he was not especially inclined that way himself. He looked vaguely troubled by what he was hearing, but had thus far been silent, apparently content to let the others do the questioning. Now, though, he did speak up.

“You met some of us, then, in this future. How was it that you were able to return? As I’ve heard it told, barely a minute passed as those in the throne room perceived it.”

How long had it been? An hour, perhaps two? Maybe less, Romulus supposed. Every moment in that hell had been agonizingly drawn out. Marceline seemed to find it amusing, though he could hardly read a woman like her, that she'd been murdered. She and the Tranquil were thinking tactically of this, or coldly, as it felt to Romulus. Leon was the one that Romulus at least felt slightly able to relate to. It was real, what had happened, as difficult as it was to imagine. In fact, what they were experiencing now was probably less real than the things he'd missed... but Romulus had no desire to think on any of that.

"We recovered Vesryn, Khari, Zahra, and Asala from the dungeons of the castle. The Venatori were using it as a base. The others were... tortured. I will not describe the details. They aren't important." Perhaps Vesryn had some secret he was hiding from the group, but Romulus would not be the one to force it out of him. If there was anything he'd demonstrated in that future, it was that he was willing to give his life for their cause. Cyrus could pry answers out of him later if he so chose to.

"Together we reached the throne room, and Cyrus killed Cassius there. He then prepared the spell that would transport us back. It was never certain if we would be able to return. The Elder One arrived with some kind of creature, though we never laid eyes on the threat. Venatori advanced ahead, and since the others could not be allowed to return with us, they held them off to give Cyrus enough time. I watched all of them die." He'd seen, and done, more than his share of terrible things, and many of them refused to leave him, but somehow he suspected visiting that future only briefly would outlast them all.

“I’m sorry,” Leon said quietly, though it didn’t seem to be as much an apology as an expression of honest sympathy. He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure the details of the magic involved will go over my head, but I’ll ask Cyrus about it at a later date anyway, to see if it’s anything we still need to be worried about. For now
” He paused, apparently searching for the words he wanted, pursing his lips and shaking his head faintly.

“For now I also wanted to ask something else. I admit I don’t really have a grasp of the details, but
 Lady Chryseis is still present, and as I understand it, she was of help in
 what happened. We have no cause or grounds to interfere with her if she wishes to leave and return to the Imperium. But from what you have said, it appears painfully obvious to me that the Inquisition needs its Heralds—"

"Both Heralds," Lady Marceline clarified.

“—and that the world needs the Inquisition. What do you want to do from here, Romulus? I want you to know that you have our support, should you be inclined to make use of it for any reason.”

Romulus was silent for a long period after that, threading his fingers together in front of him and placing his chin upon his knuckles. In the end, the immediate course of his life seemed obvious, and when he spoke, it was for once with confidence. "I want to close the Breach. Whatever that takes. I believe, after what we went through, my domina understands the importance of that as well. I believe she will keep our arrangement as is." Despite everything that had happened, nothing had really changed. Chryseis had even admitted she'd come to Redcliffe for her father, to protect the world from him, and perhaps to try to protect him from himself.

"After the Breach is closed... I still intend to do as she commands. If that means returning to Minrathous, and disappearing, so be it. I won't ask you to understand. If that puts the Inquisition at risk... then I'm sorry." His relationship with Chryseis was not something that was at all easy to comprehend. Despite the things he'd done for her, and as a result the things he'd done to himself, he did not, and could not resent her for any of it. For he knew that since her husband had been killed, no other person understood her quite the way he did.

Leon smiled a little wider. “I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter, if it’s what you want. So long as we close the Breach, I’ll not complain.” He glanced to the other two briefly. “Unless Rilien or Lady Marceline has a further question, I believe we can conclude here. Please, enjoy some well-earned rest.” Rilien shook his head in the negative.

"None," Marceline agreed.

"Thank you," Romulus said, rising from the chair. After nodding briefly, he turned and exited the tent, forcing himself to think only of a large meal, and a long sleep to follow.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The Inquisition’s leadership and much of the main body had departed in advance of the mages themselves, who’d doubtless take longer to make it all the way back to Haven, but a small rear guard had been left behind to guide and protect them on their way up into the mountains. Khari was not part of that team, which was probably for the best because it sounded tedious and annoying. She didn’t have anything against mages, but the majority of this lot had been in Circles most of their lives, and watching them bumble around in the real world was kind of like watching a baby halla try to gain its footing, only much less cute. Not something she wanted to be dealing with all the way back to the base camp, anyway.

Most everyone was still getting settled in or else off doing something they hadn’t bothered to inform her about, and so with the exception of the usual morning training with Estella in the wee hours, Khari had been alone for most of the day. For someone so exuberant in the company of others, she took solitude quite well, she thought—probably because she was used to it. But it was one thing to be alone and have something to do; it was another thing entirely to be alone and bored, which was the unfortunate condition she presently found herself in.

At the moment, she just sat on a retaining wall on the south side of Haven, kicking her feet idly and watching people go by. She’d volunteered to help move things, but most of that was basically done, and to be honest, she wasn’t great for the really heavy stuff anyhow. It was embarrassing, actually, but thankfully no one had said anything about it. Probably they hadn’t even really noticed; it wasn’t like she was particularly noteworthy unless she was expending conscious effort to be. She still wasn’t sure if that bothered her or not.

All such abstract musings were immediately chased from her thoughts when she saw the commander go by, head bowed over some documents or a book or something—she couldn’t say for sure from this distance. Even this far away, his silhouette was unmistakable as belonging to anyone else, both for the size and the carriage. Now there was someone who never had to worry about being invisible, for better or worse. Unfortunately, he was heading right for a staircase, and she wasn’t entirely sure he knew it. Raising a hand to her mouth, Khari curved it around the side to amplify her voice and shouted over the intervening distance. “Oi, Leon! Watch your step!”

His head snapped up as soon as she called his name, and fortunately, he also stopped walking forward. He seemed confused for a moment, looking around as though seeking for the source of the voice, but then he saw the stairs, and turned his head in her direction. He gave a wave and what might have been a smile, lowering his hand slowly and pausing for a moment before he diverted his course from its previous track and headed in her direction.

Leon was currently sans any of his armor, his hands just layered in those leather gloves, the rest of him clothed in plain brown robes, like a monk might wear, including the hood in the back that he wasn’t using. For all the utter unremarkability of his wardrobe, however, he still definitely stood out, cutting an imposing figure as he drew closer. It was an impression somewhat tempered by the slightly-sheepish look on his face, though, and while it could have just been the cold, he also looked a bit flush, as if from embarrassment.

“I really must thank you for your timely intervention, Miss Khari. I am afraid I’d have rather embarrassed myself if I’d managed to break my nose falling up the stairs.” He shifted the book he was carrying under one arm, marking his place with what looked like a scrap of fabric or something, and rubbed at the back of his neck with his now-free left hand.

“What did I tell you about that ‘Miss Khari’ business?” She groused the words, but it was clear enough from her expression that her irritation was only jesting. She thought it was pretty absurd for anyone to call her miss—that was the kind of title you gave to young ladies of genteel demeanor, and Khari didn’t qualify. Asala, sure, and probably Estella, too, if there was some reason not to call her ‘Lady Herald’ or whatever, but not her.

She leaned back further on her hands, which was necessary so she could actually meet his eyes, even at the polite distance he was standing. He really was damn tall—well, and she was short, but that part wasn’t anything extraordinary. She wondered how hard he’d had to work to get a musculature like that one. It was beyond the capability of most people of course, probably even beyond most tall men, but that didn’t mean he’d cultivated it by natural gifts alone. She wondered if he had any pointers for putting on mass, and if they’d even apply to her twiggy elf person.

Well, okay, ‘twiggy’ wasn’t true. Khari personally thought she had okayish leg mass and a killer set of abdominals, but then again, it was all relative. She pursed her lips and crossed one leg over the other, raising a hand to shade her eyes. He was standing with his back to the sun, and it was damn bright out. “How much do you reckon you can dead-lift, Leon? Because those are really fantastic arms you’ve got. Actually, your whole body is pretty incredible. Most people can’t get good proportions like that.” A large chunk of the bigger warrior-types she’d ever met wound up looking slightly unbalanced to her, but his ratios were really spot-on.

Leon’s face had done this weird contorting thing through most of her query and explanation, and at one point, he’d actually dropped the book, which he now bent over to retrieve, clearing his throat. “Ah
 well, I can’t say exactly. Last time I checked, I deadlifted, um
 thirty-five stone? That was several years ago now, though—I don’t often take occasion to actually measure.” Dusting a bit of snow off the book’s cover, he tucked it more securely under his arm and smiled mildly. “I’ve been training a very long time, though, Khari, and I need that strength a great deal more than anyone else would, considering my
 tendencies.”

She was technically aware of the things he’d said after ‘thirty-five stone,’ but to say that she’d paid attention to them was perhaps a bit of an overstatement. Mostly she’d just stared right at him with obvious admiration. “Fight me, please.” Despite the fact that it was a challenge, it was delivered in a near-reverential tone. And why the hell not? His so-called 'tendencies' were to take down people fighting with weapons with his fucking bare hands: she thought a little awe was perfectly justified. More importantly even than the awe, though, was the fact that she wanted to test herself against that kind of mettle and see what happened.

Khari held no illusions whatsoever that she’d stand a chance. But it would be damn fun to try her luck anyway. “I mean, come on. It’ll be easy for you. Probably won’t even take that much time. But it’s not the office, and it’s not paperwork, and it might even be a little bit of a workout.”

Leon sighed slightly through his nose, taking a few steps forward and to the side, turning around so that he, also, could sit. Needless to say, there was no space for his legs to dangle off the ground—he actually propped his heels on the ground a ways in front of the wall. He turned his head to look down at her, though distinctly not in the uppity kind of way. “May I ask why you’re so enthused by the prospect of sparring with me?” he inquired, his tone kind. It would seem to be an honest question, so to speak.

For all the simplicity of it, though, Khari wondered if it weren’t some kind of trick. What kind of reason did she need? “Uh
 because it would be fun? And help me improve? Isn’t that kind of the point of training?”

Leon tilted his head to the side, pushing a strand of fair hair behind one of his ears. “Setting the amusement aside for a moment
 is this the way you trained in the past? Simply fighting anyone you could? Or were there other elements to it?” His tone never lost the patience and deliberateness that seemed to characterize a great many of the things he said and did.

Khari frowned a bit, then shrugged. Was there supposed to be something more to it than that? “I mean
 sure, I run and do lifting and stuff, but
 mostly when Ser Durand trained me, it was just hitting me with a practice sword until I got what he was trying to teach through my thick skull, yeah.” She chuckled a bit. She hadn’t been the easiest student, she was sure, but she’d picked it up with practice and work, just like everyone else. She learned something from every spar, even if it was just a new place she could be bruised.

For some reason, Leon’s expression changed then; his brows knit together, and he frowned slightly, compressing his lips into a thin line. It was clear something she’d said had struck him poorly, though what exactly the problem was, he didn’t say. Reaching up, he scratched at one side of his jaw, then shook his head. “I fear you would gain little from sparring with me, Khari. The way I fight, it’s not
” He exhaled heavily through his nose and grimaced. “You would obtain much more of use from what you do with Estella.” That seemed to be the answer he’d settled on, because he said nothing further on the subject, and from the way he ended, it was a fair guess that the topic was closed, at least for the moment.

He made no move to leave, however, and indeed a few moments later, he shifted the topic somewhat. “This chevalier that trained you—you said his name was Durand?”

She was definitely disappointed that he seemed unwilling to even consider it, but she suspected that something about her approach had gone awry, and so she left it be for the moment. Though she could be as tenacious as a hound when the mood took her, she liked to think she had a fairly good read on people, and she knew to let this go right now. At the question about her teacher, she let herself grin brightly. “Ser Jean-Robert Durand, of the Collines Vertes region of the Heartlands. Pretty sure it doesn’t get much more Orlesian than that, does it?” She shook her head, clear amusement showing through.

“He’s a mean old bastard, but he’s he only person I know crazy enough to teach a little stick-figure elf girl how to fight like a knight. Wouldn’t have made it half this far without him. Without him believing in me, you know? He said I had something special, something that none of those fancy nobles who come out of the Academie have.” She cut a glance at him from the corner of her eyes, humor glinting in them.

“Utter shamelessness?” Leon’s guess was dry, but his own expression conveyed some amusement as well.

She barked a laugh, deep from her belly, wrapping her arms around herself and for a moment rocking precariously close to falling off the retaining wall, not that it was that far down. Righting herself, she still wore a toothy smile, and nodded vigorously. “You can count on that. Though honestly, some of those nobles are pretty shameless, too. No, he said I want it more than anyone who just gets to have it for free because of who their family is.” Her expression sobered a little, and she tilted her head to the side. “And I do, you know? I want it so damn bad it hurts sometimes.”

Leon nodded a bit. “That, Khari, is a more admirable thing than any amount of skill. Or, indeed, any amount of muscle.” He arched his brows, calling back to the beginning of the conversation, and half-smiled. “It will carry you much further, as well, through things that people with skill and build alone would not be able to conquer. You need them all, to some extent, of course, but that desire, that passion—that will serve you, when the odds are slim and the time comes to do or die.” He said it not like a platitude, but like he had a real sense of what it was like to be in such a situation.

She was hardly accustomed to being praised much, and she found herself feeling a slightly awkward about it suddenly, coughing a bit. It was just that, coming from someone who was clearly so accomplished, the words really seemed to mean something. It sounded almost like he actually respected her, which was pretty novel to her, really. “Thanks, Leon.”

“You’re quite welcome.” He stood then, brushing his robes clean of any extra snow, and then turned to face her one last time. “And, just so I’m being clear: I didn’t mean I’d never spar you, only that now isn’t the time, I think. I’ll give you a little longer to train for it, shall I?” His eyes narrowed with his mirth, clearly readable.

She jerked her chin in a sharp upward motion. “You’ll regret it when I kick your ass.” That was definitely mostly bravado, but it was in good fun.

“I hope I do.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
Now the Inquisition had garnered the support of the free mages... or, rather, what Asala understood as their support. From what she had heard from Aurora and Donovan, Marceline had not given Fiona much of a choice in the matter. However, what she did know was that the Inquisition was a far better option than a Tevinter Magister and from what she had seen thus far the mages were being treated fairly. It also meant that she was far more busy as requisitions for mana potions to supply their new allies mounted. Fortunately, it was not only she and Adan brewing them now, as Donovan and Milly offered their assistance.

They had set up a cauldron outside of Adan's home, and the scent of elfroot and embrium wafted throughout the small circle of houses. Donovan stood over the cauldron, stirring it in a steady, rhythmic fashion, while Milly measured out the herbs on a nearby scale that were to be added. Asala herself stood some distance away with Leon's crimson cloak pulled tight over her shoulders, watching over the process with Adan.

Even with her proximity to the fire, the cold chill still seeped into her bones. Asala doubted she'd ever get used to the cold, and though the snow was novel at first, its appeal had worn off long ago.

It wasn’t long before the sound of approaching footfalls crunching over the snow met her ears, march pace, from the sounds of it. Someone cleared their throat behind her, and then Reed stepped into their lines of vision. He didn’t look uncomfortable with the temperature, but then, he was wearing a decent amount of armor and a thick cloak made of wool, so perhaps it was unsurprising. “Pardon me, miss Asala,” he ventured, though the politeness of the words sounded a little awkward on his tongue, as though he were accustomed to being much more direct. “But the Commander is wondering if you had a moment. He’s asking to see you, but he stresses that the invitation is not obligatory and you should feel free to decline if you’re otherwise occupied.”

Reed shifted his weight, draping a forearm casually over the hilt of his sword where it angled away from him. “To be more specific, I’m pretty sure he’s going to help with your supply problem.” He jerked his chin towards the cauldron.

"Uh..." Asala began, stealing a glance to Donovan. He nodded and spoke, "Go, we will be fine," he said as Milly dropped a handful of herbs into the cauldron. As soon as she did, the scent of elfroot around them intensified and the liquid within the cauldron turned a crystal color. "The potions are almost done anyway. Meraad can help us bottle them. Milly?" he asked. The tranquil nodded serenely and turned to go find him.

"He should be with the other mages, practicing," Asala called after her. He truly could never sit still, she thought as a smile crossed her lips. Soon, though she remembered Reed's invitation. "Oh! Uh. Yes, let's go," she said nodding, and letting him take the lead.

Reed was evidently quite patient, because he didn’t seem to mind the delay in the slightest, merely nodding when she indicated that she was ready to leave and leading the way up towards the Chantry. Rather than entering through the double-doors, however, he walked them around behind the building, through a small line of trees, and out the other side. There wasn’t a great deal of space back there before the ground began to fall away in a steep hill, but what was present had been rather painstakingly worked on, by the look of it.

In several places, long branches or fallen logs had been filed and staked into the ground over uniform intervals, and more even taller ones stood in a line at the center. Over this, a number of tarps had been draped, providing some degree of protection from the elements for a plot of about ten by ten feet. At present, Leon and Estella were holding opposite ends of another tarp, taking it down, by the looks of things. Presumably, this was for sun. The plot itself had several neat lines of plants, most of them either once cuttings of larger specimens or grown from seed, by the small size.

They noticed Asala and Reed approaching at about the same time, and both smiled. Leon gestured, and Estella brought her end of the tarp towards him, after which he took over the process of folding. Reed took his cue to leave with a short salute. “Hey, Asala,” the young mercenary greeted. “Glad you could make it.”

Leon nodded his agreement. “I hope we haven’t taken you away from anything too important just now.”

Asala shook her head in the negative as she took in her surroundings. It was a small garden, that much she was certain. She took a step forward and knelt down to inspect the closest plant to her. An elfroot, from the looks of it. She tilted her head to the side as she gently caressed a leaf. "When did you plant these?" She asked curiously. Leon always seemed so busy with Inquisition matters, she was surprised to find that he found the time to work a small plot of land into a garden.

He wore a little half-smile, something almost sheepish in it, and shrugged his massive shoulders. “I
 don’t always sleep as well as I could. I’ve found that working something simple is a decent substitute. Lets me rest my thoughts, at least.” He placed the folded tarp atop a stack of them, and went about the business of pulling the next one down himself.

“Khari and I passed him working on a run one morning,” Estella continued. “I asked him about it later, and he let me help a bit, too. I’m usually the one who takes down the tarps in the afternoon so they can get some sun while it’s warm. Well
 warmer, anyway.” She pulled a face that indicated how little she thought of the difference, but the plants were doing relatively well. Clearly, Leon had picked varieties that were not only medicinal, but hardy enough to survive Haven.

Adding another tarp to the stack, Leon brushed his hands off on one another. They were still gloved, but it was becoming evident that they were always thus. “With a little time, I suspect this will help ease the burden of your supply shortage. Not quite all the way, of course; we’d need a much larger garden for that. But it should be enough on its own to keep the irregulars in decent supply, at least, and they’re the ones I’m most concerned about, considering what they do.”

Asala frowned when Leon told her that he didn't sleep as well as he should. She said nothing on the matter of course, he probably wouldn't like to be chided like that, but she did mentally file it away for a later time. She knew a few recipes for a tea that would aid in sleep. Taking one last glance at the elfroot, she rose back to her feet and brushed the snow and dirt from her knees. "Yes, this should... do," she said, pausing a moment to do a quick mental calculation. The Inquisition was growing day by day, and so were their needs, but the small plot would be enough for the few of them that went into the most danger.

"You know..." Asala said, throwing a look out back the way they'd entered, "Aurora is quite impressive with plants as well. If you wish, I could ask her to help too." While the woman lacked an alchemist's touch, she possessed an impressive knowledge of plants, and had taught Asala how to care and tend to them. Then she looked back to Leon with a curious gleam in her eye. It was plain that a question was waiting to spill out of her mouth, but instead of waiting to be asked, she went ahead and spoke. "How is it that you know so much of plants? Oh! Uh, if you do not mind me asking."

It did seem like a strange hobby for the Commander of the Inquisition's army to have. Most soldiers she knew did not know what went into their potions.

A breath passed from Leon in what might have been a sigh. If so, it was a soft one, weary, perhaps, or nostalgic, even; it was impossible to say for sure. “Little grows where I am from,” he replied, his eyes somewhere far away. “The first time I visited Orlais, which was the first time I had left the Anderfels, I was astounded by the amount of green I could see. I had never known that color to be so vivid before—even the plants are paler in my homeland, and smaller as well.” A tiny smile played over his mouth for a moment, and he blinked, clearing the distance from his expression.

“I suppose that I, like a child, was simply transfixed by the novel. I made a point of learning as much of horticulture as I could. It is not often I remain in one place long enough to actually keep a garden, however small or inadequate by most standards, but I like to take the opportunity when I have it.” He motioned for the both of them to follow him towards the door.

“I was going to take tea—ah, in the command room, not my office. Perhaps the two of you would not mind joining me?”

Estella nodded easily. “I’d be happy to.” Both then turned their eyes towards Asala.

She simply nodded her agreement before following them inside. Donovan was also from the Anderfels, and she remembered what he told of her of the place. He had said much of what Leon had. Truthfully, Asala found it hard to imagine a place so devoid of color, having spent most of her life in the tropics of Par Vollen and Rivain. Her vistas were full of lush greens and bright blues.

"Back home..." she began rather absentmindedly, as if she was stuck in the memory, "We had forests with trees that had these big leaves," she said, holding both hands up to indicate the size, "That were greener than any emerald. And the water," she continued, letting a hand fall to her collar, "the water was the clearest crystal blue, that stretched out as far as the eye could see..."

She then glanced up to both Estella and Leon, and a blush slipped into her features. "Oh! I am sorry. I did not..." she trailed, a pang of something welling up in her belly. How long had it been since she'd last been home?

Leon shook his head as if to dismiss the apology, but it was Estella who spoke. “It’s impossible to forget where we come from, isn’t it?” She smiled, a subtle expression best classed as bittersweet. “Very few good things ever happened to me in Tevinter, but I still miss it sometimes. Especially in the winter. There are these big thunderstorms that roll in off the ocean to the north of Minrathous, and they go for days—but when you walk outside after they’re gone... everything looks clean again.” She lowered her eyes to the floor as they entered the command room, where a smaller table had been set aside from the one with the map on it.

There were two chairs already present, and Leon let them have those, pulling up a third to the odd side and lowering himself into it. One of the older women who worked in the kitchen slipped into the room with a pot of hot water and what seemed to be a canister of some kind, which Leon accepted with a smile and a word of thanks. She dipped a curtsy to the three of them and departed.

The canister came open with a soft pop, and the scent of something citrusy immediately wafted outwards from it. With some care, Leon tipped out a generous portion of the dry tea into what looked like a mesh hemisphere of some kind, also extracted from the canister. When that was done, he produced the other half, enclosing the leaves in an effective straining mechanism, and lowered that into the pot.

“Homesickness strikes me at the strangest times,” he confessed freely, seeming rather unashamed of admitting the vulnerability. “Sometimes I’m simply walking along and see something that reminds me of one thing or another. Sometimes it just happens when I’m working, with no provocation at all.” He picked up one of the upside-down cups on the tea tray and deftly flipped it over, setting it on a saucer in front of Asala, and then did the same for Estella. “Citrus fruits were my mother’s one indulgence, so the smell of this tea reminds me of her. Sometimes, even that’s enough to do it.”

He deliberately waited a moment longer, then picked up the pot and poured each of them a cup of tea, setting the ceramic back down carefully.

Asala smiled and took the teacup in hand, though she didn't move to take a drink, instead just letting the warmth of the cup seep into her hands. She stared into the cup for a moment before she tilted her head as an errant thought struck her. "You know what I miss?" Asala asked, eyes remaining on the teacup. "The smell of fresh coffee beans," it seemed like every morning she woke up to the scent of Tammy brewing fresh coffee. She was quiet for a moment afterward, and took a sip of the tea once it was cool enough to drink.

Estella smiled slightly, and looked like she was about to speak, but she was interrupted by the sudden sound of shattering ceramic. The cause was obvious not long afterwards, when Leon muttered something softly under his breath. The sleeve of his robe and the glove on his right hand were both drenched in tea—and he still gripped several shards of the broken cup. It would appear that he’d crushed it in his hand somehow, and his left hand moved up to grip his right wrist, near where he seemed to be struggling to unfurl the fingers of his dominant hand.

“Are you all right?” Estella’s voice carried a note of alarm, and she immediately leaned forward to grab the small towel that had been brought in with the tray, using it to soak up the tea that had spilled onto the table and was even now dripping towards the floor. She looked as though she wanted to help, but was unsure how to do so.

Leon’s jaw clenched visibly. “I
 yes, sorry. It is a muscle spasm. I did not mean to cause alarm.” His own tones were quiet as usual, but there was an edge of strain to them, as though he were exerting considerable effort to remain as subdued in demeanor as he was. His grip on his arm shifted, and he set about forcing his fingers to straighten with the opposite hand, faint lines of strain creasing at the corners of his eyes.

Asala's eyes widened in surprise and a moment later she was out of her own seat and kneeling beside Leon. She had a gentle hand rested on his shoulder as she quietly watched him wrestle with his own hand. "How long have you had these muscle spasms?" she asked gently, but with an edge of concern. She continued to watch him too, inspecting the hand from a distance for any telltale streaks of crimson that would tell her if he'd cut himself with the glass or not.

Fortunately, his gloves seemed to have prevented that, and with a few more moments’ concentration, he was able to stretch out the muscles, holding them in place for several seconds before they seemed to ease of their own accord. He released a heavy breath, noticeably slumping the shoulder beneath her hand. “It’s been a while,” he replied vaguely, “but truly, they’re nothing to worry about. While the attendant clumsiness is a bit embarrassing, I must admit, the pain is quite tolerable.” He flexed his hand a few times as if to demonstrate that it was fine, and the last of the tension eased out of his frame.

“I suppose hand cramps are an occupational hazard when I spend so many hours writing.” It was clearly an attempt to lighten the mood with humor, and Estella sat back in her chair, still looking vaguely worried, but at least less so than she had been a moment before.

Asala still frowned, but said nothing on the matter. It was clear that she wasn't entirely convinced of his story, but she chose not to pursue it. Instead, she reached over to the table and plucked up a towel when she began to dab at the tea he had spilled on himself. "Try... not to write so much then," she said, "Surely you can find someone to aid you, yes?" She asked. He was the commander of the Inquisition, surely he could find someone to write letters for him.

After she'd gotten enough of the tea off of him, Asala gently took hold of his hand and looked up at him. "And if it happens again, please Leon. Come see me."

He smiled thinly, but it was easy enough to tell that he wasn’t keen on committing to that, for some reason. “Thank you, Miss Asala. Your kindness is appreciated. As is yours, Lady Estella.” He nodded to the Herald in turn, then carefully extricated his hand from Asala’s, inclining his head at her empty seat. “But please
 perhaps we can yet finish? I was quite enjoying our conversation.” It was perhaps the gentlest possible way of closing off a topic, but it was still unmistakable that he’d done just that: the incident would be discussed no further.

Asala continued to frown, but still said nothing. Instead she simply stood and returned to her seat, before turning to Estella. "You were... going to say something?" she prompted, though it was clear that her mind remained elsewhere.

She had always been terrible at hiding the emotions on her face. Worry being chief among them.

“Oh, yes. Right.” Estella nodded. “I was going to mention that my first teacher was very fond of coffee as well. He used to have these beans imported from Rivain
”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
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Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker's will is written.
—Canticle of Benedictions 4:10-11
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Leonhardt leaned back in his chair, setting his knife and fork down on the half-full plate that held his lunch. He was dining today with the Lady Marceline, and though he was expecting the conversation to be exclusively about business, and it mostly had been, it wasn’t quite as bad as he was anticipating, in terms of news. Both of them had made significant strides in terms of pulling their respective sides of the Inquisition together. The military now had low and mid-level officers, mostly those trained up to the point since they’d joined, with input from the Lions, MichaĂ«l, and Vesryn on who was likely to handle command well, and who was simply better suited following orders instead of giving them. There was a certain balance to be struck between that and a person’s combative abilities straightforwardly, but he thought between the lot of them, they’d done a fairly good job at it, and the system for bringing newcomers up to speed was much more efficient now than it had been in the beginning, which was fortunate since the volume of volunteers had drastically increased in parallel.

On the diplomatic side of things, they’d received a considerable boost in interest once it was clear that the free mages of the south of Thedas had thrown in with them, as well as a large number of the former rebel forces in the mage-templar war. It meant, in effect, that any mages who had not died or taken to the roads for pure banditry were now quartered with the Inquisition, and, though their numbers were small, they were quite formidable. Doubtless, that had spurred the nobility to take greater interest. Hopefully, it would actually result in some support, both ideological and material. They were short on almost every conceivable sort of supply, though not yet dangerously so. Reed had informed him it would only be a matter of time, though, especially if their forces continued to swell at this rate.

That left the spies, and whatever his reservations about working with someone he had absolutely no read on, Leon could not deny that Rilien was effective at his job. Almost worryingly so, considering what that job was. In any case, their scouts and agents were the most up-to-muster portion of the Inquisition at the moment, perhaps due in part to the fact that they’d been more or less established before the Inquisition itself even began.

“And how is your family finding Haven, Lady Marceline?” Business discussion had been ongoing for the better part of an hour; he shifted the topic largely out of a desire to put it aside for a while. Leon had always much preferred doing to speaking in such matters, even if the latter was necessary. “It’s
 quite different from Val Royeaux, obviously, and likely from your holdings as well.” He believed she had ancestral property near the water, on fertile ground, not at all like the snow-battered mountains.

Marceline dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief and likewise leaned back in her chair. She did not seem averse to the change of topic, in fact she seemed to welcome it. She ruminated on the question before she nodded. "It is, yes. We do not see much snow on the banks of Lake Celestine," she revealed. "Regardless, Michaël has settled in nicely now that he has something to occupy his time. He tends to grow bored if left to his own devices, and Pierre is usually the one to suffer because of it," She said with a jovial smile.

"Pierre..." she said, thinking about her son for a moment, "I believe snow was novel for him at first, but I believe it has since worn off," she said with a frown, before it quicky turned upward into another smile, "Though Larissa did reveal that she witnessed him and Asala sledding down one of the smaller foothills outside the village recently, so not all is lost," she said with a soft laugh.

She nodded and continued, "The lodgings are smaller than what we are used to, but we have settled in. Larissa, Michaël, and myself have seen to Pierre's studies so he is not missing his education, and my mother and father are running our business back on the West Banks. All is well from what I understand," she said easily. "How about yourself, Leonhardt? I hope Haven finds you well," she asked politely.

He smiled, the expression a tad wry. “As I’m sure you can guess, I’ve lodged in places both better and far, far worse. I expect I’ve seen much of Thedas by now, save the obvious outliers.” Tevinter and Par Vollen, that was. “It’s never places anymore. It’s people, usually, and events, on occasion. What we do is worth doing, and I daresay the rather odd little assortment of misfits we’ve assembled makes it enjoyable at times as well.” When he wasn’t bored near to tears by the drudgery of paperwork, he quite liked being here, serving a worthy cause with worthy and diverse others.

Their meal was interrupted by a knock, and as soon as Marceline had given permission for entry, Reed opened the door and stepped over the threshold. “Sorry to interrupt ser, milady. But
 there’s someone here to see you. And I couldn’t exactly tell her to wait.”

Leon’s brows rose, conveying his degree of surprise that his stalwart aide was deferring to status. Their guest’s importance was confirmed when a dark hand found Reed’s shoulder and steered him slightly to the side so that another person could step through. Marceline knew her as the woman who’d been accompanying Lord Seeker Lucius in Val Royeaux, the extremely tall one Leon had called by name. Leon knew her as his teacher, and once, his friend.

Indeed, he stood now, clear surprise etched over his face. “Ophelia?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded once, curtly. “I bring a message, from the templars to Inquisition command.” She produced what must have been the missive in question from somewhere under her cloak, and handed it over to him. Leon took hold of it, but he did not make any attempt to remove it from her hand.

“Ophelia, what is going on? You must—”

She shook her head emphatically. “Do not presume to instruct me, child. I brought this message to you personally. I suggest that you answer it in kind.” She held his eyes for a long moment, then turned from him, nodding once to Lady Marceline, and then taking her leave as abruptly as she’d entered. He was half-tempted to run after her, but if Ophelia had no intentions of telling him more than she had, no amount of persuasion would move her. She was solid and stubborn as granite that way.

Instead, he resumed his seat, looking a bit flabbergasted, and handed the message to Marceline wordlessly.

Marceline was likewise wordless for a time after Ophelia's departure, the message resting limply in her hand. "She is certainly a curt woman, yes? And quick to the point," she finally managed before turning her attention to the letter in her hands. "Regardless, it seems as if we have finally garnered the attention of the Templars." With that, she opened the message and read it, which did not seem to take long.

Marceline spent only a moment reading it before she looked back up to Leon. "I seem to be correct in my initial assessment of our messenger," she added, handing the message back to him. "The Templars are at Therinfal Redoubt. Come prepared," she said, reciting it from memory.

He wasn’t surprised by the brevity of the message, nor its vagueness. Ophelia had always liked making him figure things out for himself. She had guided him only when absolutely necessary, in all things. In retrospect, he knew that this had given him strength to do things he would not otherwise have been able to accomplish, because he had learned how to work with little to achieve much. It would seem to be a skill he’d be needing again now.

“This isn’t official. There’s no seal on it—not from the Lord Seeker, nor from Ophelia. I think this means we should not expect him to expect us. Which means if we want in the door at all, we’re going to need to bring people he can’t simply turn away. Can you find anyone like that who might support us?”

"Several, in fact," Marceline answered simply. She shifted in her chair and opened a drawer in her desk and back to shift through papers. As she was searching, she continued, "There are those in Orlais that see the rise of the Inquisition as an opportunity, and not, as the Chancellor would have them believe, a heretical rebellion. I believe that they think that would win status if they were to ally themselves with us, and we were to succeed."

Marceline paused for a moment and produced a number of papers and piled them to the side on her desk. "The Grand Game, Ser Leonhardt," she said with a coy smile, "I will save you from the majority of the details. I shall speak to Rilien and we will win or convince a number of influential houses to walk with us. I can assure you, the Lord Seeker will not be able to turn us away, lest he risk incurring the wrath of Orlais in the process." A rather devious look seemed to settle into her features, and for a moment, to even become predatory.

Leon knew a fair amount about the Game, actually—one did not become a high-ranking member of the Chantry without at least a bit of exposure. The Seekers were based out of Val Royeaux, after all. Still, he was perfectly happy not knowing or needing to care about the details of it, and so he simply nodded. “We’ll need to send one of the Heralds as well, I’m sure. Probably Estella.” She was the more diplomatically-inclined of the two, though considering Romulus’s disposition, that wasn’t saying much about her, really. Still, if what he’d seen in Val Royeaux was anything to go by, she had a certain earnest forthrightness that would do better than most, though he did worry about her personality being trampled over by people with more domineering disposition.

“If she goes, I suspect Cyrus will want to as well.” Not that he was against it. They couldn’t go with too many fighters, but the other Avenarius twin was easily capable of more destruction than several men, if that proved to be necessary. Ophelia had said to come prepared. He took that to mean prepared for anything. With that in mind, it would make the most sense to pick people who packed as much punch as possible, and limit their number so as not to draw attention to them as anything but an honor guard. Some level of discretion would also be best, which immediately excluded at least one person he could think of.

“And
 you, myself, and Vesryn. Any more is a risk, I think.” They had to leave one of the three heads of the organization behind, and Marceline would be better suited for the diplomatic side of things than Rilien would, whose reputation preceded him in a very particular way. “I’ll leave the negotiations to yourself and Estella as much as possible, but with my own connections to these matters, I may have to step on your toes a bit.”

"Completely understandable," Marceline accepted. She seemed to acknowledge his relationship to the Templars and Seekers, but otherwise made no other mention of it. She then steepled her fingers and leaned forward as she thought. Eventually, her eyes tilted toward Leon and she spoke, "About Lady Estella," Marceline began, "What do you know of her experience with nobility?" she asked, before she continued, "On occasion, I have witnessed her handle a few such situations exceptionally. No doubt some of it is due to Lord Rilien's instruction, but otherwise..." she trailed off.

"The nobility we are to encounter will certainly wish to speak with the Herald of Andraste, and I do not wish to simply throw her into a den of lions unprepared..." She said, before closing her eyes and subtly shaking her head, "If you will pardon the expression."

Leon huffed slightly, amused by the turn of phrase, but then gave the question some consideration. “I understand that the Avenarius family is noble in Tevinter, or were, I’m not sure. But I don’t know to what extent either of them were raised with it. I gather she’s attended court at least a few times, either with the Crown Prince or as part of her work with the other kind of Lions. I don’t know any of the details, however. You may wish to inquire of her personally, and address any glaring issues before we expect her to negotiate with the Lord Seeker. He’s
 an aggressive man. He was even before all of this.” That said, recent events had likely only made matters worse in that respect as well as many others.

"I remember," Marceline said, obviously referring to their run-in with the man in Val Royeaux. She then straightened in her chair and crossed her arms, nodding. "And I intend to," she said on the matter of Estella. With a subtle tilt of her head and a softening of the lip, the predatory appearance she had moments ago bled away and she appeared to soften when she thought about the girl. "I am positive she will be fine, she is a much stronger woman than she seems," Marceline said before shaking her head.

"We should get to work then, yes?" she said as she stood from her desk. "We should have these lunches more often Ser Leonhardt. I enjoyed it," she said with a genuine smile.

Almost to his surprise, Leon found himself smiling back, and nodding as he stood. “As did I, Lady Marceline.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The approach to Therinfal Redoubt was a rainy one, and a bit of a slog uphill, once they’d left the horses and the majority of the travel supplies they’d taken down at the bottom. If all went to plan, they’d be housed within the castle itself for the duration of the negotiations, and no doubt the nobility here were expecting that, considering how poorly they’d bothered to provision themselves despite what Leon would consider an overabundance of luggage. Still, the Inquisition’s one cart contained a number of tents, just in case. He wasn’t exactly expecting this to go to plan, after all—in fact, Leon was rather unsure what he was expecting.

Perhaps that was for the best. He’d found that most often a healthy dose of wariness served him well.

Presently, he was just cresting the hill up onto the approach to the fortress, alongside Estella, Lady Marceline, Larissa, Cyrus, and Vesryn. The deliberately-small number of other Inquisition personnel that he’d asked to accompany them had been purposefully left with the supplies; in keeping with his instinct to go with few, but mighty compatriots. The rain was undoubtedly a nuisance, though the hood of his cloak—the black one emblazoned with the emblem of the Seekers of Truth—kept most of it out of his way.

It wasn’t long after they’d set themselves on the road to approach that they were joined by a nobleman, dressed in the fashion that highborn Orlesian men favored lately, he believed. Leon had never really claimed to understand such things, nor their proclivity for hiding their faces, at that. “Ah, the Herald of Andraste!” His voice was elevated over the general volume of the procession, which gave him a sort of unfortunate bombastic aspect that he probably thought lent him some impression of authority. Leon simply wished he’d project instead of shouting.

“Lord Esmeral Abernache,” he introduced himself, the majority of his attention focused on Estella. A steward walked behind him, but said nothing. Abernache folded one hand behind his back at his waist, the other hovering around his sternum. “Honored to participate. It is not unlike the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales.”

Estella, who’d looked more comfortable than Leon had expected up until that point, paused perhaps a moment too long. She recovered, though, smiling thinly. “If you’ll permit the nuance, milord, I rather hope it will be kinder than that.”

Leon struggled to contain his amusement. Whether because someone had actually understood the obscure historical event to which he was referring or because the Herald had the gumption to gently disagree with him, or perhaps some combination of the two, Abernache looked just a little bit floored, and unsure exactly what to say, which likely didn’t happen to him often. “Ah
 yes well. Divinity puts you above such things, I suppose.” Clearing his throat, he returned to the matter at hand.

“The Lord Seeker is willing to hear our petition about closing the Breach. A credit to our alliance with the Inquisition. Care to mark the moment? Ten Orlesian houses walk with you.”

Estella shifted, moving her hands to secure her hood more firmly over her head. “The Inquisition is grateful, Lord Abernache. It is our hope that the templars come to see what the rest of us have already: that the Breach is a danger too great for dwelling on our differences.” Leon nodded, glancing towards the front gate. Honestly, the sooner they got there and took care of this, the more content he’d be. Something sat ill with him—many things, really, but some of them he couldn’t quite identify. He felt
 uneasy.

Lord Abernache seemed more or less oblivious. “Oh yes. Ghastly-looking thing. The Lord Seeker can’t think we’re ignoring it.” With that, the procession finally got moving, and though it was still entirely too slow and processional, at least it was movement. “Speaking of which,” Abernache continued, falling into step beside the Herald, “I don’t suppose you’d divulge what finally got their attention? Rumor will, if you won’t.”

Estella’s brows drew together, but it was Leon who replied. “I don’t take your meaning, Lord Abernache.” He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it much when he did.

“The Lord Seeker won’t meet with us until he greets the Inquisition in person. Quite a surprise after that spat in Val Royeaux.”

"The Inquisition only asks that the Lord Seeker lend his Templars to aid us in the closing the breach," Marceline answered. She wore her silverite mask with a hood drawn over her head to keep the rain away. Her mood had seemed to dip with the weather, and she could be found frowning more often than not. Even under the hood, there was evidence that her hair had been immaculately styled in anticipation of meeting with her countrymen.

She walked behind the Lord, Larissa keeping step beside her, her hands resting in her sleeves. When Marceline spoke the Lord tilted his head and regarded her before his expression broke into a warm smile. "Then it must have already been arranged by your ambassador," he said, turning back to Leon. "Let the diplomats work their magic, if you trust them," he said with wink in Lady Marceline's direction. She simply smiled in returned and inclined her head.

"Between you and I, the Chantry never took advantage of their templars. Wiser heads should steer them."

Leon wasn’t quite sure what he should make of that statement, and apparently Estella was still contemplating it as well, so for the moment, it went unanswered. Thankfully, they reached the bridge immediately in front of the iron gate in short order. Abernache leaned forward, peering to the other side of the structure, and clucked his tongue. “It appears they’ve sent someone to greet you.” As the group moved forward, he spoke—largely, Leon presumed, to everyone who wasn’t Marceline. “Present well. Everyone is a bit
 tense, for my liking.”

“The Lord Seeker seems to have changed his mind about us rather quickly,” Estella pointed out, quietly enough that Abernache, walking ahead of them, was unlikely to hear. “I wasn’t under the impression he was known for that.”

“He isn’t,” Leon replied firmly. There was a great deal to be distrusted about all of this, but he had little in the way of concrete evidence to point to in order to back up his suspicions. “Please be careful, all of you. It is no paltry force that quarters here.”

The first iron gate was open to any who wished to proceed inside, allowing them to pass through what in time of war would serve as a gauntlet, that long, thin, empty space between the two outer gates, where the attackers would be showered upon by their enemies with far more than just light rain. Currently, only a few low-ranking templars observed from on high, the rest somewhere deeper in the old fortress. Those that watched looked down upon Therinfal's guests ominously from beneath their full-faced helmets.

At the second gate ahead was one of Abernache's serving men, his herald, currently standing beside a female templar, unhelmeted and looking disgruntled to still be standing beside such a man. Some in the group might potentially recognize her as one of the templars seen in Val Royeaux departing with the Lord Seeker. Her long, dark brown hair was elaborately tied up in braids, clearing away from her face, which was marred by several scars, the most noticeable ones across her lips and one of her eyebrows.

The herald stepped forward to greet his lord and the Inquisition's party. "I present Knight-Templar Ser SĂ©verine Lacan, first daughter of Lord CĂ©dric Lacan of Val Chevin." She seemed irritated by being introduced in so formal a manner, and took an aggressive step forward past the man, just as he was about to introduce his own lord to her.

"For all the good it's done me," she grumbled quietly, but soon stood at attention and offered the Herald of Andraste and her company a respectful, if brief, bow. "I'm glad you came, Inquisition, even if you did it in rather... irksome company. You received my message, then?" The question sought the eyes of Leon.

Leon blinked. He certainly recognized her, but he wasn’t sure exactly to what she referred. “I cannot say we did, Ser SĂ©verine. If you attempted to send a message to the Inquisition, it never reached us.” Although
 given just who had reached them, he had a fair guess as to what had happened to it in transit, and his expression set into something even grimmer. “Would you perhaps be so kind as to reiterate its contents now that we’re here anyway?”

"Wait..." SĂ©verine said, struggling with Leon's words. "What? How are you here, then? Who told you where the Lord Seeker had taken us?"

“High Seeker Ophelia did, though with what motive, I cannot discern.” It was possible she was here now, but then, it was also possible that if she were, no one would know. He had no idea what his teacher was driving at with all of this.

"Ophelia? Shit." The curse was hissed quietly, and SĂ©verine exhaled, shaking her head. "Well, you're here now." Abernache, apparently feeling left out of the conversation, crossed his arms and inspecting the Knight-Captain.

"Lacan, was it? Minor holdings, your father has. And you are the second child, are you not?" He scoffed, turning up the bronze, pointy nose of his mask. SĂ©verine narrowed her eyes as though looking at an annoying child who knew not when to close his mouth. Ignoring the masked man, she looked back between Leon, Estella, and Lady Marceline.

"There's something very wrong here. The Lord Seeker has not been himself for some time. He's become obsessed with his status. His ego only grows, even as the Breach lingers. That, and..." she glanced up, to see if anyone was still watching. None were, the few recruits from before having filed off. "There's something going on with the other officers. They've been taking this new kind of lyrium. Even some of the lower ranks have been allowed to ingest it. I fear for the Order's future."

“This lyrium.” The new voice belonged to Cyrus, who continued after a moment. He looked vaguely perturbed by something, and shot a glance further inwards past where they stood before moving his eyes back to the others, SĂ©verine specifically. “It wouldn’t happen to be red, would it?” It was a pertinent question, and if the answer was affirmative, would certainly provide a link between the templars and the events at the Conclave, however tenuous. There had been quite a bit of red lyrium there, too.

"It is, yes. I haven't seen it's like since... well, since Kirkwall." The city's name left her tongue as though the memory tasted somewhat foul.

Leon grimaced; this was shaping up to be worse than he’d thought, which was rather saying something. “The Lord Seeker now says he wishes to meet the Herald personally,” he said, shaking his head. “I suspect we will discover what all of this means in short order.” He was a breath from inviting SĂ©verine to lead the way inside when Abernache spoke up again.

“Don’t keep your betters waiting, Lacan. There’s important work for those born to it.” Leon felt keenly the temptation to remind him just who was actually in charge here, but took a deep breath and refrained.

“We’re grateful for the warning,” he added, keeping his tone mild.

"Think nothing of it. The other officers already hate my guts. But I won't let the templars fall to ruin quietly." She gestured towards the inner gate. "Come. I'll lead you in."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
Red lyrium. It did not bode well for whatever was happening among the Templars. Marceline had read the reports from Kirkwall, of Meredith's madness and the presence of a red lyrium idol. Not only that, but the reports from the site of the Conclave likewise spoke of veins of it rising from the ground. Whatever it was, it seemed as if it followed disaster, and the news that it was now among the Templars sat ill with her. Marceline did not let it reveal on her face however, the only hint of her wariness a glance at Larissa. There was an imperceptible nod, and Larissa's eyes tilted upward behind her avian mask to the tops of the fort's walls, keeping an eye out for any unseen danger.

"Lady Herald," Marceline said, signalling that Estella be the first to follow behind SĂ©verine. She nodded, breaking from the roughly even line they’d had before and stepping into place behind their guide.

The templar woman led them inside, the cramped and purposefully uncomfortable space of the path between gates opening up into a much wider courtyard. The rocky paths paved between the structures in the fortress were mostly overgrown by grass and weeds, though a clear training area had been carved out, with practice dummies for archers along the base of the walls, and sparring rings set aside. Currently they saw only light use, as most of the Order were clearly on edge, besieged as they were by an army of frills and fancy masks. As they drew further in, a small group of templar recruits and scribes began to gather, to observe the scene.

"The Lord Seeker has a request, I'm afraid, before you are to meet him," SĂ©verine said, her tone already apologetic. She led the group to a row of three wooden cranks set into the ground, each one placed before large red flags affixed to the inner face of the stone wall. The left flag depicted a sunburst, symbol of the Maker, the center flag a lion, symbol of the people, and the right flag a flaming sword, symbol of the templars. "He would like for the Herald of Andraste to complete the Rite of the Standards. My Lady Herald is to raise the flags, each to a different level, so that the Lord Seeker might know in which order you honor them."

Estella looked immediately uncomfortable, eyeing the standards with apprehension. Her posture seemed to deflate slightly, which was saying something considering how modest it was to begin with. “I’m supposed to
 rank them? Will he refuse to see us if the answer is wrong?” Her brows knit over her eyes, her mouth turning down into a pronounced frown.

SĂ©verine shook her head immediately. "There's no wrong answer here. Obviously all three of these are of great importance. Among the templars our choices vary greatly. It simply offers insight into the mind, shows a bit of who you are. Supposedly." By her tone, SĂ©verine did not take the greatest of stock in this Rite. Still, she did not seem disrespectful of it, simply not reverent.

"Do not worry, Lady Herald," Marceline began firmly. "Simply answer as you would ordinarily. The Lord Seeker would dare not turn us away," she said. Though she personally found the rite to be silly, they should not risk offending the Lord Seeker and his Templars by refusing to complete it.

Estella’s lips thinned, but she nodded, returning her attention to the standards themselves. Watching her gather herself was a visual process composed of obvious stages. With a breath inward, she straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back. When she moved forwards, it was almost assured in appearance, though someone with eyes as practiced as Marcy’s knew false bravado when they saw it, and it was clear that the young woman drew it around herself like her cloak, even as she reached up and pushed the hood of her physical one down.

She paused in front of the cranks, apparently contemplative for all of a moment before she shook her head, dismissing whatever internal suggestion she must have posited to herself. Unerringly, she reached for the center crank, lofting the standard of the people to the highest position. It would seem that no two of them were allowed to remain on the same level, because the one belonging to the Maker slid to the bottom, while the flaming sword of the templars remained in the middle. After a moment, Estella turned back around.

“That’s it. That’s the order I choose.” Her voice was soft, but a thread of firmness kept it from qualifying as meek by any stretch.

SĂ©verine nodded in return, not displaying any obvious judgement of the Herald's decision. "It's tradition for any participant in the Rite to explain their choice to the witnesses. It is, however, a choice and not a requirement."

Estella’s eyes dropped to the ground for a moment, but she forced them back up again. When she spoke, it was loud enough to be heard by those that were paying attention, though no louder than that. “I know only a little of honor,” she said, a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth, as though she remembered something fondly. “But what I do know is that it is service by those who can do what needs to be done, freely given to those who cannot. It is, I think, the Inquisition’s duty and its honor, then, to act in service, first and foremost of those without our resources and our strength.”

The fleeting smile faded. “And the templars are people, too. Fewer, and perhaps more capable of defending themselves, but people nevertheless. If what we are meant to do is protect and serve those who must be protected, well
 I hardly think the Maker should need our help, and whether we honor him or not is nothing I can decide.” The explanation, brief as it was, seemed to exhaust her present reserves of courage, because she ducked her head and returned to the group of the others immediately afterwards.

"The honesty's all well and good," Abernache put forth, his arms crossed, "but no thought given to impressing the Lord Seeker? Why bother at all? We're here to bring these templars to heel, are we not?" SĂ©verine's glare at the man could've cut glass, but thankfully his mask cut off his peripherals enough for him not to notice. Her irritated sigh, however, was quite audible.

"I thank the Maker the Inquisition has a bit more heart than its noble support. I trust the Herald's intent here is more than just rounding up swords for an army." Abernache turned, stepping forward to be face to face with the woman.

"My intent is to deal with people who matter. You armored louts are wasting the Inquisition's time, and mine. Unacceptable!"

SĂ©verine took a carefully controlled breath, obviously reminding herself not to bludgeon the man. "You need not worry about impressing the Lord Seeker, regardless." She stepped around Abernache, carefully, as though she did not desire to accidentally make contact with him, and drew closer to Estella and the others of her party. Though her focus was centered on the Herald alone.

"You should know that the Lord Seeker seems only to want to meet you. Not your Inquisition. You. By name. I know not why, but he's been utterly fixated on you since your lovely horde of nobles arrived."

A soft laugh echoed from under Vesryn's helm, from where he stood at Estella's side like a sentinel, shield and spear in hand. The elf had a proud visage when fully armed and armored, and indeed, it wasn't actually clear at all that he was an elf at the moment. "Seems you've got an admirer." There was an undertone of sarcasm to the words, evidence that he didn't find the development all that amusing, or pleasing to hear.

Estella scoffed softly at that, half-amused, before returning her attention to SĂ©verine, whereupon she shifted awkwardly where she stood, shaking her head. “That
 can’t be right. Maybe he’s just surprised we have so much support? I mean, I’m kind of
” she gestured vaguely to herself, then pulled her hood back up over her hair.

“The face of our present effort, yes.” Leon at least seemed to have little trouble deciphering what she meant, and she looked quite grateful for that, nodding. “As skilled as he’s always been at getting to the heart of things, the Lord Seeker would not have failed to notice as much.” He appeared to be thinking quite hard about something, but whatever was going on in his head, he did not share for the moment.

Cyrus had taken up a scowl at some point during this part of the conversation, and wore it openly beneath his own hood. It wasn’t terribly difficult to guess what part of this made him look so, but he kept his thoughts to himself as well, eyeing the path forward and inner parts of the castle with wary disdain. His hands disappeared beneath the folds of his cloak, removing another set of tells as to his intentions.

"Just thought I'd give you fair warning," SĂ©verine said, nodding. "Come on, we've delayed long enough. I'll take you to him now."

Marceline said nothing and kept her own features guarded, though she did offer a smile to Abernache when they met eyes for a moment. He may have been brusque in his approach, but the message he sent was loud and clear. The Inquisition and its allies would not be turned away. However, Marceline still made a mental note to speak with him after all is said and done. She glanced behind her to Larissa who pulled her eyes down from the rampart to give a curt shake of her head.

Soon, SĂ©verine led the small procession into a room with a table, no doubt where the negotiations were to take place. Lady Marceline chose to occupy a spot beside the Lord Abernache in order to better guide his furor. She took the moment to pull the hood away from her head and brush the few drops of rain that remained from her hair.

Estella also pulled her hood back down, though her hair was in nowhere near the neat state Marcy’s was. Clearly, the static and the weather had combined to thwart any attempts at looking especially put-together on her part, because several strands had slipped the grip of her plait, and stuck out in places, especially around her ears. She hesitated before stepping forward so as to be at a level with Lord Abernache and Marceline, appearing reluctant to stand too far in front of the other four and maintaining a distinct five feet from the nobleman. “I’m
 not actually going to have to meet with the Lord Seeker by myself, am I?” She grimaced. “I really doubt I’d be able to convince him of anything.” The question seemed to be directed at Marceline.

Marceline shook her head in the negative, "No, we will be with you during the negotiations," she answered. Though how much use they would be remained to be seen. From all that she had heard, the Lord Seeker seemed to be focused solely on the Herald which appeared strange, considering how easily he dismissed them in Val Royeaux. Perhaps their recent alliance with the mages changed his mind on the matter, and their newfound power managed to catch his eyes... Though that did not explain the focus on Estella.

"But you must remain strong, the Lord Seeker will notice if you flag," Marceline gently reminded. A man such as him could smell weakness, and he would not be afraid to press his advantage.

Estella nodded, her face resuming a relatively impassive expression. Before anyone could speak any further, the clank of armored boots followed by the sound of a door opening drew their attention to the left, where a man in armor more ornate than SĂ©verine's, including a prominently-winged helmet, had just entered the room, flanked by two other Templars. “You were expecting the Lord Seeker,” he said without preamble. “He sent me to die for you.” It was a strange turn of phrase, and Leon straightened perceptibly when it was uttered, his eyes narrowing.

"Knight Captain," Abernache said, attempting to approach the man. He only managed a step, however, before a gentle tug on his sleeve from Marceline bade him to keep his place. Like Leon, Marceline did not particularly enjoy how the situation was playing out, and she most definitely did not like the knight captain's body language. "Lord Esmeral Abernache. Honored," he continued with a bow, though at a much safer distance. "It is not unlike the second dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales." Marceline coughed, but said nothing.

"No doubt rank puts you above such things. A pity more people don't understand that," he said with a sharp glance at SĂ©verine. Apparently the Knight Captain's more ornate armor suggested to him that he was of a higher rank than SĂ©verine. Marceline made no move to correct him, and though her face was impassive as always, her hand rested on the hilt of her rapier.

The Knight-Captain chuckled, but the sound carried not even a faint hint of genuine mirth. “This is the grand alliance the Inquisition offers?” He turned his eyes from Lord Abernache, clearly uninterested in dealing with him, and swept them over the rest of those assembled. Even behind the helmet, it was easy to tell that his gaze landed heavily on Estella.

There was a slight tic in her jaw, but she looked right into the eyeslit of the helmet. “With respect, Knight-Captain, we understood that we were to be meeting the Lord Seeker.”

“Yes, let me also extend my hand to the Lord Seeker, Knight-Captain.” Though now held back from approach by Marceline, Abernache seemed otherwise oblivious to the tension permeating the room.

Outside of the room, a dull roar started up, one that sounded like the din of an armed clash of some sort. Estella’s eyes went wide, and Leon took a half-step forward before the Knight-Captain raised his voice to be heard over the commotion. “The Lord Seeker had a plan, but the Herald ruined it by arriving with purpose. It sowed too much dissent.” Cyrus stepped in front of his sister, and the telltale flicker of a barrier forming appeared in front of the hand he raised to chest-level.

“What’s going on out there?” Leon completed the motion he’d begun, moving to the side of the table. Perhaps it was only the fact that he drew no weapon that prevented any from being drawn on him.

“They were all supposed to be changed. Now we must purge the questioning knights!” It took no more than that, and Leon surged forward, knocking the Knight-Captain to the ground by slamming an elbow into the space between his helmet and his breastplate. An arrow clanged off his armor, and the archer who had fired it took up the invective.

“The Elder One is coming! No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!”

A low ranking templar attempted to run SĂ©verine through from behind, but she had her blade drawn and whirled about in time, blocking the sword aside and grabbing the young man's arm to twist. He shouted, at her mercy despite his flails. "Maker, you can't be serious," she said, looking under the recruit's hood. Red veins criss-crossed over his face, and his eyes were an even darker shade.

"The Elder One will--" His threat was cut off by SĂ©verine's sword slashing across his throat, and he collapsed to the ground. The Knight-Captain readied herself for the next that would attempt to purge her.

"No. The Elder One will not."

The gentle grip on Abernache's sleeve turned firm, and Marceline threw the Lord back and out of the way of an incoming arrow. "Larissa," Marceline called out as she freed her rapier from its sheath. "See to Lord Abernache," and wih that, the woman took a grip on the Lord and backed away from the rapidly ensuing melee.

Marceline for her part slipped in behind Vesryn, and more importantly, his shield. "May I borrow you for a moment?" she asked as she placed a hand on his shoulder and hunkered down behind him as she watched his flanks.

"As long as you need, my lady," the elf answered easily. A templar rebounded off of his shield, the blow met with perfect timing, and Vesryn's spear found the red-lyrium tainted woman's gut in the ensuing opening, dropping her to the ground in a heap.

"My thanks," Marceline said, her rapier slipping under the helmet of a templar who'd tried to approach them from the side.

Leon was surprisingly quick over ground, and had left the dropped Knight-Captain in favor of breaking an archer’s nose over his knee within seconds of the initial attack. The man howled, at least until the Seeker gripped his head in both hands and twisted, silencing him. He was midway through a lunge for the next when Estella called out over the noise. “Commander, behind you!” Apparently following up the warning with action, she drew her sword as she ran, clearing the table with a flying leap and bringing the saber down with both hands.

A ringing sound issued from contact with what had once been the Knight-Captain’s arm, though it was scarcely recognizable as such anymore. The outer half of each forearm was coated in red crystals, faintly glowing, and more jutted out from each elbow, like blades almost. More of it had grown in over parts of his neck, and his breastplate had cracked from the inside, half-useless now but hinting at more of the lyrium underneath. His eyes were a luminous, menacing red, and he backhanded Estella with speed not commonly found in ordinary men, and clearly more strength still, because she went from having rather solid footing to rolling on the ground half a dozen feet away, regaining her feet in a recovery maneuver.

She’d kept him busy long enough for Leon to readjust, however, and he grabbed for one of the Knight-Captain’s hands, twisting him around into what must have been some kind of joint-lock, placing himself behind the man and kicking out his knees from behind, taking him to the floor.

A cluster of the remaining templars to the right lurched under the force of a chain lightning spell, given no time to recover before Cyrus was suddenly right next to them, hacking into weak spots in their armor with a humming blue sword. His first hit nearly took the head right off one of them, but he didn’t bother hacking twice, adjusting his feet fluidly and shoving the blade into the next one’s armpit, the arterial blood making a faint hissing sound as it came in contact with the weapon. The third, recovered perhaps too quickly for the obvious impact of the spell, took a gout of fire to the face before she could prepare her smite, and fell with her compatriots.

“At least we don’t have to wonder when they’re going to try and kill us anymore.” His tone was exceedingly dry.

The sound of a rapid barrage of blows followed, though the table blocked sight of everything in that direction save Leon’s head and shoulders, which moved vigorously enough to suggest that he was the cause. A great deal of cracking followed, and then the Seeker drew back further, his gauntlet speckled in bits of red stone, and slammed a fist down one last time, producing a deeper crunch, before he pushed himself back into a stand. It seemed to take him a moment to regain his bearings, and he shook his head a few times, blinking rapidly before refocusing on the rest of the group. Given that the rest of the templars that had been in the room were dead or close enough, he started picking little shards of red lyrium out of his armor without looking at them.

“We need to find the Lord Seeker. With apologies, Lady Marceline, Lord Abernache, it seems that the diplomatic portion of this venture is over.”

Marceline took a glance at the carnage around around with a distasteful look in her eyes before she shook her head and turned toward her assistant. "Larissa, if you would be so kind as to escort the good Lord Abernache safely away from this place?" With a nod, Larissa took a gentle hold onto Abernache, who still seemed to be in a state of shock, and began to slowly guide him out.

"It does indeed seem that way Ser Leonhardt," Marceline said, her rapier lightly resting against her shoulder. "The Lord Seeker has much to answer for."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
It was hardly the first fight in which Estella had been of almost no use at all, but she was keenly reminded of how far she still had to go in moments like this. Frankly, she would have dwelled on it, had it not been for the much more pressing need to continue forward, to find the Lord Seeker and stop all of this, somehow. She hadn’t seen a person afflicted with red lyrium since Kirkwall, and even then, it had only been one. Meredith was fearsome enough, though Estella had not had to confront her directly. She still had nightmares about the events of that day, sometimes—so much death, and such desperate conflict, all in service of something she couldn’t begin to understand, a madness that this substance had brought on.

It made her feel faintly nauseated, though that was more than likely at least partially due to the lyrium itself. She suspected a better mage, like Cyrus, felt it even more keenly than she did. She’d be surprised if the others were oblivious to it, either. Leon may be able to brush it off, but she knew that they really shouldn’t be touching it, if what she’d heard was true.

Not desiring to linger here, she followed the Commander out of the room. They headed deeper into the barracks first, SĂ©verine giving directions whenever they came to a turn or door, since she knew the area by far better than any of the rest of them. The fighting didn’t seem to have made it this far out, and though they occasionally ran into a small pocket of the lyrium-infected templars, none of those groups were even as large as theirs, which meant short work, considering the prowess of the others.

After the first such bout, Estella could swear she heard something. It was perhaps no more than a whisper, but in something close to the Lord Seeker’s voice, as though he were standing right over her shoulder and speaking into her ear. “Come to me, Herald of Andraste.” She shuddered, reaching up with her free hand to touch the nape of her neck, and glanced over her shoulder, but of course all she saw was those of her allies who walked in the rear. Biting her lip, she faced forward again and kept going, reaching the outside—and another fight—with the rest of them.

She was just shaking some of the blood off her sword from her last opponent when the whisper sounded again. “You will be so much more than you are!” It was more emphatic this time, more sudden, and she jumped, dropping the blade in surprise.

“Can
 can anyone else hear that?”

Cyrus approached, stooping to retrieve her blade and handing it to her hilt-first. His concern was evident in his eyes, which had always been his tell, if nothing else was. “Hear what, Stellulam?”

"Whispers," Vesryn said, from Estella's side, where he'd situated himself for much of the fighting. "You mean the whispers, right?" He glanced between Estella and Cyrus rapidly.

"I haven't gone mad, I swear."

"We should keep moving," SĂ©verine urged from the front, where she kept watch. The rain continued with no sign of stopping, steadily washing the blood from the fighting into the softening earth.

It was almost a relief to know someone else had heard them. “I
 yes. I think
 with the Lord Seeker’s voice.” She pursed her lips, but started forward again. SĂ©verine was right—they had to keep going. People’s lives were on the line here, and whatever strange thing might be happening wasn’t worth stopping and trying to figure out.

“Show me what you are.” Estella locked her jaw and increased her pace, though it seemed unlikely she could simply outrun it, whatever it was. She had a feeling they’d know in time, regardless.

“DO NOT IGNORE ME!” This time, it thundered, loud enough for all to hear and then some, a strange multi-tonal cadence to what was clearly still based on the Lord Seeker’s diction. “I WOULD KNOW YOU!”

“So much for whispering.” Cyrus wore a look of open displeasure, his lip faintly curled. “But you’re right; it does sound like the Lord Seeker. One more problem we solve by finding him.” His features shifted, clearly from some internal musings, but he didn’t choose to let the rest of them in on what he was thinking, for the moment.

At SĂ©verine’s direction, they took a turn into what was apparently a guard building, because it contained stairs to the lower wall. There they came upon a few other templars, these ones clearly unaffected by red lyrium, striking down one who clearly was. They turned at the party’s approach, their postures easing when they recognized at least the Knight-Captain, and they both saluted her.

“Knight-Captain! The other officers—they’ve all gone mad.”

“We know,” Leon replied. “We need to reach the Lord Seeker. Any idea where he is?” All three shook their heads, leaving the party to continue in the direction of their best guess. Of course, the fact that the Lord Seeker continued to speak to them—or, well, her at least—was as good an indication as any that they were on the right track. Clearly, he wanted this confrontation just as much as they did.

The lower wall let them out onto a higher level of the castle, which was comparatively empty of occupants, though pitched battles had evidently been fought, with dozens of Templar corpses on the ground—both laced with red lyrium and without, though there were many more of the second. Estella tried not to hurry too much, aware of the need for a degree of caution, but her pace further increased until she was just short of breaking into a jog.

They reached a large staircase, one that led up to what must have been the main door to the redoubt's central building. She couldn't see anyone there; perhaps the man they were looking for had taken up residence within? “Come, Estella Avenarius. Show me what kind of woman you really are.” The voice echoed still, but not as loudly as before.

“All of this, for what?” she muttered, tightening her grip on her sword and mounting the stairs. The rain had grown much heavier, and though it did not yet approach what she’d experienced in the Mire, it was quite close, and very cold.

The whispers returned, this time unintelligible, echoing around the pillars that were lined along the top of the staircase, just before the main doors. Judging by the reactions of the others, all looking about, searching for the source, everyone could hear them. Eventually, a few words could be made out among the slithering noise. Herald. At last. Know you. At last. Learn. At last...

He appeared from behind one of the pillars and rushed at the group with inhuman speed. Lord Seeker Lucius never let his eyes leave Estella, even while Vesryn stood partially between them. He charged them from the right, hands outstretched with no weapons, only grasping fingers. Vesryn's shield hand reached around to grab Estella's shoulder and pull her behind him, but the Lord Seeker's speed was too quick.

He half charged through the elf, seizing Estella by the collar, at which point all three of them began to topple over backwards together. Before her back even hit the ground, Estella's vision filled with a bright light, quickly becoming all consuming, until only the Lord Seeker's piercing whisper could be heard.

"At last..."



She landed in a very different place than she had fallen, or so it seemed to her. Her back hit the ground with a hard thud, knocking the wind out of her, and as her eyes cleared, she could make out a ceiling above her head, a dome lofted high and arranged with gorgeous pieces of colored glass, which filtered the light from above in rich pigments, so that where it struck the dust motes floating through the air, it did so in scattered reds, blues, greens, and purples. There was no sound to be heard, and for a distended moment, she simply stared up at the stained glass dome, running her eyes over the familiar pattern.

There was a kind of loneliness that could only be felt when one was not only utterly devoid of company, but felt it, deep in one’s heart, the aching of an empty space. She wondered, for a moment, if everything had been a dream, after all. Her flight, Kirkwall, the Lions, the Inquisition, all of it. If that was what left her feeling so bereft now—that all of the things she’d built had been torn away, and she was returning to this moment. The thought intensified the ache, and she drew a hissing breath in between her teeth, raising an arm to place a fist over the center of her chest and push down, through the leathers and her light gauntlet.

Furrowing her brow, she drew her eyes down to the spot, realizing that it was a gauntlet, and she was wearing leathers. Moving the hand to her face, she pressed hard on her cheekbone, but felt no pain. In fact, she wasn’t in pain at all. It couldn’t have been a dream.

Sitting up, she looked around, a few discrepancies immediately becoming obvious. The chamber was circular as it should be, the light grey stone tinted in many colors by the filtered light, but it was otherwise empty. No furniture, no decoration, just dust in the air and herself on the floor. She wasn’t wrong about being alone, but she drew comfort from the fact that she might not have to be that way forever. A daring thought, really. Pursing her lips, Estella clambered to her feet, the task more difficult than she would have anticipated. All of her felt slow and sluggish, actually; awkward. She was like that all the time, though, so it was hardly surprising.

Slow. Weak. Graceless, yes. Show me more. The barest whisper of sound reached her in the still air, and she whirled around, seeking for its source, only to find that it seemingly had none.

As this particular room was at the end of a hallway, there was only one doorway out, an open stone arch, and she started towards it. Normally, it would put her into a passage of ordinary size, but when she stepped past the threshold, she found that it was about three times as big as she remembered it, its own ceiling vaulted high. The floor was bare stone, and her boots made too much noise as she walked along the center. Each side of the path was flanked with tall insets, each containing what appeared to be a sculpture or a statue. They were hard to see, but as she continued down the hall, the first one resolved into clarity.

“Cyrus?” Her voice was grating in the echoes, too rough and raspy and hissing, too loud, though she’d meant it to be quiet. There was no music in it.

But the statue, fifteen feet tall and exceptionally well-formed, did depict her brother, in white marble. Somehow, though, the eyes were the right color, as though someone had inlaid a dark sliver of lapis lazuli into the space each of the irises was supposed to be. Something was the faintest degree off about it, and when she leaned to the left, its features seemed to shift, rounding out from the well-defined lines of a man’s face to the soft, less sure ones belonging to a child, and then the emergent, nearly gaunt bone structure she’d known him to have as a teenager.

Yes, yes, excellent. First and last, you say. Always but never. So much to know, always knowing.

The return of the whisper made her jump, and she cursed herself for being so quick to startle, shaking her head. Whatever the meaning of the statue was, she could not decipher it. Her steps carried down the hall and rebounded back to her, emphasizing the inelegant shuffle of her gait by making it a dozen times louder. As though she could forget, and needed reminding.

To her right, something flickered in the corner of her eye, and she turned towards it, sucking in a harsh breath when another statue resolved into her vision. This was an elderly man, his features craggy and weathered and stern, his carriage unmistakably proud. Though the lines near his eyes were deep, they only seemed to lend authority to him, and he peered down at her from a height of no fewer than twenty feet, giving her the distinct impression that she had shrunk somehow. It was difficult to make out his face properly, given that he was carved from obsidian, but she knew its every line quite well, and swallowed thickly, her lower lip trembling.

Not wishing to linger, Estella turned and hurried onwards. More. More. I will know you.

The intervals between statues at first seemed random; it was much longer before she reached the next one, just as tall as the last, but of a younger man, with a clearer expression: one of soft frustration, tinged with affection. She closed her eyes and moved past.

The space between the third and fourth was much longer still, but the fourth and the fifth stood across from each other. One was a dignified man in armor, holding the hilt of a large sword, the tip of the blade resting at his feet. In contrast with the serious line of his mouth, his eyes carried a gentle humor about them. The one across from him wore almost no expression at all, his hands folded into his sleeves. Even the way he’d been carved was somehow enough to convey all the grace and finesse with which he moved in life, and these at least, she smiled to see.

Walking between giants. So much attention. Show me. Who is the you that they see?

Estella shook her head. Whatever this whisper belonged to didn’t understand anything at all, that much was clear. Her step was light and airy as she advanced, and she almost felt as if the hall was not so much longer after all, and wondered what might be behind the next door.

Whatever good mood had begun to lift her spirits was swiftly quashed when she reached the end of the hall and saw the last statue. For a long moment, she stared up at it, trying to quell the return of the bottomless solitude she felt. It reminded her of so many things, and her last treads towards it fell loud and ponderous on the stone.

So many faces. So many changes. What are you? I see what you see, not what you are!

“I’m no one,” she answered in the ugly murmur, and turned her eyes to the floor. The door was just ahead, and she wanted to be through it. Another few long strides did the trick, and she pushed the door open with her palm, stepping through the frame and into what seemed torn from another memory, another almost-death that had not come to pass.

The ground was scorched black, stone flooring ripped up and scattered everywhere, to say nothing of the debris from the rest of what had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes. All around her, petrified corpses studded the landscape, their faces twisted and frozen in masks of fear, the barest remnants of almost-mummified flesh left to cling to their skeletons, just enough that if she squinted, she could almost imagine the people they had once been. Her squad
 they were here somewhere, too, though she knew not where. Her recollection had not granted her even that much.

Her feet dragged as she tried to keep moving forward—it felt like they were weighted down, as if by shackles that made no noise and could not be seen, chained to she knew not what. Every step was a torment, but Estella drove forward all the same, tripping more times than she kept track of, often catching herself on her hands, but sometimes not, an unfortunate lack of reflex that rewarded her duly with several cuts and scrapes on her face, which stung terribly in the grainy wind that whipped the smallest pieces of stone dust and scree directly at her.

She became increasingly aware as well of the cold, seeping into her bones and setting her teeth to a permanent chatter, the clicking sound loud and grating and annoying in her own ears. Still, she staggered forward, though she wasn’t even sure why anymore, because if this place even had an end, she didn’t seem to be getting any closer to reaching it, and even the whispers seemed to have abandoned her for now. A hard stumble brought her to her knees, and for a moment, she remained there, arms wrapped around herself, bowed over, the rasp of her breath sawing in and out of her lungs and the clatter of her teeth the only sounds audible over the driving gale. When had it become a gale? She didn’t recall. It tugged at her cloak, ripping it free of her shoulders before she could hold it in place, and blowing it behind her on the wind.

With a groan, Estella pushed herself to her feet, and kept moving forward.

For all she walked, for all it felt like ages, she never reached what should have been the bounds of the Temple. Nothing seemed to repeat, but at the same time, several times she looked around her and was confronted with the vague sense that she’d made no progress at all. Still the faces of the dead begged her to help them, though they were long past saving. Still the ground wore away at her feet, and the wind and cold at her spirit. Still her chest ached with hollowness. Still she kept walking.

The next time she tripped, her arms gave out from under her when she tried to catch herself, and she felt a sharp stab of pain. Rolling over into her side, she reached down towards her abdomen, where she could see in the dim light that a shard of granite had buried itself in an unlucky joint in her leathers, punching a hole in the left side of her belly. Grimacing, she used trembling fingers to pull it out, trying to summon a rudimentary healing spell in the other hand to stop the bleeding, at least. But of course, she was no mage, not really, and so that was impossible. She almost laughed at herself for trying.

It left her with precious few options, however, and she tried to decide what she needed most. Loosening her jerkin, she tugged it off, rolling another quarter-turn onto her back and taking hold of the hem of her tunic with both hands. She had to tug several times before it tore, but from there she was able to remove enough to tie around the wound as tightly as her numb fingers would let her, and then fold herself back into her armor, which now sat uncomfortably directly against her skin from the end of her ribcage to her waist. But it was better than giving up her boots to take the bandages from her breeches.

It took several deep breaths before she could gather the strength to roll back onto her hands and knees, and quite a few more before she could ease to her feet. For the first time, she looked behind her, but the landscape that way looked just the same as the landscape in front, and she couldn’t see the door she’d come from in any case. Somehow she doubted going backwards would help anyway.

When she returned her attention to the front, she was surprised to see a dim light in the distance, glowing softly blue. It was the first change in scenery since she’d arrived here, and she struck out for it immediately, hoping against hope that what she found there might make a difference.

As she approached, the light took on the shape of a person. A woman, and by the point of her ears, an elf. Her back was turned; her body was entirely unclothed, but her shape was made up of the light, to the point where she was partially transparent. The sapphire glow kept her exact appearance indistinct, as though it deliberately unfocused whenever Estella attempted to see her clearly. It was not difficult to tell, though, that she had a powerful figure, both taller and significantly more muscled than Estella was.

She turned when Estella neared, and even blurred her features were noble, proud. The gale whipped at Estella, but the glowing woman seemed entirely unaffected by it. Her hair, which glowed like the rest of her did, fell neatly to rest upon her shoulders. The source of the light seemed to emanate from her chest. With the severity of the cold around her, it was obvious to Estella that the woman in front of her was radiating warmth into the air.

The figure raised her hand slowly, and a spark of blue light lifted into the air above them. It burst over their heads, and a translucent dome slowly fell around them, until it reached the ground. The wind stopped altogether, and within moments the warmth had filled the entire space.

The woman bowed gracefully in greeting, nodding her head forward.

Estella, battered, chilled, clumsy and no doubt looking like a wreck, blinked slowly. It took her several seconds to even properly comprehend what she was looking at, as though her mind, no longer in the simple state of forward, now again, had to lurch back to a start. The warmth helped, and though the feeling returning to her extremities was quite painful, she was glad it was pain she could feel, because that was much better than the alternative.

Despite that, she managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere, and bowed back as best she could. She wasn’t the kind of mage that frequently conversed with spirits, but she dreamed like anyone did, and occasionally, one of them had a reason to notice her, and so she did generally know what they were like. This one was strange, a little different somehow, like she might have been incomplete, the way her features appeared to shift, losing sharpness when directly focused upon. It was almost easier to see her from the periphery of her vision.

“Thank you,” she rasped, though it might have been more an effect of the dry wind than anything. “You’re
 We’ve not met before, have we?” It would be very strange if they had, but stranger still if they had not, considering the location.

The figure smiled, not parting her lips, and then shook her head. A moment later, she waved her hand, and beams of light traveled along the glowing surface of her body, leaving armor in their wake. Were it not transparent, it would look quite heavy, and its design was ornate. In fact, as it completed its formation, it took on a very familiar shape, as did the tower shield that now leaned against her, and the spear she carried in her grasp. She tilted her head, and awaited recognition from Estella.

It was immediate. “Saraya?” Estella’s eyes went wide, and she took a half-step backwards, though it was more that she lost her balance again than anything. This was an alarming development, for more than one reason. Mostly, she was extremely concerned about this because she knew for a fact, or close enough, that she was inside her own consciousness right now—nothing else explained all the phenomena. Which meant that if Saraya was in here with her, then she wasn’t inside Vesryn’s head, and that was very, very bad.

“How did
 ah. The Lord Seeker.” Whatever he’d done, she recalled Vesryn had attempted to stop, which might have interfered in part with the magic that had pulled her in here. Estella chewed her lip. “He’s in here somewhere, too. Do you think that if we found him, made him reverse
 whatever this is, that you’d get back safely?”

Saraya nodded once, apparently all that she believed was necessary.

Suddenly, a crack of lightning blasted against the dome she had erected, and it split apart in several places, allowing icy wind to cut back through.

Begone, thing! I am learning. You cannot help her...

Saraya gazed up above them, her expression annoyed. Stepping forward, she set down her shield when she was within easy arm's reach of Estella. Slowly, she reached out a glowing hand, and gently placed it upon Estella's forehead. Instantly an intense feeling of envy filled her mind, envy directed at herself. The envy was stemmed by thoughts of freedom, a youthful, strong body, a position of authority, of opportunity. It was powerful in magnitude, but it ended before it could carry on too long, and Saraya took a step back.

She pointed up to the sky.

“Envy
” She knew the feeling, though she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt it so strongly as this. To feel it directed at herself was
 uncanny, and very strange. It made no sense, and yet she could only interpret what Saraya imparted upon her as that. “The Lord Seeker is an envy demon?” Or, perhaps more accurately, an envy demon was assuming the form of the Lord Seeker, which meant that they weren’t dealing with the real one at all. Perhaps they never had been. Saraya nodded gravely, confirming her suspicion.

“This shape is significant.” The voice, at once more familiar than her own and somehow distorted, sounded from behind her, and Estella turned, met with the visage of her twin, though he looked ill in the light, wan. The demon didn’t hold the shape like Cyrus held himself, either—she supposed that made sense; envy wasn’t self-assured, rather the opposite. She knew from experience that attempting to falsify confidence could only work so well. “Will it help me know you?”

“You will not tell me about you. All you will think is of others. But I must know you!”

She understood, now, what it meant about learning. It wanted, for some reason, to assume her shape, to imitate her. And in order to do that, it needed to know enough to pass as her. So it had brought her here, to seek the answers it would need to wear her face. Even now, it was trying to understand. Estella’s hand went to the hilt of her sword, but then paused, her fingers still loose around the grip. Everything she did was now another piece of information for it, potentially. And if that was really what it wanted, then she had to avoid giving it that. Knowing how she moved, how she fought, however poorly, was information. She wasn’t even sure she could kill it, here.

No. What she needed to do was make it do all the talking and thinking aloud. She needed to understand it better than it understood her, and use that information to frustrate it to the point of making a mistake. And what she knew about it right now was that it wanted to learn about her. The way it looked at her made a mockery of her brother’s natural inquisitiveness, that fervent curiosity that so often lit his eyes. It looked sick, while the demon wore his face.

Taking a breath, something she tried not to make too obvious, she answered with a question. “Why do you want to know me?” She asked it as neutrally as possible, showing it her best imitation of Rilien’s face. It was almost ironic, that she planned to outdo the demon by being, in some sense, the superior imitator. If she could manage it.

As if in response, its features shifted, until it was wearing the face of her teacher, down to the sunburst on his forehead. “Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker.” In its left hand, the demon toyed with a knife, a replica of one of the Tranquil’s daggers, running a precise finger along the edge. It was also not an excellent likeness, considering the fact that she’d never once known Rilien to fidget or move idly. Hopefully that was a sign that it wasn’t being as careful.

“Do you know what the Inquisition can become? If only I were you
” It lunged at her, and she jumped backward, but no sooner had it completed its forward arc than it burst into smoke and disappeared.

"When I am done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I will be you.” It was Asala that time, and the voice from the left, where the Qunari woman appeared as well, though envy walked straighter in her skin, assuming a demeanor more like Asala when there was healing to be done than Asala at any other time. Still Estella kept herself mindful—the details were important.

“What is the Elder One?” Short questions, and only questions. It was already talking a great deal more than she was, even if it was deeply unsettling that it used the voices of her friends to do so.

The creature laughed, shifting again so that what began as a feminine sound ended as a masculine one, and it wore the same familiar face as the second statue, draped in dark blue robes and carrying a staff with a scythe-blade on one end, a thick hand with heavy knuckles gripping it with surety. “He is between things. Mortal once, but no longer. Glory is coming, and the Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the right way.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a twisted caricature of a smile, probably the best envy could manage, and this time, it called lightning to itself, lifting the staff and throwing the spell in a broad arc from the scythe.

Estella stood no chance of getting out of the way in time, she knew, and indeed, her body was extremely slow to react, almost like she was moving through water.

Saraya was not so restrained, and she intervened before the lightning could reach Estella. Planting the glowing shield into the ground before her, the spell crackled and smashed against it, leaving the woman reeling and digging a foot into the ground. The envy demon hissed, infuriated.

"Insolence! This will be my place, not yours! Begone!" He threw a straight bolt of lightning from his hand, a spell which exploded directly against Saraya's shield, and the glowing body burst into a dozen wisps of flickering light. They scattered into the wind.

“Saraya!” Estella didn’t have time to think, only react, and her hand flew to the hilt of her sword, which rang free of the sheath with a hissing rasp. She lunged into the place her ally had been, bringing the saber down on the envy demon, which still wore the face of Tiberius. As soon as her blade made contact, it shrieked and dispersed.

“You cannot stop me! I will have what is yours!” Its voice trailed off with the motes of black dust that seemed to have constituted that particular form, but Estella hardly cared. She fell to the ground, plunging the end of the saber down into it and leaning heavily against the blade, which glimmered brightly in the dark. From her knees, she dragged a hand across the ground, as though hoping to recover some remnant of the remnant, something that would show her that Saraya was still alive, still present. What did it take to kill something in the mind? Cyrus would know. Of course he would. He’d be able to fix this.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t fix anything. “Why me?” she muttered miserably, losing all will to keep herself upright and remaining so only because she saw no more point in removing her grip from the hilt of her saber than she did in keeping it there. “I don’t matter. I’m nobody.” If the demon had chosen anyone else, this wouldn’t have happened. But it had chosen her—miserable, wretched, worthless Estella—and so everything was going straight to shit, just as she’d always known it would. That she was surrounded by so many talented, impressive people, that Romulus had a mark, too; these things had allowed her to believe that they might succeed, that they might really close the Breach, and that she might be able to go back to being anonymous and unimportant without having ruined anything, save the lives of the families of her squadmates.

Her back bowed further under the pressure of her thoughts, and she fought the bile that rose in her throat. How could she have forgotten? How could she have let herself, for even a single moment, fail to recall her own incompetence, and how dangerous it was, for those around her? How had she let herself believe that she could ever be the kind of person others might be able to lean on? Where had she gained the pretension to suppose that one day, she might be strong, or worthy, or valuable in any way at all? She had no grace, no skill, lackluster intelligence, and a terrible, crippling inability to improve for all the first-class instruction and arduous practice in the world.

How dare she forget. How dare she let other people pay the price for that.

She was pathetic.

And she deserved to suffer for all the things she could not be.

Some combination of the brittle-bone cold, the weight settled over her body like a cloak of lead, and the furious churning of her own thoughts overcame her, and she retched, dry-heaving painfully, folded in on herself and at last relinquishing the grip she held on the sword. Another thing she wasn’t worthy of. Another grace extended to her that she could not hope to repay in kind. Estella fell onto her side, curling into a small ball and pulling her knees against her chest, willing the ordeal to simply end. She’d proven what she knew all along: she was incapable of meeting a challenge of this magnitude. She couldn’t do it alone, and she was toxic to anyone who would be her ally. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again—dry, because even she knew she was wallowing in self-pity and she wasn’t worth crying over—and they found immediately the bright edge of her saber. She stared at it for what seemed the longest time, fascinated by the way the enchantment made it glimmer with a light all its own. Like a little star, right there in the dark.

A bitter smile slashed her face, and she chuckled weakly. “Stellulam
” Cy’s nickname for her was ridiculous. Even he would surely be disappointed in her, if he could see her now. She was disappointed in herself. Then again, she was always that.

Distantly, she knew that she had to stand up. If she did nothing else, she had to make this right again. Her wound twinged—she’d hurt herself by falling over. Of course she had, because actual battle wounds were for people who had a fighting chance. She couldn’t


“I can’t.” But slowly, she stood anyway, dragging herself to her feet, resting her hand on the saber, which was faintly warm to the touch, and pulling it from the ground. It felt heavy in her hands, unfamiliar, like the first time she’d ever tried to wield it. Listing to the side slightly, she took a step forward, and had to scramble not to fall backwards when the scenery around her abruptly changed, putting her back in Therinfal Redoubt.

It was eerily quiet, compared to what it had been like before, but she remembered the route, and followed it. This version seemed to be what Envy imagined the Inquisition would look like, if it replaced her. She thought it was foolish to believe she had so much power as it seemed to assume, particularly when she walked in on a meeting between herself and the Inquisition’s three advisors. They all stood around the table, though Romulus was a conspicuous absence. "We’re almost there,” Marceline was saying. "Orlais, Ferelden, then Antiva and the Anderfels. Rivain’s surrender is imminent. Fitting that you’ll end where you started, no?”

“Soon enough, my accomplishment will match my ambition,” she heard her own voice reply from the facsimile of her appearance. She couldn’t help but find the words ridiculous. Estella had aspired to little. Though her faults were many, arrogance was not usually one of them. Perhaps even believing she could help close the Breach counted as arrogance enough.

“Do you see? What the Inquisition could be without you? When you are dead, and the Elder One has allowed me to become you?”

Estella walked through the ghostly image, dispersing it, and continued on her way. When she reached the same staircase as before, she spotted herself standing at the bottom of it. Or, well, the envy demon’s version of her, anyway. She took some little bit of succor in the fact that it had clearly glamorized her considerably: she looked as put-together as Marceline, and wore clothes as nice as Rilien’s, her armor polished silverite, chain with a heavy silk sash holding her sword in place, and leathers in lighter places. It still wasn't near to accuracy, really.

“Unfair! You are still whole!” In what seemed an instant, the demon was in front of her, its version of her hand tight around her throat, lifting her from the ground with no more difficulty than the Avvar she’d dueled in the Mire. “Why can’t I have your shape?!”

“Why
 would you want it?” She choked out, her hands grabbing pointlessly at the arm holding her. It was uncanny, looking into her own face like that.

“Why would
 why would
?” It seemed thrown by the question, but then gritted its teeth, its free hand glowing with sickly green magic, and turned to shove her against the door. “We’ll start again! More pain this time! The Elder One still awakes!”

A rumbling suddenly surrounded the two of them, as a ball of impressively bright blue fire burned through the wall of clouds hanging over them, to Estella's left. The envy demon growled, hurling Estella back with force against the door and turning to face the arriving presence. It smashed into the ground, scattered bits of the stone ground through the air, and from the cloud of dirt re-emerged the glowing form of Saraya, now wielding a greataxe the likes of which Estella had already seen.

She whirled forward through the air, the first blow coming down hard on Envy's sword, as it still attempted to retain Estella's shape. Saraya's offense was swift, precise, and brutal, but the demon was able to parry or repel every blow, even when it appeared to have no chance, as though it wasn’t actually possible for Saraya to land a hit. Eventually they clashed weapons and locked together. Blue sparks flickered through the air from Saraya’s axe, and sickly arcs of familiar green lightning careened away from Envy’s feign of a marked hand. Envy’s face was contorted in a mixture of extreme effort, and overwhelming anger.

“What are you? How can you remain? Die and leave, forever!”

Estella thanked whatever deities were paying attention for Saraya’s intervention, and more importantly, for the fact that she yet lived. While she knew she’d be of little assistance, the elven woman’s spirit had the demon locked in battle, which was opportunity enough for anyone, and so she circled around behind the dark shadow of herself, sheathing the sword quietly and drawing the straight-bladed knife from the small of her back.

Her approach was awkward, and she wound up just running the last half-dozen steps, jumping onto the demon’s back and plunging the blade downwards and slightly diagonally, for her replica’s less well-protected neck. The knife struck, and the envy demon beneath her dissolved again, this time with an inchoate shriek. Her vision filled once more with white, and she fell back into reality.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Though three bodies had begun to fall in tandem, only two finished the arcs they should have. While Estella and Vesryn collapsed to the ground, the Lord Seeker was seemingly thrown from them with great force, his shape twisting in midair, limbs elongating and visage twisting. What landed before the door was no man, but rather a demon, lanky and warped. Cyrus recognized it immediately—envy, a rather rare variety, and much subtler than its kin.

It rose into an arch, walking its hands through the gap between its six-foot legs, an eerie contortion of its warped form, and then it shrieked at the lot of them, prompting Cyrus to move in front of Stellulam and Vesryn, putting himself between it and them, but doing so turned out to be, for the moment at least, unnecessary. The demon exploded into a cloud of green mist, flying in through the doors and over the heads of the Templars inside, retreating to some area beyond, and leaving a barrier behind it.

The moment he was sure it was safe to do so, he was kneeling by Estella’s side, a hand at her forehead. “Stellulam, can you hear me?” His tone was low, but unmistakably urgent; worry gripped his heart and furrowed his brow. That the demon had retreated meant something—he only hoped that it wasn’t the worst.

A soft groan was his initial response, but fortunately, Estella’s eyes opened directly afterwards, unfocused and hazy. Her head lolled slightly towards the side Cyrus knelt at, and she blinked slowly a few times. “Cy?” She coughed, the force of it actually bringing her partway off the ground, and she planted one of her hands on the floor, pushing herself into a sitting position. “How long have I been out?”

That was a peculiar question. Cyrus shook his head slightly, using one of his arms to support her back, though she seemed to be sitting all right on her own, for the moment. “Not long. The Lord Seeker attacked you and you fell.” And yet, he could sense a disturbance in the Fade greater than he would have ordinarily considered warranted, as though something or someone had used a considerable amount of magic in that tiny window of time.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

The expression she showed in reaction to his answer was complicated, but confusion seemed to predominate, and her lips parted for a moment, before she hesitated, apparently unsure what to say. “I
 the Lord Seeker’s an envy demon. Or well
 the person the templars thought was the Lord Seeker is one. It
 it wanted my shape, and
” Her eyes went wide suddenly, and she glanced around herself frantically, pausing when she found Vesryn, who was still unmoving.

“Shit,” she hissed, half-dragging herself within arm’s reach of the elven warrior and reaching out, laying a hand on his chestplate and shaking him gently. “Vesryn. He—” She cut herself off and looked meaningfully at Cyrus, suggesting that there was something she could not say, before she returned her attention to their fallen ally.

“Oh Maker, please be all right.”

The elven warrior soon stirred, as though coming out of a deep sleep, but when he seemed to remember where he was, he blinked several times in confusion. "Erm... what?" He paused, an awkward, uncomfortable smile coming into place. "I've gone and embarrassed myself, haven't I?"

His eyes then darted between Estella and Cyrus, before settling longer on Estella and looking her over, perhaps to confirm that she was undamaged. Satisfied, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He removed his helmet briefly, shaking his head. "You haven't been waiting for me to wake up for long, I hope?"

“Not really, no.” Cyrus shrugged, offering a hand to each for assistance in moving from sitting on the ground to standing on it. Estella took his left without hesitation. He frowned a bit, and threw a glance into the now-open doorway. They’d become a minor spectacle for the templars inside, by the looks of things. “But if you’re both quite all right, we’d best continue. I doubt this lot will be very enthused to learn that their illustrious leader was a demon all along.” Not that he planned on dealing with the mess. That could fall to the Knight-Captain or Leon, whichever felt more inclined.

After Vesryn was on his feet as well, the group moved inside, where the remaining uncorrupted templars had assembled in what appeared to be the main hall. The long tables had mostly been cleared off to the side to allow easier room to move about. Above, on the far end of the hall, stairs led up to a balcony or upper courtyard or some such, but the way was blocked by a barrier spell of some kind, shimmering thickly, clearly strong if the templars hadn't immediately been able to dispel it.

Of course, few of them were of any decent rank, and the one Knight-Captain present looked a bit floored by witnessing the transformation of the Lord Seeker into an envy demon. SĂ©verine stood now in the center of the hall. "Never thought I'd have a leader that could outdo Meredith on the bad ideas front. Bloody demon, bloody red lyrium. How many lives, thrown away for this?" She turned, seeking out Leon with her gaze.

"The demon turned our leadership against us first with that red lyrium. I'm lucky I was never forced into taking any. I don't think anyone else of my rank or higher refused the stuff." She shook her head, eyes falling to the floor.

“An obstacle,” Leon agreed heavily, “but not an insurmountable one. By arriving when we did, we forced the demon’s hand. Not all of you have succumbed, and that means we yet have a chance.” He scanned the room, his eyes moving over all the templars present, and landed on what must have been another low-ranking officer. “Knight-Lieutenant,” the Seeker said crisply, drawing the man into a sharp salute. “There are others, still fighting outside?”

The templar nodded beneath his helm. “Yes, sir. Another three Knight-Lieutenants, there should be, and their squads. Or
 whatever’s left of them.”

“And you have lyrium, as well? The uncorrupted kind?” Another nod. “Then I’ll need the last locations you knew the lyrium and the soldiers to be at. The Inquisition will bring you the people and the supplies, and then we’re going to take that barrier down, and the demon with it. Clear?” He spoke loud enough to be heard over the relative quiet of the room, and those in attendance drew themselves straighter, responding with a collective yes, sir!

One immediately moved to a table on the right side of the room, and gestured the group over. With a stick of charcoal, she drew three circles on an architectural rendering of the redoubt. “These are the supply rooms, sir. There’ll be a crate’s worth of lyrium in them, at least. Might be you run into some of the others on the way.”

Leon nodded. “Three supply crates should be enough.” He glanced up at the group. “Lady Marceline, Ser SĂ©verine, go to the northern one, please. Take some of the more experienced templars here with you.” He pointed to the closest circle to the building they currently occupied, then moved his attention further down. “Vesryn, Estella, the one to the east, please. Cyrus, you and I will go west.” From the look he gave him, Leon knew well that he likely wouldn’t appreciate being separated from his sister, but was asking him to do so anyway.

“Very well.” Cyrus was indeed not terribly pleased with the suggestion, but he understood why it had been made. There was logic in ensuring that one didn’t send two mages against a lot of templars. He could even overlook the fact that the reasoning employed clearly underestimated him. Briefly, he turned his eyes to Estella and Vesryn. “If
 possible, perhaps just once keep the heroics to a minimum?” That was the problem with decent people, really—they tended to take risks that the purely self-interested would avoid.

Estella smiled, but it was thin. “No promises.”

With the strategy set, all that remained was to execute it. One of the Knight-Lieutenants was left to manage the templars that would remain in this room, though the majority of those with much rank would be split up between the three parties. It might have been strictly safer to retrieve the lyrium crates one at a time, but time was important, and that would almost certainly have taken too long. Furthermore, three teams pushing out at once would relieve the burden on the defenders of the main hall itself, which was fortunate since it would also thin their numbers considerably.

Leon led their way out of the main hall, moving down a side passage way to the west, which was both damp and dark, lit only by a few guttering torches. With a few more turns, they came face to face with a door to the outside. “How are you against templars, Cyrus? I understand they don’t use lyrium in Tevinter.”

“Why don’t you open that door and find out, Seeker?” Cyrus let his amusement color his tone, and smiled sharply. It was true that he’d faced few southern templars, and their abilities were not to be dismissed, when properly enhanced by lyrium. But by the same token, no southern templar knew what a northern mage was like, and he did not doubt they would find the difference
 perceptible. The very best education in Thedas could do that for a person.

“Fair enough.” Leonhardt didn’t push the door open just yet, though, instead reaching into a belt-pouch and withdrawing a small vial, about the size of one that would hold a lyrium dose, but the liquid inside this was a blackish red, lacking both the glow of red lyrium and the metallic smoothness of that fluid. “I don’t believe we’ve had cause to fight together before. I say this in all seriousness: please keep clear of me.” His voice lacked the usual mildness it carried, edged instead with a harshness that seemed foreign to it.

Tipping back the vial, Leon downed it in one swallow, tucking it back into his belt pouch and throwing the door in front of them open. He didn’t linger on the threshold, charging forward into the fray outside.

It would seem the fighting had drawn very close on this side, and the Red Templars had nearly reached the entrance to the main building. The defenders remaining were few, and consistently moving backwards. That was, until Leon crashed into the front line. His first swing snapped a red templar’s head back so far the crack was audible, and the edge of his helmet clanged against the edge of the armor protecting his back. Before his body could collapse, Leon picked it up in both hands and threw it into a line of advancing red templars, knocking one to the ground and another two off balance. The last dodged, but it didn’t matter, because the Seeker killed him next, taking his helmet in both hands and twisting sharply. His stride didn’t even break as a sword clanged off his armor; he simply turned and caught the blade between his armored palms on its way down the second time, turning his body and disarming the half-crystallized man that held it, tossing the sword away like refuse before pulling the man down by the arm and shoving a knee into his gut, sweeping his legs out from under him with a foot and stomping hard at a less-armored part of his back.

Whatever resulted was effective, because the templar did not stand again, and Leon showed no signs of stopping.

It was quite the brutal display, but its effectiveness could not be denied. Cyrus waded onto the field as well, giving Leon the berth he so desired. Considering that his last lightning spell hadn’t seemed to work too well against these people, he switched tactics, sending a fire rune to land strategically on the ground where a cluster of soldiers tried to flank what few uncorrupted templars were left. It took them all off their feet, and Cyrus pulled himself through the Fade, spatha in hand, and finished them while they were down, quick strokes to throats and any vital artery he could reach. Putting them down fast was the key here, and he was quite good at that when he set his mind to it.

Where Leon charged with pure force and raw speed, Cyrus walked the edges of the field, laying down strategic area spells to control the flow of templars, narrowing their avenues of motion with fire, barriers and harassment tactics. Though he’d have preferred to simply rain fire down from above and jump between them with his blade, as was his wont, it made more sense presently to keep the red ones away from the ordinary templars and funnel them towards Leon in small numbers at a time. It was clear that he could handle three at once without encountering significant issues, which was really quite something for someone who usually looked a bit uncomfortable around other people eating meat.

Between the two and their templar allies, what had once looked dire for the defenders turned around in relatively short order. Cyrus’s effective control of the battlefield essentially fed Leon a line of foes, which he tore through with brutal efficiency, which for all its violence was unerring in its precision. Ten minutes after they had reached the fight, it had ended, and the red templars lay slain.

A general cheer went up from the others, but for several long moments, Leon remained in the middle of the field. It was hard to tell where exactly his eyes were, with the helmet, but his fists remained clenched at his sides, trickles of blood dripping off his knuckles. With what seemed to be one very deep breath and a momentous effort, he relaxed his shoulders backwards and turned to face the templars. “You’ll want to go back inside, reinforce the others. We’ll go get the lyrium and meet you back there.”

The general consensus seemed to be that this was a good idea, and the soldiers turned, some of them supporting each other as they walked, and headed inside. Leon turned his head, clearly looking at Cyrus, and then gestured forward. “The supply storage is this way.”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow, nodding nonchalantly and falling into step beside the Seeker, glancing up at the other man through the corner of his eye, his hands folded casually behind his back even as they picked their way over what had effectively become a killing field, first for the red templars and then for them. “I can see why you prefer your space.” He kept his tone deliberately light. “That tincture you took, before we fought—that does something to you, doesn’t it?”

The color of it looked suspiciously like blood, but it was a bit too dark even for that, suggesting that something else might have been done to it alchemically. Cyrus had a guess about what that might be, but it was merely a guess, and didn’t quite account for all of his observations. He wondered if Leon would simply be willing to explain.

“It does.” It was fairly clear that Leon saw no point in trying to lie about that—probably he had decided Cyrus had only asked in an attempt to get more than a confirmation. That, however, he didn’t give, and after a few more seconds of silence, it became evident that he wasn’t planning on it. Disappointing, but hardly a surprise.

The supply cache was a bit of a ways out, but they ran into only one more red templar on the way, and she was already injured to the point of dying. Leon put her out of her misery, and the two proceeded onwards, until the sounds of more battle could be heard, at which point they picked up the pace, rounding a corner and finding themselves face-to-face with the tail end of a confrontation.

A woman in Seeker’s armor placed a heavy roundhouse kick to the face of a red templar, dropping him with a hard thud. Several more lay in a circle around her, all variously battered and broken to death. Like Leon, she carried no weapons. It was clearly the same woman from Val Royeaux, the one who had stood at the Lord Seeker’s side.

She spotted them from the corner of her eye, and moved to face them. “Good. You’re here.” She spoke rather evidently to Leon rather than Cyrus, and it was he who answered.

“Ophelia. What are you doing here? Did you know about this?” The earlier aggression clearly hadn’t left him, from the gravelly undertones to the words, and he looked about ready to step forward and be her next opponent. Cyrus wasn’t sure he was entirely misguided in his intent, and did not dismiss his conjured blade, though he remained a few paces out to Leon’s left, and watched him for cues as to how they would handle the situation.

That made her smile, just a little one, a turn at the corner of her mouth. “Know the Lord Seeker was an envy demon? No, not until recently. But I suspected. And so I remained at his side.” She crossed muscular arms over her chest, tossing back the thick ebony braid that rested over one shoulder.

“While he had all those templars take red lyrium? You know what it does. You know what happened in Kirkwall.”

She shook her head slowly. “The demon was suspicious of me, at first. Inherited that from Lucius, I expect. I didn’t know what it planned for these templars until it was already happening. After that, the best I could do was try and convince it to delay further action until I could discover whether it was really the Lord Seeker or not. As it happened, I wasn’t the only suspicious one. I intercepted a message, and replaced it with one I knew would reach you, and gain your attention.”

Leon sighed heavily. “How did you figure out that the Lord Seeker was an envy demon?”

She thinned her lips. “There’s something you should see.” Gesturing for them to follow, she led the way into an adjacent building and opened a door on the right side of a hallway. The chamber so demarcated was relatively large, perhaps once an office of some kind, but far enough from the main building that it was doubtful any of those near it were in use.

Of much greater interest, however, was the state of the room. In terms of furniture, it contained only a single desk, which rested right at the center of the rug, covered with papers, candles, and oddly enough, pieces of art. Front and center was what seemed to be a marble bust of Empress Celene, though its face was obscured by parchment. Leaning against that, a hand-sized portrait of the Lord General of Orlais had been slashed once, with a knife, from the look of it, but still remained intact enough to identify his visage. The last item was a humble charcoal sketch, rendered nevertheless in highly-accurate detail, of the crown prince. It lay in two halves atop the desk, and had at some point been further defaced with candle wax.

The dull brown stone of the walls was marred by several drawings of eyes, quite clearly in blood rather than paint, and several stacks of books were strewn carelessly about the room.

“Well this is a rather macabre little shrine, isn’t it?” Cyrus scanned quickly over the walls, and then the spines of the books in the nearest stack, before deciding that clearly, the items of greatest interest were those on the desk. The three most powerful people in Orlais, before the civil war, and possibly still, though it was hard to say. “Targets, perhaps?” It would fit with what he’d seen in the future he went to—he recalled that all three of these people had been assassinated. This could be a clue to how and when that was supposed to happen, if their mysterious perhaps-ally knew more than was obvious.

“This
 Elder One. This thing the demon is working for. It wants them dead, as might be obvious.” Ophelia nodded to the ruined artworks on the table. “I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect it’s partly a tactical decision and partly something else. A hatred, perhaps. Orlais has the strongest army in Thedas, and it’s as unstable as it’s been since the reign of the Mad Emperor, with the civil war going on.” She paused, a crease appearing between her brows. “But there are no fewer than four people with enough popularity and sufficient nobility to satisfy the aristocrats and the populace and lead the country. It’s interesting that only three of them appear here, isn’t it?”

“Gaspard de Chalons is missing.” That was Leon, who’d removed his helmet and tucked it under an arm. His free hand held a sheaf of parchments, carefully arranged so as to be smeared minimally with the blood on his gauntlets. “But whether that is because the demon overlooked him or because he’s allied with this Elder One is difficult to say. He doesn’t have quite the same infamous personality as the other three.”

Ophelia nodded deliberately. “That, I have not been able to discover. Envy likely knew relatively little outside of what it was to do here.” There was, after all, a certain sense in playing secrets and strategies as close to the chest as possible, and it would have been careless for the Elder One, who or whatever it was, to simply tell its minion everything it had in mind. Cyrus could understand the limitation of information as an effective command strategy; fewer loose ends when all was said and done, and the more work rumor and speculation could do for you, the better. This Elder One might have done quite well in the Magisterium, had it the inclination.

“This note
” Leon frowned deeply, then handed it to Cyrus. “My Old Tevene isn’t very good, but I believe it says something about the Seekers. Any chance you could translate?”

“Certainly.” Cyrus was not quite the linguist Estella was, in the sense that he spoke fewer of them than she did, but his Old Tevene was rather impeccable, if he did say so himself. Which made sense, since it was a common language for scholars in the Imperium to know. He took the parchment between his thumb and forefinger, as it was relatively worn and probably ought to be handled carefully, then swept his eyes over the words.

“‘Remember, you will be watched constantly. A Seeker is always looked to, when he is seen at all. I had a replica of the armor made—it should serve your purpose in Therinfal.’ Addressed to Envy, no doubt. There’s a little more below it that might interest you.” He paused, possibly just for effect, and then continued. “There is no place for Seekers in the world the Elder One builds. The life of Lucius Corin ends with you. Leave the real one to me.’” He raised a dark brow, glancing at the other two over the edge of the paper.

“Someone was feeling rather dramatic. Though I must say I’ve always loved a good conspiracy. So many skeins to be unraveled
” Cyrus narrowed his eyes, his aspect amused rather than menacing. He didn’t think it was especially amusing for either of them, of course, but still he saw little purpose in being unnecessarily grave. It was what it was, regardless of the attitude anyone took towards it.

“Seems the thing to do would be to find the real Lord Seeker, no? After we’ve dealt with our little demon infestation, that is.”

Leon looked to Ophelia, who shrugged her powerful shoulders. “I do not know where the real Lucius is. I intend to find out, but your friend is right. Horse first, then cart, as they say. You’ll be wanting lyrium. It’s through here.” So saying, she turned and led them out of the room, opening another door at the end of the hallway, remaining outside while Leon went in after the crate, hefting it easily in a single arm, donning his helmet again with the other.

“Let’s get this back to the others.”

They were, as it turned out, the last to arrive back, perhaps due to the pit stop they’d taken. Ophelia’s reception among the templars was mixed; while none were openly hostile, they were wary almost to a one, and stood far aside when she passed. That seemed not to faze her in the slightest—perhaps, as a Seeker, she was accustomed to it.

Cyrus soon found himself caught up in a warm embrace from Estella, who, aside from a cut marring the line of her cheek, appeared intact. She squeezed once before releasing him, her expression clearly relieved. “I was worried when we got back and you weren’t already here,” she admitted softly.

“Worried? About me? What will you think of next?” Really, the idea that she worried about him, while familiar and welcome in a sense, was also a bit unnecessary. If she could stop worrying about him and worry about herself instead, he’d be much more assured. Still, neither that nor the twinge of hurt that remained between them stopped him from returning the hug, a muted exhale the only sign he gave of his own mollification.

He returned his attention to the pair of Seekers and the Knight-Captain afterwards, however. “Now
 how about we bring down this barrier?”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Vesryn's pristine armor was spattered with blood at this point, but every drop of it belonged to corrupted templars. Saraya had effectively guided him to dispatch any enemy that had crossed his path, and even many of those that only crossed the others, though of course he hadn't been quick enough to prevent all the injuries in his allies. Even his shield could only be in one place at one time.

Focused as he was on the fight, he'd been especially wary of any signs from Saraya since the ambush from the Lord Seeker, or rather the demon that had formerly worn his shape. He remembered nothing of it, only trying to get in the way of the charge, getting caught up with Estella as they fell, and then... black. Estella's face was the first thing he saw upon waking, the first thing he comprehended. There were far worse things to lay eyes on after being knocked out, of course.

As they'd worked together to bring back more of the low-ranking officers, he'd noted that Saraya looked upon Estella differently. How, he could not say, and there was no time to speculate on it. They had a task to complete here.

The Knight-Captain, SĂ©verine, nodded at Cyrus, and smoothly stepped up on top of one of the tables shoved off to the side, allowing the assembled templars to see her more clearly. She pointed her blade out at the group. "Templars! I ask of you: what is Envy?"

"A wretched thing!" cried one.
"Weakness!"
"A pathetic demon!"
"A coward, Sister!"

"A coward," SĂ©verine repeated, nodding. "In order to study, and worm into our hearts, it must hide. We will drag it into the light!" A first cheer went up among the templars, accompanied by a cacophony of swords bashed against the faces of shields.

SĂ©verine stepped down and began approaching the barrier, while the templars cleared from her path. "Those who have been taken by this demon and its promises of power are corrupt. They have betrayed the Order and all they once stood for. We, the true templars, will show them no mercy." The grimmer nature of the task did not receive a cheer, but instead a hardened rumbling, an anger building to do what needed to be done.

"Join me, Brothers and Sisters, and tear down this barrier. Give Envy no place to hide. And give the Red Templars no reason not to run!" She accepted a chalice of lyrium from a scribe when offered, the draught steaming with a frost-like substance. SĂ©verine drank deeply, and once the scribe retreated from her, she took her sword in both hands, and knelt, placing the point of it into the floor. The other templars followed her lead.

They began to glow with a golden light, some brighter than others, and the sickly green barrier above them began to tremble and waver. Vesryn adjusted his grip on his spear and shield, and moved forward in preparation to advance up the stairs. It was not long before the demon's barrier let out a wretched wail, and then shattered altogether.

From the top of the stairs came the Red Templars, storming in down in a disorganized formation to engage. SĂ©verine looked back at the Inquisition members aiding them. "Cut through, find the demon, and destroy it! We'll deal with these traitors." Their blood worked up for the fight, the templars smashed into the first arriving group of enemies, engaging them with a fearsome fervor.

Vesryn glanced sideways at his allies. "Let's get moving."

“An excellent suggestion.” Cyrus softened up a likely trajectory for them by sending a massive fireball through it, forcing several red templars to throw themselves to the side, some of them landing poorly and falling down the staircase in the process. One didn’t get away in time and took a full blast of flame to the face, collapsing in a cacophony of shrill cries. “How about that way?”

“Good enough,” Leon growled, cracking his neck under his helmet and bursting forward. His momentum seemed little affected by the fact that he was essentially fighting uphill, and he took two stairs at a time as though that were the way they were meant to be used. Considering the objective was only to clear a path, he didn’t linger long on any one red templar—generally speaking, one hit was enough to get any given individual out of the way, and he struck out with elbows, fists, knees, and feet, almost too fluid for a person encased in that much armor. Several of them, he simply gripped by the neck of their armor and pulled, toppling them facefirst down the staircase. Cyrus had driven a wedge into the line, and he was making a full tunnel of it.

Vesryn cleared the way for easy passage behind Leon's destructive force, tossing away any red templars that were fortunate enough to survive the initial encounter. They pushed up the stairs with little difficulty; Vesryn was able to surmise that the Red Templar force engaging them here was not much more than a rear guard, judging by their numbers. SĂ©verine and the templars she led would no doubt be able to handle them given some time.

All of their party through, they took off down the hall towards the outdoors, a sort of grassy overlook of the forested land far below. The sections of walls before them had steadily crumbled from weather much like they were currently experiencing. The rain came down as steady and cold as it had upon entering the hall originally, and the earth beneath Vesryn's boots felt soft, vulnerable to being torn up if too much weight was applied in the wrong way.

"I touched so much of you," the demon said, with a voice from no particular direction, as before, "but you are selfish with your glory. Now I'm no one." Vesryn kept his eyes glued to the sides of the group, not desiring to be taken by surprise again. There was nowhere for the demon to run now, but while it did not prefer to fight directly, he had no doubt that it could if pressed into a corner, as it was.

"Lovely creature, this," Vesryn commented dryly. His spear remained leveled before him, ready to strike.

“And this isn’t the half of it,” Estella replied from beside him, her hands flexing on the grip of her saber. Her eyes were in constant motion over the field, a wariness that turned out to be quite wise. “There!” It did not manifest with the same directness as another demon would have. Pride would have stood before them and demanded acknowledgement. Desire and Rage would have commanded attention just as certainly.

But Envy appeared at their flank, a hideous thing with pale pink flesh, like someone had taken a human body, stretched it impossibly long, torn up the head and sewn it back together again with crude stiches and forgotten anything but the mouth, a thin red slash filled with sharpened, bloodstained teeth. It had a second set of arms beneath the first, shorter, almost humanoid still, a reminder, perhaps, of something it had once been. In all, it had to be nearly ten feet tall, but it was thin, in places little more than skin stretched over bones, too tight to be comfortable. Hardly a wonder it wanted someone else’s form and face, really.

No sooner had it appeared than the sodden ground beneath them began to turn black, in a ring much like that caused by a terror, save that its radius was considerably greater. Estella dashed out of it quickly, but Leon seemed to pay it almost no mind, simply moving himself off the circle in his barreling charge towards the demon itself. It threw something at him, shimmering slightly in the air like heat off the desert—likely a concussion blast of some kind, and the two met at full speed. The Seeker dug his feet in, pushing through and tearing rents in the soft earth beneath him. The hit slowed him considerably, but it did not stop him, and faced with an incoming assault, the demon seemed to open another one of the dark spots on the ground and dove through, reappearing far to the other side of the field and hurling a massive chunk of what had once been masonry with telekinetic force for the group.

A blast of lightning hit the boulder in midair, the resulting explosion breaking apart the stone and raining it down upon them as harmless detritus. Cyrus switched his attention to the demon itself thereafter, hurling a tiny orb of magic from each of the fingers on his left hand at once. They flew swiftly, and when the first hit, it encased the demon’s left leg in ice. The next three seemed to target different joints of its body, one successfully locking up the larger right elbow. The others hit, and spread, but it was able to crack the ice crystals off with movement.

A few seconds later, the mage’s form blurred, then disappeared entirely, reappearing much closer to the demon, which abruptly found itself faced with an opponent quite close. It swung a clawed hand for Cyrus, who ducked under it and retaliated with a horizontal slash, but Envy twisted with inhuman strength and flexibility, and the sword he used met only air.

Limber and quick as it was, it could not dodge two well-placed strikes at once, or at least in extremely quick succession. Vesryn had flanked Envy after Cyrus moved in for his attack, and his spear found the creature's torso, spilling blood and earning an enraged shriek of pain. Vesryn anticipated the counterattack; Saraya was familiar with such an opponent, which did not surprise Vesryn in the slightest. No demon was an unknown entity to her.

He withdrew his spear and properly angled his shield above his upper body to deflect the first slash to the side, and the adjusted to deflect the second slash the opposite way. The third he took head on, jarring his shield arm but stopping the clawed arm of Envy cold and giving him an opening to put his spear right through the thing's elbow joint. Its horrid features, or lack thereof, still twisted in pain from the injury, and it sought to flee, diving into a black pit it opened in the ground beneath it. Vesryn wrenched his spear free and stepped away from the magic beneath him.

"Watch your feet!" he called to the others, certain it would pick a spot to come up again soon, and it never preferred to assault directly.

When it did reemerge, it wasn’t the fleet magician, the precise warrior, or the powerful Seeker it went for. The demon was a coward, and it chose the coward’s target: Estella. She didn’t look all that surprised when it sprang up behind her, and without looking over her shoulder, she rolled herself to the side, its claws digging deep furrows in the fragile earth she’d been standing on seconds before. When she came up out of the roll, she turned herself around to face it, her momentum channeling into a smooth, controlled lash with her saber. The maneuver opened up a bloody line on the arm closest to her, and she stepped in closer, taking on the role of aggressor.

Her feet were light over the ground, her strokes no longer or flashier than they needed to be, and her efficiency was rewarded when two new gashes appeared over the creature’s torso, its gangly limbs less effective when someone had closed to so close a distance. It tried to dive under again, but this time met some trouble when a strong grip closed over the arm Cyrus had previously frozen. Leon’s hand nearly made it all the way around the rangy bicep of the demon, and the blow he delivered to its elbow snapped the limb clean off, made possible by the magical cold that lingered still at the joint.

Envy shrieked, a sonic blast that forced both of them back far enough for it to make its escape. Estella landed hard on her side, sliding another few feet back when her impact tore up the grass and slicked her left half with mud. Leon kept his feet, but lost his grip on the demon, allowing it to retreat once more.

This time, it came up closest to Cyrus, who immediately flung a massive bolt at it, staggering the creature before it had a moment to react. Adjusting his feet, he sped forward again, the hum of his blade followed by a new, smoking furrow dug across the back of its knees. It looked to be about to try and dive again, but with a broad gesture, he cast another spell, and bars of crackling lightning appeared to close it in from all sides, even below. The gaps between were more than adequate for a spear or other weapon with reach, however, and the mage turned, nodding tersely to Vesryn.

The elf nodded back, allowing his shield to fall to the ground, before he flipped his grip around on his spear. "Hold still for me, love." He briefly took aim, before he stepped into a throw and hurled his spear like a javelin right between two of the bars of crackling energy. The weapon punched clean through Envy's chest, rendering it incapable of screaming any further. Instead, it gurgled miserably for a moment, before it slumped sideways to the ground, and stilled.

"Nice throw," SĂ©verine commented, from the top of the short flight of stairs that led back into the main hall. A large number of the templars from inside had followed her out, those that had made it through the fighting without serious injury. The Knight-Captain herself was heavily bloodied, at least over her armor, but most of it appeared to belong to others. "It's over then. For now."

"I expect the other Red Templars won't simply give up," Vesryn speculated, walking to the corpse of Envy and pulling his spear free.

"No, they won't." SĂ©verine looked back at the battered group of men and women she'd come into command of. "The fight won't be truly done with until the last of these traitors have been dealt with. Until the Order's direction has been restored."

“And that will not be a simple process.” Ophelia spoke up then, stepping forward to draw even with SĂ©verine. “The Templars have numbers across Thedas, but their leadership is in ruins. Most either knew not of what was going on, or were complicit in it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, glancing over those assembled. “These are a good lot, though. It would be a waste for them to idle when their skills could be so useful.” Her eyes flickered between Leon, helmed and silent at present, and Estella, who stood straight, but unable to hide the fact that one of her arms was limp at her side, the one she’d landed on earlier.

“All the Inquisition came here to do was ask of them their help. The Breach threatens us all, and they could be instrumental in closing it.” She shook her head, then turned to the body of them as a whole. “If that is something you’d be willing to do, we’d welcome your blades and your stout hearts. We’ve need of both, and it would give you somewhere to be and something to fight for. You know by now that we have allies of all kinds, and you’d be equal among them.” She smiled slightly, though it was tinged a little by the pain she was clearly in, and glanced at SĂ©verine.

"Not how I imagined this turning out," the Knight-Captain admitted, shaking her head with a little smile. "But I think my Commander will understand if I don't return home just yet. The Breach does indeed need closing, and I would be honored to lead these templars in helping you do it, Lady Herald." Her plated, closed fist thumped against her chestplate. "You have our blades."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
It didn’t take more than a day or so after the templars arrived in Haven for the predictable problems to crop up.

“They’re about three words from reenacting their stupid war on the Chantry’s front steps, sir,” Reed told him, rolling his eyes. Leon scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing heavily. He’d hoped this wouldn’t be an issue, as he’d thought Estella had made it rather clear that they’d have no authority over the mages here—that the allies of the Inquisition were equals for as long as they were united to this purpose. Then again, it might not even be the templars that had started the argument. He doubted too many of the mages would be pleased at such a high concentration of them suddenly appearing in the already too-crowded town. It might look like oppression even when it was nothing of the kind; some of those wounds were still raw on both sides, and it might have been too much to expect that everything went smoothly.

Hopefully they’d be able to put a stop to the nonsense quickly. The reality was they likely didn’t have to tolerate one another for long—Cyrus was already at work developing the exact ordering of events for the closing of the Breach, which he understood better than anyone else did. Likely they’d be getting to it within a few days. Still, if any fragment of the Inquisition lasted beyond that, they’d need to move elsewhere. The town was too small for an organization of the kind.

The Seeker pushed open the door out to Haven, Reed half a step behind him. Once his eyes had adjusted to the sunlight, he had to resist the urge to sigh again. It was, quite literally, a standoff. Less than a foot separated the frontmost templar from his counterpart mage, and there was a lot of shouting going on, along with general glaring and discontented murmuring. It was enough that few people even noticed him standing there, which was rather novel for Leon. While normally he wouldn’t have minded, he actually needed them to pay attention to him right now. He glanced at Reed, who nodded and placed two fingers in his mouth, issuing a sharp whistle that drew everyone’s attention temporarily.

“What’s going on here?” He demanded, using what Verena had once mockingly dubbed the ‘Seeker voice’—which was to say, the one that wasn’t mild and quiet.

What appeared to be the leader of the agitated mages was the first to speak. “It’s the Templars,” she insisted. “Ever since they got here, they’ve been acting like it’s all Circles again, watching us like hawks!”

“We’ve done no such thing,” the templar fired back, “but you’ll excuse us for being a little concerned that there are so many unsupervised, paranoid apostates just wandering about camp!”

The templar's words seemed to throw contention back into the crowd of mages. The murmuring grew and the glaring resumed, until a voice called out over the commotion. "That is enough!" it said. The words were not quite a shout, but still held enough volume and firmness to quieten the mages' clamor. They began to part as the owner of the voice made her way toward the forefront of the argument. Eventually, a redheaded mage emerged from the throng, her brows set deep and a frown on her lips. The disapproval on her face was not directed at the templar, but instead toward the mage.

The woman was Aurora, one of the first mages that pledged themselves to the Inquisition's cause in Redcliffe. She had led a small group of mages of her own, but by the way the others in the crowd regarded her, it seemed as if she carried their respect as well. She held arms crossed over her chest as she kept the man in her hard stare for a moment or two before she spoke again. "We should not bicker amongst ourselves," she began, offering a glance to the templar behind her, before returning to the mage.

"Not while that," she said, a bandaged hand pointing toward the Breach, "Still looms over us all."

"And how are we to know one of the rebel mages didn't put it there?" one of the templars asked, and a few of the others around him grumbled their assent. "How are we to know that mages were not responsible for the death of Most Holy?"

The hand of Knight-Captain SĂ©verine appeared upon the man's shoulder, the rest of the woman soon following, and she drew him back, coming to stand before the other templars. Rather than face the mages, she turned to look upon her own number. "We cannot know, just as they cannot know if one of our own rogue templars was responsible. There has been violence, corruption, and deceit from factions of both mage and templar. We who stand here with the Inquisition do so because we believe in this alliance. And any alliance must begin with trust."

The templar who'd attempted to rally the crowd behind him stepped back reluctantly, aware that his voice would not outstrip the Knight-Captain's. "I will not ask any of you to trust the mages with your lives," she continued. "I only ask you to trust that their goals, for the moment, align with ours. The closing of the Breach." Finally she turned to look upon Aurora and the other mages.

"Nothing will be gained by settling this with swords and deadly magic. Only death. A balance must be achieved, but this will only be possible once some semblance of order has been restored. That is what the Inquisition aims to achieve, and what we will assist with." She glanced back, to ensure the crowd knew she was speaking to her own as well with her next words. "Put aside your blind prejudices, and work towards something that will save lives, not end them."

The mage who'd argued with the templar earlier backed away and fell into the crowd, deferring to Aurora's judgement. "Mage or templar, we stand with the Inquisition together."

Though no one looked fully satisfied by this, it thankfully wasn’t necessary to defuse the situation any further, and the crowds began to disperse on their own, something Leon was grateful for. “My thanks,” he said, inclining his head to both SĂ©verine and Aurora. “I’d been concerned this would happen, but admittedly I thought it would take a bit more time.” He smiled ruefully, then shook his head.

“Though now that you’re here, Ser SĂ©verine, do you have a moment? I was hoping to speak with you for a bit.”

"Never underestimate a young templar's ability to do something rash," SĂ©verine said, with a knowing gleam to her eye. "And of course. I was rather hoping to speak, actually." She then nodded respectfully to the redheaded mage.

"If you'll excuse us, Miss..."

"Aurora Rose," she said with a respectful nod of her own.

"Miss Rose," she echoed. "Thank you for the assistance. Keeping the peace will be no small task for us, I fear."

"It appears so," Aurora agreed, watching the direction the mages had dispersed off into. "Ser SĂ©verine," Aurora said in a farewell before taking her leave. As she departed, she offered a wave to a passing Asala and Pierre, who hung from the woman's shoulders.

Leon nodded to Reed, who stepped back into the Chantry, and after Aurora had departed, he turned to SĂ©verine. “Shall we take a walk? My office is rather appallingly unsuited for anything but paperwork.” He grimaced, and started them off to the south, mostly for the relative quiet that way. “If you’d like to go first, please do; my questions aren’t urgent.”

"Certainly." SĂ©verine kept pace with Leon, which wasn't overly difficult, given the meandering pace. She was still armed and full-armored, having gotten the damage to her gear already repaired by her new allies. "The templars behind you here are relatively few in number. Gathering more might prove difficult, with my rank only at Knight-Captain. Even some of those from Therinfal chose not to follow me, and instead returned to their old posts." She said the words somewhat awkwardly, as though struggling not to see it as a slight against her.

"Knight-Commander Cullen of Kirkwall will be the best place to start, if you would like a stronger relationship with the Templars for the Inquisition. He's a reasonable man, and an excellent leader. I would return to his command myself, were I not already responsible for the templars here." Her praise for the man was delivered in an earnest manner, without a second of hesitation. "I still plan to, once the Breach is closed."

Leon folded his hands behind his back, noting the information with some interest. “There’s much to recommend him,” he agreed. The reports out of that region had been a marked improvement from the years before. Meredith had done a very good job of covering up the increasing instability in Kirkwall from the Chantry in Val Royeaux, such that no Seekers had ever been dispatched to the city even at the height of her zealotry. Though eventually suspicions had grown, and the Divine had elected to act covertly, sending an ally to try and recall Grand Cleric Elthina at least. An investigation had been pending when the cathedral in the city exploded and set everything off far earlier than anticipated.

“Kirkwall has been rather stable, hasn’t it? At least relative to the places where the mage-templar war has raged openly.” Of course, that had a lot to do with the fact that they’d sent their surviving mages away or simply failed to stop them from leaving in droves. “I can only assume that’s in no small part due to those of you stationed there, though I understand that the situation is
 complicated.” They passed by several of the regulars, sitting outside for once due to the relative warmth of the day, loosely clustered around where a very animated Lieutenant Pavell was apparently regaling them with some sort of story. Leon gave them enough of a berth that none would feel obligated to acknowledge him.

"It wasn't pretty to get there," SĂ©verine admitted with something of a grimace, "and there are still issues to be worked out. Kirkwall's templars are a powerful force, a small army, and some don't share the Knight-Commander's views. Thankfully, no small amount of them showed their true color when they left to follow the Lord Seeker." It went without saying that the color in question was a rather glowing shade of red.

"But he's done it so far, and the popular opinion of the Order there has improved as a result. Granted, we haven't really been doing our jobs, watching over the mages, but... there aren't any mages left in Kirkwall to watch. On that front... it's like I said earlier. Beating the mages into submission and dragging them back to their Circles will only cause this to flare back up again down the road. Something has to change." She shrugged. "It's up to more ambitious minds than mine to figure out what."

They passed by a few of the returning Inquisition scouts, Lia at the head of them. The group appeared to be on their way to join to others gathered about not far from them. The young elven woman offered Leon a smile and a salute in passing.

"In all, the city's recovering, now that it has nothing left to hurt itself with. The Guard is fantastically well-run, and the Viscountess can twist the nobility into doing just about anything she wants them do. The common people adore her, as well." She smiled, the expression tinged with a certain amount of sadness, for some reason.

"Kirkwall's been through a lot, but I think it's finally getting some rest again."

“After all you lot have been through, I’d say it’s well-deserved.” He half-smiled. “And what of you, Knight-Captain? Our rather imperious ally was quick to point out that you’re Orlesian by birth; I’d have thought you’d be with one of those Circles. Did you transfer long before the events in question?” From the way he asked it, he made clear that he was only asking from harmless curiosity—when he inquired something of a templar, they often took it to be an interrogation, and that concerned him. Relations between his order and theirs had not always been germane to polite company, after all. Leon’s extremely benign demeanor was in some measure a defense against this assumption.

"I'm Orlesian in name and accent only, I think." SĂ©verine didn't seem bothered by this, and even her accent was only mild, obviously something that she had to have worked on. "I was in Val Chevin's Circle originally, but... let's just say I was not so mild-mannered and well-behaved as I am now." She nearly laughed at herself, evidence that she didn't think she was all that well-behaved even currently.

"It took me some time to figure out how to endure the insufferable people in life. I may have given one sniveling, arrogant recruit with a powerful family a rather severely broken nose. Though it was entirely deserved, it was the latest in a long list of transgressions for me, and they shipped me off to Kirkwall, hoping a stricter regimen from a more intimidating Knight-Commander might get me in line." She seemed to have unintentionally arrived at a sobering point of her narration.

"My superiors were right, though for a while I was not exactly in the correct line, you follow. The Qunari had arrived dug in by the time I reached the city, and it wasn't long before I was swept up in events I was not wise enough to avoid." She acquired a bit of a thousand-yard stare, but shook it off soon enough. "The acquisition of that wisdom didn't kill me, thank the Maker. When Cullen took over, he claimed I had some potential, and made me start to believe it, too. It was only a year ago I was promoted. In fact, it was on his order that I went to Val Royeaux and met the Lord Seeker. It was believable for me to be the one to run off with the zealots."

“Sensible,” Leon replied with a knowing smile and a nod. “And I daresay I’m glad you were there, even if it wasn’t your summons we actually answered.” He sighed slightly, his expression falling into a troubled frown. “It’s
 no problem if you haven’t any insight about this, but,” he drew his brows together over his eyes. “High Seeker Ophelia. It appears she wasn’t working with the envy demon, but
 I still can’t say I understand her motives. Did you see her do or hear her say anything strange or unusual while she was at Therinfal?”

He hated to suspect that his mentor might be up to something untoward, but she’d always been an exceptionally difficult woman to read, and he could not discern what she was thinking now. It was unusual for her to be anything other than plain with him, however, and that more than anything put him ill-at-ease.

SĂ©verine hesitated, but decided to go ahead. "I... I think she had me figured out early on, to be honest. She's a Seeker, after all. She took me aside pretty quickly, asked me a few questions. It was on her advice first, actually, that I didn't take any of the red lyrium. After I turned it down a few times, the other officers shut me out anyway." She frowned, troubled by something.

"I saw her ingest it, though, along with some of the other officers, when they demonstrated to the lower ranks. She should've been changed, right? She looked fine to me."

That was concerning, and for a moment, Leon’s face reflected the alarm he felt. “That’s
 I can’t explain that, except to say that when I encountered her, I’d never have guessed she’d taken any.” No explanation for that was ready to his mind, either, which meant it was the kind of question that he was going to have to trouble over. One more for the list, he supposed. He, at least, was going to be extremely busy even after the Breach was closed.

“Something that needs investigating, at any rate. Thank you, for bringing it to my attention.” He sighed through his nose and resumed his light smile. “But one thing at a time. First, the Breach. I believe we’ll be prepared to deal with that within a few days. I trust you can keep your young and rash templars in check in the meantime?” It was more jest than serious query, though there was a little bit of that as well.

"I'll do my best," she replied with a salute, her tone matching his in terms of mixed seriousness and humor. "We'll be ready when the time comes."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Image

Then the Maker said:
To you, My second-born, I grant this gift:
In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame
All-consuming, and never satisfied.
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember Me.
—Canticle of Threnodies 5:7
Image

The air still smelled like burning flesh.

It was probably a good thing that it was a memory from the Fade, and so the others present would not be able to smell it. Well, the mages might, but not until they’d taken the lyrium, anyway. Between they and the templars and his own estimations, the need had been for an entire cart of it, several crates stacked on top of each other and pulled towards the temple by a draft animal. The templars required it, and it dramatically increased the efficacy of the average mage, to the point that he believed it was actually possible to do what he’d been asked to devise a way of doing.

History, which so dramatized action over thought, was unlikely to remember his contribution to this, but for once, Cyrus couldn’t really say he cared much. Let it be forgotten, so long as it was done.

He stood now on one of the edges of the drop-off that led down to the floor beneath the Breach itself, though even at his height, he was still angled somewhat below it, such that he had to tip his head up to regard the thing. He’d not stood in its presence before, and he had to admit that he felt the keen temptation of allowing it to remain. It was a tear in the Veil of massive proportions, and even standing beside it, he felt like more than he was. When he dreamed, Cyrus could achieve nearly anything his heart desired. The Fade itself bent and twisted to his whim, answering his demands with little more than a thought from him. Here the distinction between the Fade and the mundane world was so blurred it was almost no distinction at all—he was smelling what was in the former while still fully conscious in the latter.

The prospect of being able to shape and mold this world in the same way he could sculpt and define that one was staggering. If he’d only put himself to work figuring out how to expand the Breach instead of how to close it, perhaps he could have had that. But the Breach was sick, ill, distorted—only the darkest reflections of the Fade were nearby it. And it threatened not only to collapse the distinction between worlds, but to utterly destroy this one. And the risks of expanding it without knowing the consequences—even he knew when something was too dire to chance.

But still, gooseflesh prickled along his skin, and he could almost feel the crackling of magic beneath it, yearning, almost, to be loosed, to be put to purpose and change what was into what had been dreamed. He tightened his hands together behind his back, suppressing the strange, giddy mix of nauseous vertigo and the sudden influx of power, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again. Let it be assumed that he was nervous—that, unlike what he felt in truth, would be acceptable.

The mages fanned out to the left of where he stood and the templars to the right, taking up positions on the mid-level ledge. As he’d requested, Leon stood closest to him on the templar side, and Asala on the mage side. The most necessary individuals of all, Romulus and Estella, were moving into place directly beneath the Breach. A breeze picked up from the north, feathering over his face, and Cyrus let his muscles relax. Several more Inquisition troops began to carry in and distribute the lyrium—scraped together from personal stores, whatever the Riptide’s crew had been able to secure in the last few weeks, and the amount the spymaster had been able to accrue from more land-bound smuggling and trade routes. It was quite a lot, but each mage or templar would still be getting a minimal dose, given how many ways it had to spread. Cyrus himself was abstaining, of course, and as a Seeker, Leon didn’t need any, either, but everyone else would be taking at least some.

He signaled for them to do so, and waved the rest of the Inquisition back, as it was rather difficult to predict just what effect this much concentrated effort would have on the area, and it was better to minimize the risk of unnecessary casualties. Injuries, that was—he didn’t anticipate any deaths unless everything went horribly wrong, but then if that happened the entire world was doomed anyway, so it would hardly matter in the long run.

“Let it never be said that I avoided doing things of consequence.” He murmured the words to himself, a wry twist of his lip and a shake of his head accompanying the statement.

When at last it looked as though everyone were ready, Cyrus inhaled deeply, releasing his hands from behind his back and raising the right one. He held it there until he knew it was seen, then dropped it, the signal for the templars to begin.

“Templars!” The Commander’s voice boomed out over the ranks, and as one, they took a step forward, genuflecting with their armaments in front of them, bowing their helmed visages over the pommels of swords or hafts of axes, or else leaning them against the poles of spears and halberds, lapsing as one into reverent posture and calling to themselves the peculiar lyrium-fed abilities to cleanse a particular area of hostile magic. Where once they would have turned such force against the mages not far from them, now it was directed at the Breach, and the green light in the sky seemed to shudder and dim as each one spent their resources attempting to wrest it under control. Leon alone remained standing, his eyes clearly fixed on the rift itself, imperceptible words forming on his lips, his stare a thousand yards away.

At the conclusion of their efforts, however, it remained perceptibly magical. Clearly, they had weakened it, but the task of closing it was far from over.

Catching Asala’s eye, Cyrus raised his left hand, and then brought that one down as well, in a sharp motion much like the last.

Though she visibly trembled and her knuckles were white from the grip she held on her staff, Asala still raised it high and called out. "M-mages!" The mages stepped forward in a wave, enveloping their staves in a dispelling green glow before slamming them into ground. As more mages added their spells to the whole, the reflections of the Fade felt by Cyrus began to dwindle as magic around it started to ebb away by the mass dispelling. Asala's eyes darted back and forth over the breach and every now and then a blue glint could be seen in the sky, evidence of her effort to concentrate and corral straying spells.

As soon as the last of the dispellings had run its course, Cyrus stepped forward himself, right to the edge of the drop-off. With a deep inhalation, he reached for the magic, easy to his hands even still, even though he could feel the Fade retreating from this place. He reminded himself that it was good, that it was what he wanted. That it was the right thing to do, and they were the only people who could do it. When that wasn’t enough and his willpower faltered, he reminded himself also of all the reasons he had to do the right thing for once in his life. Of all he needed to make up for, all he needed to repent. And then he glanced down, past the ranks of templars and the less-organized throng of mages, to where the Heralds stood, and he thought of her as well, and all together, it was enough to turn aside the lure.

He raised his arms, a white light gathering around them, spreading until it covered the whole of his body, thin like a mist, and then growing denser as more of it billowed outwards, still contained around him, until he almost seemed to be encased in a sphere of roiling fog. Little scattered sparks of electricity jumped around inside the clouds, occasionally lighting them from within. When the mist had thickened to the point of obscuring his view completely, he finally released it, sending it towards the Breach like a slow-rolling ocean wave. Struck by the light as it moved, it threw tiny prisms of refracted light onto the ground below, glinting off templar armor and the polished staves of the mages.

The Breach, which had begun to distort and destabilize at the edges as it fought against the attempts to neutralize it, almost recoiled from the wave, as though it were half-alive itself and sensed danger. But it was, ultimately, immobile, and the spell hit it like a tidal force, the pearlescent cloud clinging to it, dulling the green to a washed-out verdigris hue, and stopping its motion entirely. It simply hung there, pulsing faintly, a tumor in the sky.

“Now!” His shout echoed as it descended towards the Heralds, his eyes flicking between where they stood and where it remained, yet to be defeated.

Romulus nodded, looking to Estella to see if she was ready as well. She appeared to gather herself for another second, then inclined her head.

As one, they stepped forward and thrust their marked hands at the Breach, the left of Romulus beside the right of Estella. Twin arcs of the green lightning-like energy shot forth and connected with the sickly tear above them, which began to pulsate violently. It shook the arms of both Heralds to maintain the connection, and soon a blindingly bright white light began to emanate from within the Breach's center point.

It was enough to force some of the mages and templars to look away, distracting them from their task, and for a brief moment it seemed as though the Breach was strenghtening, fighting back against the forces trying to shut it for good. It swelled and expanded in front of them for an unknown reason, bulging from within while the light grew stronger still. The Heralds did not relent, each knowing that to stop now could spell disaster far beyond the confines of the temple ruins.

The Breach gave out a great moan, twisting and pulsating as it was steadily filled with the energy from the marks, until at last it could hold itself together no longer, and it exploded, the blinding light becoming all-encompassing, forcing any sane person to shut their eyes. A strong wave of force washed out over the temple grounds, throwing anyone not already bracing for it onto their back. The Heralds received the worst of it, the blast enough to throw them several body lengths away, the green crackling energy still pulsating from their palms.

Cyrus, even despite being prepared for backlash, staggered backwards several steps, his eyes shut against the bright light. As soon as it dimmed, though, he opened them again, running to the end of the ledge and dropping down to the next level, then moving through a few dazed-looking mages to do the same thing a second time, putting him on the ground with the Heralds. “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, both of you!” He reached down to Estella first, knocked prone by the blast, and offered a hand to Romulus as well once she was back on her feet.

Whoever or whatever the Elder One was, it had to know they weren’t going to take this lying down now. Behind them, once it was confirmed that both Heralds had survived the effort, a cheer began to swell, dozens of voices adding to the exultation, the celebration of what had just been accomplished.

The sky overhead bore a greenish scar, a remnant of what had loomed so dire, but the Breach was closed.

The Inquisition had succeeded.



Needless to say, the tavern in Haven was packed to the rafters that evening. All the tables had been pushed to the side, and it was standing-room only, still incredibly full due to its proximity to the alcohol. He’d initially entered seeking libation, as most of these people had, but the din of all the voices was incredibly loud, and he wasn’t sure how people could even hear themselves think in the space. So once he’d secured his tankard, he headed for the door immediately.

The Captain of the Riptide busied herself at the bar and knocked shoulders with her large, Qunari-companion. She'd chosen lighter garbs, forgoing her restrictive leathers for softer linens. It seemed as if she was always in the tavern, especially if there was cause for celebration. She occasionally drifted away from her stool to twirl around in the middle of the dance floor and always had a tankard held in her hand. Somehow, she managed not to spill a drop. She arched her back and stretched her arms over her head, as content as one could be in good company. She leaned towards Aslan and tossed her head back, laughter crackling from her belly. Though she was obviously amused, Aslan's tight-lipped frown betrayed none.

Most of the people in here were not those he knew to any degree, though one of the Lions he’d met earlier, Donnelly, was leaning heavily against the bar, apparently in less-than-sober conversation with a much more lucid-looking Aurora, the little redhead who led the mages in these parts, or at least the ones that didn’t answer to Fiona. He gestured upwards with his cup at both of them, the mercenary returning it with a broad grin and the same, sloshing a bit of ale over his hand and then eyeing his handiwork with exaggerated trepidation, frowning for all of a moment before he shrugged and grinned again. It would appear that there was little dampening his current mood. The corner of Cyrus’s mouth turned up, and he passed through the exit to the outside without issue.

The rest of the Lions weren’t far away, standing in a cluster not too far from where the bard played and Larissa sang. They looked to be a bit under the influence on average, but none among the three of them seemed especially so, particularly not considering the chaos around them. Completely sober were Estella’s Tranquil teacher, Rilien, and his assistant. Tanith, Cyrus believed her name was—she was speaking to him with an amused look on her face, but he, of course, wore no expression at all, though he was tuning a lute. That was bound to produce an interesting result, in any case.

He spotted Thalia weaving into and out of the crowd, but of course she rarely talked to him when she didn’t have to, and he certainly didn’t expect to see much of her tonight. She’d probably be spending it with some pretty little thing or another, as was her wont.

Most of the rest of Haven and the Inquisition seemed to occupy the area close to a bonfire, which burned high and bright against the night sky, bathing those around it in an orange glow more than sufficient to stave off the chill of the evening. Asala and Meraad danced in the light of the fire, both laughing freely and easily as he spun her in a wide circle. Nearby the BenoĂźt child watched with a light smile and clapped along to the beat. Even the commander seemed to have been persuaded to join in the festivities, admittedly with much less abandon than anyone around him. He was talking to Marceline, who had her arms around the man who’d been introduced as her husband, MichaĂ«l. For once, Leon's expression was relaxed; open, even. He appeared to be rather enjoying himself, despite the absence of a drink in his hand. Marceline's hand, however, was not likewise unburdened, but held a goblet of wine, no doubt from the same bottle that hung from MichaĂ«l's.

Sparrow herself was lounging on the outskirts, for once. She'd found a barrel to perch on and was idly tapping her fingers across her knee, looking across the tavern. It wasn't immediately apparent what, exactly, she was looking for, but by the expression on her face, she was mildly annoyed.

Estella was nearby the fire, looking a strange mix of happy and uncomfortable. Happy, perhaps, because of the general festivity. The discomfort was likely due to the fact that a new person seemed to crop up to shake her hand or speak to her every few moments. No few of the exchanges were likely either high praise or requests for a dance, from the way she so often looked surprised and then embarrassed in quick succession, a result he suspected both types would have produced. In any case, she tended to smile politely and shake her head a fair amount, which was unsurprising, given what he knew of her tendencies towards reservation and the deflection of compliments.

She met his eyes, shooting him a look that conveyed something between disbelief and panic, as though she weren’t quite sure what to do with herself.

Cyrus merely met her look with a much more mischievous one and shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. Frankly, he thought she should get used to the attention. It wasn’t like she’d be able to avoid it forever, no matter how little she thought of herself. He raised his tankard to his lips, drawing several swallows down in rapid succession. It tasted almost unbearably cheap, but accomplishment had a way of making anything sweeter.

From out of the swirl of dancing people came Vesryn, devoid of most of his armor, though his cloak, a lighter one than the garish white lion, was still tied around his waist, and several of his leg plates were still attached. His tunic was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, as it always seemed to be on the occasions when he got out of his armor. Evidence suggested that the heat of the fire, the warmth of the bodies, and the pace of the movement had warmed him up enough to risk shedding layers, though he'd have to preserve the momentum to stay that way.

Currently he wound his way over to Estella, the latest in her line of visitors, pausing only to take a breath that needed catching. "Might I succeed where the others have failed?" he pondered, offering an upturned hand in her direction, attempting his most charming smile. "My night is not a victory until I have danced with a Herald. The other one has already cruelly spurned me in favor of another." By his delivery, it was entirely true.

Estella was nothing if not consistent, though she looked slightly less surprised this time, something that said perhaps more of Vesryn than it did of her. Her embarrassment, however, was just as evident, though it did seem accompanied by a shade of amusement. “I should hate to hand you a ‘loss’,” she replied, considerably less dramatically, if lightly all the same. “But this particular Herald doesn’t dance, and it really is better that way.” The declination was offered kindly and in good humor, but it was still a refusal, and she smiled apologetically. “I’m sure there is no shortage of people who will gladly take advantage of my lapse in judgement, however.”

"As you wish," Vesryn said, accepting the rejection quite easily. He withdrew the hand into a flourishing bow, and stepped away. "This is not a retreat!" he called, stepping back into the throng of dancers. "Merely a tactical withdrawal!" The swirling bodies consumed him, though it was not long before the telltale sound of his laughter was heard again.

Cyrus didn’t bother suppressing his snicker, but over the noise, it wouldn’t be audible anyway. He was willing to bet that didn’t happen too often to Vesryn, but from Estella, it was entirely predictable. Skirting the edges of the crowd himself, he attempted to find a way to maneuver closer to the fire without getting caught up in the mass of whirling bodies. His path took him by Romulus, and Khari, who was halfway through a tall glass of something golden in color and looking a bit flush in the face because of it, though that might have just been the firelight. He nodded to both as he passed them by, spotting an ideal perch atop a barrel, one that looked to be empty now but had probably contained beer at some point earlier in the evening.

He stationed himself upon it, for the moment, resting his tankard on his knee, his fingers loose about the handle. If he looked up past the fire, he could still see the faint green scar left by the Breach, and try as he might, he couldn’t avoid thinking about it. They celebrated like everything was over, and perhaps for most of them, it would be. But for him at least, he knew things had only begun. There was still the matter of the Elder One, whatever it was, and the magic that had been used to tear open the Veil in the first place. He could recall with unsettling clarity the feeling of power he’d had from just standing close to it, how intoxicating that had been.

Shaking his head and forcing his eyes down, Cyrus lifted his tankard to his lips and downed half of what was left. He should probably make sure he had a few more of these before he slept. For now, though, he tried to let himself get caught up in the merriment of others, washing around him like water around an island. And for a little while at least, it was good enough to be so near to it.

Tomorrow was another day. But tonight didn’t have to be only a prelude to it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon rarely slept well, and he never slept early, so even after more than half of the troops and citizens of Haven had sought the warmth of their beds, or one another’s, as the case seemed frequently to be, he was still awake, standing a little closer to the dying bonfire than he’d been before. Periodically, he’d throw a few more scraps of wood on it, to keep it burning for those who weren’t quite ready to call the celebration quits yet. Some remained in the tavern, but most of those who were still awake had moved outside by the time the foreign horn sounded down the mountain.

It seemed to draw everyone to a temporary stillness. His own head whipped towards the source of the sound, and he stepped out from around the fire to peer up the mountainside from whence it had issued. He could see faintly the glimmer of hundreds, possibly thousands, of torches, and his heart jumped in his chest, a wash of mixed dread and anticipation flooding his system. He did the necessary strategic calculations without even consciously deciding it, and every outlook was grim. Grimmer, the longer it took them to respond.

He took quick stock of who was in his immediate proximity, and found that there were yet a fair number of people he could use immediately. Haven had three trebuchets built within its defenses, and those would be their best chance of softening up this force, whatever it was, before it reached their doorstep. He was under no illusions that an army of that size was here to negotiate or offer assistance. It was here to kill them, and it was his job to make sure that didn’t happen, impossible as the task now seemed.

“Reed. Get the Lions, have them take command of their units. They’re on the southern trebuchet. Go with them.” The corporal saluted and hustled off towards the cluster of tents where the officers on loan made their camp. Nearby, Vesryn was stepping into his gear about as fast as anyone could don full plate, whilst Cyrus stood from where he’d been sitting, also peering at the incoming force. Asala had a bit of a shellshocked look to her, but he feared that much worse was to come.

“Cyrus, Vesryn, Asala. Take any troops you can get on the way, find Estella, and get to the near trebuchet.” It was the closest by a lot, but they’d probably have to wake the Herald before getting there, which meant they’d need the time they could save. “Rilien—please go to the Chantry and inform Marceline and MichaĂ«l. Prepare a retreat and find us a way out of here.” In truth, the way he saw the largest number of them surviving this was to get out of Haven, but preparing that would take time, time in which they would be forced to fight. The Tranquil dipped his head, speaking too low to hear to Tanith, who nodded as well and remained behind as he headed up towards the top of the hill Haven sat on. Sparrow lingered near the gates, balancing herself on the pommel of her ridiculously large flanged mace, eying the horizon with narrowed eyes and pinched lips. Though she said nothing to the bypassing soldiers, nor to Rilien or Leon's assembled group, it was apparent she was readying herself for combat.

“The rest of you are with me. We’ll be going to—” He stopped at the sound of the front gate being thrown open, and when it was, it admitted Romulus, Khari, and what appeared to be a severely injured Lia. Leon’s brows drew down over his eyes, and he remembered that she’d been sent on a routine patrol earlier in the evening. From the looks of it, the other scout she’d gone with hadn’t made it back.

“What are we looking at?” Though he’d have much preferred to insist she get her wound looked at before reporting, it didn’t look fatal and they didn’t have the time. He needed as much information as he could get as soon as she could get it, and so he silenced his expression of sympathy in favor of bare efficiency. Asala produced a red vial from the satchel she seemed to always carry with her, and pressed it into Lia's hand with a deeply apologetic look before she took leave to follow Leon's orders.

“Venatori,” the elf managed, as Romulus and Khari helped her into a seat. Immediately she drank a small amount of the potion Asala had handed her, swallowing with a grimace. “And templars. The red kind. Together.” Vesryn buckled on his second gauntlet, drawing his axe.

"Well, that’s just wonderful.” He jogged off, to join the others he’d been assigned to.

He couldn’t say it made no sense. Both groups had made reference to an Elder One, and, at least indirectly, an assassination plot. He hadn’t expected there would be near enough of either to constitute an army of this size yet, but it would appear that this was a grave miscalculation on his part. Leon’s jaw tightened. “When you’re done with that, Lia, wake as many of the troops as you can find. Gather them at the gate and position them as well as you know how. Tanith can help with the formations.” He glanced to Rilien’s aide to confirm the order. She was also a mage, so she should at least be able to fix the wound well enough to finish what the potion would start. Lia nodded wordlessly, getting to her feet before half the potion was through, and downing the rest as she ran off, Tanith on her heels.

That left him with Romulus, Khari, SĂ©verine, a few regulars, and whoever was still inside the tavern for the last trebuchet. He was accounting for the possibility of advance troops in sending so many to each of the machines. Hopefully, he was wrong about that, but Leon had learned to plan for the worst and leave the best for hoping. Gesturing for those that were around to follow him, he pulled open the tavern door. Inside lingered Captain Tavish, her first mate Aslan, and a few other soldiers, no few of them blearily waking to the sounds of organized chaos outside.

“We’re under attack,” he informed them curtly. “Get up, arm yourselves as well as you can, and follow me.”

Zahra was on her feet as soon as Leon swept into the tavern. Geared appropriately in her flexible leathers, and swinging her bow from her shoulder, tightening the buckle connected to her quiver. Aslan stood at her side, though he held an impressive axe in his hands, arms bristling with corded muscle. If he was worried about the outcome of their impending battle, he showed no indications. It might've been just another walk in the park. Small, flinty eyes regarded the other soldiers, dwarfed in his presence. She took a deep breath and flashed Leon an encouraging smile, if the small twinge of her lips was anything to go by. She tottered away from the stools, followed closely behind by the others inhabiting the tavern and wove around a few soldiers, rounding up on his side, thick eyebrows raised in question, “We're ready when you are. I don't mind, but mightn't we know what we're facing?

“Venatori.” The reply came from Khari, who’d leaned around Leon’s impressive presence to peer into the tavern. “And Red Templars. We’ve gotta go load the trebuchets, and, you know, be on the lookout for anyone trying to climb the palisade from the flanks and stuff.” She sounded as though she expected subterfuge of that kind, which wasn’t entirely unreasonable. This army was bound to contain shock troops of some kind, and the walls, while sturdy and tall, were not unassailable.

“Can't say I've ever been in a fight this large, but I s'pose it's like anything else,” Zahra wrinkled her nose and reached back into her quiver, tickling her fingers across the feather. Counting off arrows, from the movement of her lips, until she was satisfied, and also drifted to Leon's side in order to see Khari properly. If Aslan's ears could have perked up, they might have, as interested as he appeared in the conversation, drifting closer. He held the axe aloft, inspecting its bladed edge, and finally broke his silence, regarding Leon with a leveled stare, “Where would you like us to go?”

“Follow me.” The words were terse, clipped, and Leon moved away from the doorway, twisting to avoid a collision with Khari and leading the group towards the farther trebuchet. It was in an unready position, being that they’d not foreseen the need to use it yet. The crank behind it would turn it in the proper direction, but doing so wasn’t their only task.

The sound of wood splintering in a burst drew Leon’s attention, and his head snapped to the wall, part of which had just been caved in by some kind of controlled explosion. Several red Templars were the first through, followed by half a dozen Venatori, and further dull booms indicated that this breach of the defenses was not the only one. The Seeker ground his teeth, particularly when one hulking creature filed in behind the rest, its body, perhaps once human, now a towering mass of red lyrium more than anything else. It couldn’t have been any less than ten feet tall, by his estimation, its arms heavy clubs of blood-colored crystal.

“SĂ©verine, turn the trebuchet! The rest of you, keep them off her!”

Leon took a deep breath, feeling the shift inside himself, the way his every sense seemed to expand, and a primal violence welled in his chest, urging him forward, suppressing his tendencies towards gentility and flooding him with the unquenchable desire for blood. A red mist fuzzed the very corners of his vision, but the rest of it only grew sharper, the colors more vivid and defined, and his nose flooded with the scent of iron and fire and fear, thick and pervasive in the air over Haven.

He charged.

Despite her lack of armor or her usual weaponry, Khari was the next one off, charging after him and peeling off to the left, where she rolled out of the way of a heavy swing from one of the other templars, springing to her feet and planting her knife in the armpit he exposed with the swing. He went down, and she scooped up his battle-axe, bounding back into the fray with a snarl.

Romulus was also underprepared for the fight, but managed to grapple one of the Venatori to the ground, where he drew the man's sidearm, a short curved dagger. After ending the zealot's life by cutting his throat open, Romulus withdrew and kept watchful eyes on the unfolding melee. SĂ©verine had begun working to turn the large trebuchet towards the enemy masses beyond the wall, her templars throwing themselves into the conflict against the army that faced them. The Red Templar behemoth crushed the first unlucky templar to attempt facing it, crunching the man into a distorted shape of metal and torn flesh.

Aslan bulled ahead with a startlingly loud howl. One that might've given fleshy men pause, if they weren't out of their heads with red lyrium. He dragged his axe behind him and planted his feet, swinging the axe around to shear a man's head clear off his shoulders, flicking a clear spray of blood behind him. Shouldering the body aside, the bulky Qunari faced the Red Templar behemoth and danced away from a disfigured fist swinging towards his head. For someone so large, his experience in battle was evident by the way he danced to the creature's glowing side, hunkering under another nasty blow and coming up behind him with a response of his own.

Bows were best utilized on the outskirts, so Zahra took her position at the rear and bounced around their own soldiers, who were all barreling towards the Venatori and Red Templars. She notched the first arrow and drew it back against her cheek, eyes feverishly bright, and loosed it into the closest Venatori's head. The man didn't seem to know he was dead, because he stumbled ahead a few paces, blinking rapidly and fell at Khari's feet. The Dalish woman barely seemed to register his presence, stepping over him without noticing him, as such, driving her pilfered axe into the leather chestplate of one of the Venatori in much the same way she swung her cleaver-sword on any other day. Zahra turned her attention towards Aslan and the hulking mass of crimson gems, loosing three arrows in quick succession, though they did little more than ricochet off its grotesque body. One, at least, thumped into its fleshy elbow. A glowering snarl sounded, accompanied by more arrows hissing by her companions head, aiding them in felling oncoming enemies.

Though Leon had initially charged the behemoth, landing a blow heavy enough to issue spiderweb cracks through part of its lyrium surface, he’d been quickly surrounded by others, templars and Venatori alike, as they rounded on the largest, most immediately threatening target, and they were proving much more tenacious than the average man, perhaps an effect of their morale. He only barely registered the tactical thought, which sounded in some part of his mind that was distant now. Much more immediate was the sound of his heart in his ears, and the immediate action-and-reaction taking place in front of him.

An incoming longsword left a bloody slice on his unarmored shoulder, and his hand snapped up, closing around the wrist attached tightly enough to turn his knuckles white under his gloves. They bled again, from impact with the jagged lyrium crystals, but he didn’t notice it as more than a minor inconvenience, one that might cause his grip to become slicker than he liked. Twisting, he wrenched the Venatori’s arm out of its socket, and, unburdened by plate, shifted his weight to kick another square in the chest, sending him back onto his rear for someone else to end. An arrow whizzed by over his shoulder, but he remained unflinching, dismissing it as a non-threat and driving his fist up into the throat of the man with the dislocated arm. He fell clutching at his crushed windpipe, and Leon flowed forward to the next foe, kicking a third in the back of the knees while she was distracted with her efforts to engage Romulus.

The hiss of displaced air followed by the sound of squelching and a wet crack signified the end of another red templar slightly behind him, Khari having taken up a position at his flank, though not too close. She breezed past him after that, though, bringing the battle-axe over her head and heaving it down upon the behemoth, who turned at the last moment and raised a stony arm to block, sending her blow aside with a ringing clang. Khari staggered backwards, her momentum momentarily halted, and leaving her open to the Venatori shield that slammed into her side, taking her to the ground.

The Venatori engaging Romulus didn't live much longer, as he brought a knee swiftly up into her helmet, rattling the woman's skull around with a dull clang. His knife found her throat as she fell back. Romulus had earned himself a few new scars from slashes from the battle, undoubtedly a result of his poor armament and perhaps even his inexperience navigating battlefields with this many combatants. He did manage to pick out Khari upon the ground, and rushed to assist, tackling the Venatori warrior from behind, the two of them collapsing to the ground in a murderous struggle.

"It's lined up!" came a cry from behind them. SĂ©verine drew her sword and moved swiftly around to the trebuchet's release, slicing it with a chop and releasing the counterweight of the siege engine. Though they were the ones currently besieged, the trebuchet hurled a large stone chunk out. There was a heavy thud in the distance, and cries of agony echoing over the battle, but if the attack had any significant effect, their enemies weren't showing it. SĂ©verine scooped up a second sword from one of her fallen troops and waded into the fray, slicing through several unaware enemies with ruthless efficiency.

"That thing needs to fall!" she called out, referring to the Red Templar behemoth, still smashing anything that came too close, barely discriminating between friend and foe. SĂ©verine stabbed her sword into the back of the Venatori entangled with Romulus, allowing him to get back to his feet and move away from the tower of muscle and red lyrium before them.

The hulking Red Templar swung its scythe-like arm down in a wide, clumsy circle, growling more like a beast than a thing that had once been human. It shivered and stepped into a corpse, crushing it beneath its foot. Unheeded in its pursuit of bodies to crush and maul, it lumbered towards Khari and Romulus, mouth agape in a red, glowing socket. Though its movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, it hardly reacted to the blades clattering off its contorted limbs, occasionally swinging its smaller arm like a claw. Zahra continued pelting arrows into its shoulders, knees, elbows, and one that thudded into its neck, seeking any weakness, without much success. Like a drunk stumbling for purchase on the ground, the Red Templar behemoth bumbled forward and appropriated its momentum to swing its lyrium-encrusted hand against the ground. It bellowed once more, and turned abruptly, hefting its arm towards Leon's unprotected back.

It was Aslan who shouldered Leon aside, raising his axe in front of his face, palm planted against the flat of the blade to present the brunt of the blow. As far as preventing the lyrium-scythe from rendering him as dead as that contorted soldier, he'd managed to hold his ground. The upper portion of the blade had curved itself into the Qunari's broad shoulder blade, deep enough that both seemed pinned in place, with the axe biting into the creature's shoulder. One of his meaty fists maintained the hold on his axe, while the other had snaked out to grappled onto chain-links clanging through the creature's chest. Portions of the lyrium crystals bit into his mauve flesh and bled freely down his forearms, and the top of his head. His horns had prevented them from going straight through his cheeks.

A rippling scream sounded over the din of battle, “Kill the fucking thing.” Zahra's fingers moved in meticulous, practiced movements, sending arrows into chests and foreheads, a clear attempt to pave a path towards the immobile pair.

The deadlock broke quite savagely, when Leon leaped atop the behemoth, wrapping one of his arms around its neck, still much softer and more vulnerable than the rest of its body. He flexed the muscles in his arm with tremendous strength, pulling his hooked limb back towards him, using both his strength and his considerable weight to cut off its air supply. As it turned out, even mostly-lyrium monsters still needed that, and though it took several moments, its hold on Aslan eventually slackened, its arm withdrawing and its body collapsing ponderously to the ground, Leon still atop it. He didn’t relent until he knew it had died, rather than simply falling unconscious, at which point he rolled off it and to his feet, breathing heavily and deeply, like a blacksmith’s bellows.

The Behemoth's arm retreated from Aslan's shoulder with a sickening suck and nearly took the Qunari with him in a tumble of limbs, though he sunk to his knees instead. His breath came in wet gasps, sifting from bleeding lips. There was a moment where it appeared like he was trying to stand using his axe as a brace, but his shoulders hunched forward and slumped. Bright eyes swam upwards, searched for something far off. His axe clattered from his twitching fingers. It didn't take long for Zahra to find herself scrambling to his side, fingers smoothing over his skin in desperate strokes, as if she were trying to hold in his wounds, and prevent the inevitable from happening.

A sort of breathlessness overtook him as Zahra babbled against his shoulder, “No, no no no. Aslan. Aslan. You're okay. You're fine. They'll patch you up. Asala, she can—” His answer was a hacking cough and a slow nod, followed by a small, knowing smile. His ragged breath drew out in a long sigh and as suddenly as he'd been there, Aslan slowly slumped to the side, dragging Zahra along with him. The howl that escaped her sounded as inhuman as the Behemoth's roars, an ugly, poignant sound that muffled itself into the Qunari's jawline. If she had any inkling of impending danger, it appeared as if she didn't care.

There were several seconds of poignant silence, pervasive somehow even despite the fact that battle continued around them. For a thick, heavy moment, the only noises in the area were the ones Zahra made, but they could not remain to mourn. Haven was still under attack, and all their lives still at risk.

It was Khari who stepped forward first, approaching the captain much as one might approach a wild animal, cornered and wounded—cautious, but resolute. She swallowed thickly, laying a hand on Zahra’s shoulder and flexing it in a soft squeeze that became an insistent tug. “We can’t stay, Zee. They’re still coming.” She hesitated, pushing a gusty breath out between her teeth. “Your crew can’t lose you, too.”

At that moment, a sound not unlike scraping metal, amplified hundreds of times, ripped through the air, and a fine tremor shook the ground, just enough to be felt beneath their feet. Khari’s eyes went wide, and she glanced back down at Zahra, grimacing and shifting her grip to bodily pull the petite captain, no bigger than herself, to her feet.

“Hate me later. We don’t want to meet that like this.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
Panic set in immediately and clutched Asala's heart. The deafening roar of something terrible doubled her over and forced her hands to her ears to try and drown out the sound. It didn't help, of course, she could feel the ferocity of the cry in her bones, she could feel its hate. Eventually the roar subsided, but the dread she felt did not. Slowly Asala took a step back, but her foot caught something and she was thrown backward. She landed on top of something, and when she turned to see what to what it was, the dead eyes of a Venatori soldier stared back at her. She cried out in surprise and scrambled away from the charred corpse.

She reached the trebuchet and used it to pull herself to her feet. All around her, the scene was the same. Bloodied and charred Ventori, broken and shattered red templars, and even some of the Inquisition soldiers lay dead around them. But all of that only garnered her attention for a moment, as the sound of the massive wing beats drew her eyes upward. A great black dragon with leathery jet wings flew silhouetted against the night stars. Asala's eyes went wide in fear and terror, causing her to slip back down to the ground, her back pressed against the trebuchet and her gaze pinned upward.

She watched it descend and sink its talons into a another trebuchet, wrecking it like it was made of nothing but rotten wood. Panic seeped in again, this time with a shot of adrenaline, and she pushed herself up from the ground and quickly took a few cautionary steps away. Over the din of everything, she could still hear the cries of battle and the ringing of metal against metal. She turned and found Cyrus, her eyes wide and confused. She didn't know what to do any more, and she looked to him for direction.

His attention too was pinned on the dragon, but he wore no expression of fear. Rather, Cyrus seemed to be studying it, a sharp stare following its wheels and turns in the sky carefully. He was mouthing words, though it was impossible to tell what they were, or if they had any volume at all, over the din of battle. When the dragon passed temporarily out of sight, his eyes fell back down, and only then did he seem to observe the chaos around them for the first time, flicking his gaze back and forth between each component of their situation rapidly, absorbing the information and processing it.

A muscle in his jaw jumped, and his scrutiny fell on her briefly, before skittering to Estella and then the rest. He looked like he was about to say something, loud enough for everyone to hear this time, but it was at about that point that a small cluster of other soldiers stumbled upon the site, all in various states of woundedness. “Fall back to the Chantry!” The words were hasty and slurred, but nevertheless effective. “Commander’s orders!”

“You heard him, let’s go.” That seemed to be mostly directed at Estella and Vesryn, but then he glanced to Asala, gesturing up Haven’s hill with a sharp tilt of his head as he turned.

Vesryn withdrew away from the thickest fighting, his spear coated in blood, and much of his armor spattered as well, though he was moving quite efficiently, a sign that he hadn't suffered too much in return as of yet. His axe as well was dripping dark red, and even small bits of red lyrium crystals clung to the blade of the weapon, from where it sat upon his back. He moved back swiftly, always keeping his shield towards the enemy, his helmet darting left and right to watch his path as he moved.

"I'll watch the rear," he stated, leaving no room for argument. A reckless Venatori found himself skewered upon the spear, and Vesryn shoved him off onto his back with a kick from a metal boot. "No time to lose, we can't get cut off." He was clearly referring to the fact that elsewhere the Venatori and Red Templars were finding more success, and starting to break through into Haven, where they could run rampant. It would get very messy soon, unless they could fall back and find a better place to hold them off.

Estella was covered in cuts and scratches—they’d pulled her out of sleep and she hadn’t had time to don much more than a leather cuirass and boots before they were off again, and the lack of protection had hurt. All things considered though, the wounds were light, and it was obvious enough that she’d somehow avoided the worst of all of them. Looking between the others, she nodded, leading the way forward. Their path took them towards the gate first, after which they’d be able to go up the hill, past the tavern again, and then to the Chantry.

The scene that met them upon approaching the gate was not a pretty one. There were fewer corpses here, but the gate itself was clearly but a few blows from caving inward. Spotting Lia and Tanith in the crowd, Estella shouted out. “Fall back to the Chantry, everyone! The Commander’s called a retreat!” As if to punctuate the statement, the heavy wooden gate groaned in protest again as it was struck from the outside—presumably, they were using a battering ram.

Most of the soldiers looked quite glad to be going along with that plan, but Tanith looked at the gate for a long moment before turning back to Estella. “If we don’t hold them here, you won’t have enough time to get out before we’re overrun. Some of us must stay, and I will stay with them.” Quickly, she turned to the soldiers. “Men and women of the Inquisition! Who among you will remain, that your Herald, and your brothers and sisters in arms, might live to fight another day?”

There was a moment of heavy silence, but then a woman stepped forward, her shield to the fore, and saluted Estella with her sword. “For the Inquisition.” Several of those who’d been standing closest to her followed, with various affirmations of for the Inquisition, for the Herald, or even for Thedas. No few of these people had been wearing broad grins earlier in the evening, celebrating with joy and abandon, but there was no trace of that now. In the end, Tanith had two dozen footsoldiers with her, and they all rearranged hurriedly so as to be in front of the gate itself, forming a wall of shields and spears, those in the back line drawing bows and pointing them for the door. In front of the rest, Tanith lit a flame in one hand, a dagger held in a reverse grip in the other, and glanced over her shoulder.

“We’ll hold. The rest of you—get to the Chantry. And tell Rilien I’m sorry, would you?”

Estella’s face twisted into an expression of clear pain, and she looked almost as though she intended to protest, but in the end, something stayed her tongue, and she nodded solemnly to them. “I will. Thank you, all of you. Fight well.” Her voice nearly cracked, but she managed to hold it steady. The need for haste was still apparent, however, and she turned from them then, jogging up the hill with the rest of the group and the remainder of those who had been posted at the gate.

Asala quietly followed, her eyes wide in shock. It was all too difficult to process what was happening, and she didn't truly understand it all. There was smoke and blood in the air, and deeper into the town the crimson of fires burned. She felt empty and numb, her feet moving on their own behind Estella and Cyrus. As they drew closer to the Chantry, the clash of steel reached her ears, and she looked up to see a small cluster of Venatori. They must have found a breach somewhere within the wall. Their armor was covered in scarlet and around their feet lay multiple bodies-- not all of them soldiers of the Inquistion. Amongst the pile, Asala recognized the face of Adan, the alchemist who'd aided her.

Her hand covered her mouth and she choked back a sob. Her legs trembled and threatened to buckle under her own weight. So distraught was she, that she didn't see the Venatori archer draw his bow, his arrow aimed at them.

The arrow flew from the end of the bow, its trajectory straight and unerring, at least until there was another body in front of it, Cyrus leaving afterimages behind as he pulled through the Fade to the spot, the luminous sword in his hand swinging in a controlled arc that snapped the arrow in two, the halves of it flying off in different directions. The bolt of lightning that he shot from his free hand cooked the archer in his armor, and the cultist dropped heavily to the ground.

“Asala! Focus! We’re not done yet!”

She shook her head, hard, and her eyes focused. Closing her eyes she forced everything to the back of her mind and drew her hands up. A Venatori with a large sword rushed them, and in a moment, the fade lit up in her hands. A barrier formed feet in front of him and surged forward. He attempted to hew through the shield, but the sword bounced off and left hairline cracks in it, but it continued to bowl forward regardless. The barrier struck the man at full force, throwing him back first into the ground hard. The wheezing he let out caused Asala to wince, but otherwise she did not back away.

The fight was a short one, in total, and the last Venatori soldier fell before Estella, a saber-stroke opening a broad gash on his neck, gushing arterial blood onto the snow. Her expression was grim, but resolute. “It’s not far now; let’s go.” She took point again, leading them up the last staircase and onto the highest level of the town itself, where they could glimpse ahead of them several others standing by the Chantry doors.

There were a lot of maroon tunics in the mix—it would seem the Lions had made it this far as well, and from the prominent scorch marks on their clothes and the soot-covered civilians that they herded inside the building, their progress here had been no easier than anyone else’s. As the group approached, they drew the attention of the mercenaries, who looked quite relieved to see them.

“Thank the Maker,” Donnelly said as they approached, breathing a heavy exhale. “Commander Leon’s lot are inside already, and we’ve got most of the civilians and remaining troops as well. You should hurry—he’ll want to speak with you.” He gestured for the group to head inside ahead of himself and the other Lions.

The small Chantry was brimming with people, civilians and soldiers alike. There was a loud clamor of multiple voices all speaking at once, and in various states of panic. The unrest felt within the building was palpable, and Asala wanted nothing more than to close her ears and drown it all out. But she didn't. Instead, she threw herself into work. As they approached the leaders of the Inquisition, Asala stopped and began to heal all of those that needed it. The work helped take her mind off of the panic in her heart, and the focus helped drown out the dread.

As she helped a soldier with a large gash in his side, she watched as the others approached the Inquisition's leaders. Marceline stood with her arms crossed and a thin frown on her lips as she spoke to Leon and Rilien. It seemed she had just been roused from bed, as she still wore a black nightgown, though she also wore a thick coat that was far too big for her and a pair of thick leather boots. Nearby, her husband rested heavily against a pillar, a thin line of blood falling from his temple, and a pair of swords hanging limply from his hands. Larissa comforted Pierre with a firm grip on his shoulders and whispering something into his ears. Leon was fully armored now, his arms crossed over his broad chest, but when they entered, his eyes were immediately upon them, and a fraction of the tension left his frame.

Rilien looked the same as he ever did, still unerring in his calm, though not too far away, Khari seemed considerably more agitated, pacing restlessly. She too was fully armored now, and wearing her familiar cleaver-like sword. Her expression brightened for a moment upon seeing them, but then her eyes moved to the cluster of the Inquisition's leaders, as though she were waiting for something.

Leon said something to his fellow Inquisition leaders, too low to hear properly, and then nodded shortly, drawing in what seemed to be a very deep breath indeed, before he gestured to Asala and the rest of the irregulars, both those who’d just entered and the ones who were already there. Once everyone had assembled in a rough circle, he began to speak, his voice low enough not to carry much further than their ring of people.

“There isn’t much time until they reach us, as I’m sure you're aware.” He glanced up, towards the doors, where several Inquisition soldiers were at work fortifying the entrance to the Chantry with whatever was available, setting up an inverted ‘v’ of pews, a traffic control tactic that would likely do no one any good in the end. “I don’t know who this is or where they got a dragon, but we’ve no hope of holding Haven.” He shot a glance to Marceline.

She shook her head and drew the coat tighter over her shoulders. "We have our essential supplies packed into carts and the horses are ready..." She said before she hesitated. She threw a wary glance over her shoulder and toward her son and husband, before she returned it to the group. Marceline sighed heavily before she continued. "But, we have nowhere to escape to. We would not make it out the front gate before we were cut down." Though her face betrayed no emotion, her grip on the coat noticably tightened. "And I do not know of any other way out of Haven."

The group was interrupted at that point by an approaching Reed, who half-carried Chancellor Roderick, one of the clergyman’s arms slung over the corporal’s shoulders. Roderick’s white vestments bore a very obvious red stain, though it would seem he wasn’t currently bleeding. Rather, his face looked wan, bleached of all color, and a healer as experienced as Asala knew he was dying from blood loss.

“He said he had to talk to you, Commander,” Reed offered to Leon, whose brows drew together over his eyes.

Asala quickly moved to Roderick's other side and gestured for Reed to gently lower him into a sitting position on the ground. Once there, Asala's hand lit up in a healing spell and she moved it over the wound. She tilted her head toward Leon and gave him a curt shake of his head. It... did not look good, and she doubted that he was within her power to save, but it would not stop her from trying. She focused in on his wound and began to try and help as much as she could-- at the very least, she could dull the pain.

"Charming girl," he said, having apparently caught the look she gave Leon. Roderick patted her gently on the head before he weakly turned her head toward Leon. "Ser Albrecht," he began, before wincing in pain. "There is a way. You wouldn't know it unless you've taken the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must've shown me," he said weakly, but still tried to reach his feet. A steadying hand from Asala and a constant healing spell at his said, she helped guide him up.

"Andraste must have shown me so I can-can tell you."

“What do you mean, Chancellor?” Leon’s tone seemed to waver between gentle and stern, as though he could not quite resolve the tension between the urgency of their situation and his evident sympathy for the cleric. “Shown you what?”

“It was whim that I walked the path,” he replied, his mind clearly not at its usual alert capacity, which was probably the result of the wound he’d taken earlier. “Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one that remembers
” He wheezed, a sound that might have been a rueful laugh, had he the lung capacity for it. “If this simple memory can save us
 then this could be more than mere accident.” He turned his head, clearly making an effort to fix his eyes on Romulus and Estella. “You could be more
”

“Will it work?” Estella asked urgently, training her gaze on Rilien and Leon. The commander turned to the Tranquil as well, perhaps trusting his instinct in clandestine retreat better than his own.

It did not take him long to consider. “Possibly. If you can show us the way.” His expression remained devoid of any readable traces, until he turned the scant bit needed to move his citrine eyes from Roderick to the others. “But it will take time, and the opposition must be occupied while it occurs.” The gravity of what he was saying was apparent in his pitch, somehow, though he didn’t modulate much at all. He was saying, clearly enough, that some group of people would need to remain behind and distract the encroaching force while the rest escaped. And the prospect of those people escaping was near to nothing.

"So we give them something they’ll be drawn to, as bait,” Romulus cut in, buckling on the second of his bracers. Estella looked as though she’d been about to speak, but yielded the floor when the now battle-geared assassin spoke up instead. His weapons were soon in his hands, making his next words perhaps less surprising. "I’ll go, with a few others maybe. I could try to reach one of the trebuchets, turn it towards the mountains behind us. Hit the right spot, and
” He pushed his hands down, a gesture symbolizing an avalanche as best he could make it.

"Bury them in the village they want to take?” Vesryn said, grinning slightly as he leaned on his spear, though he appeared largely uninjured. "Not a bad plan for our escape, but that doesn’t leave you with much of one.” Romulus had a look of steel in his eyes, and yet at the same time it had softened. Aggression towards the enemy, out of desire to help friends, perhaps.

"I was going to be gone in the morning anyway,” he admitted, glancing at Khari. "But this is a choice I can make. One choice of my own. I want it to be a good one.”

“I’m going with you.” That was Khari, and she said it with iron in her voice, a tone that left no room for protest. It didn’t take long, though, for that impression to almost dissipate, subsumed under her usual carefree demeanor, complete with reckless smile. “Can’t well run away while my friend goes off to fight a dragon and fire a trebuchet at a whole mountain, now can I?” She put one fist in her other palm in front of her chest, cracking her knuckles and shaking her hands out, shifting deliberately from one foot to another, as though to make sure everything was working the way she wanted it to.

Romulus simply nodded, offering no objection, and smiling slightly, as though unsurprised.

Estella glanced back and forth between them, still looking a bit like she’d swallowed something that didn’t agree with her, something tightening around her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. Leonhardt didn’t seem especially pleased, either, but clearly he believed that the suggestion made sense, and he nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said at last. “Give me a moment; I’ll see who among the others would join you—skilled as you are, the distraction needs to last, or it will be for naught.”

He left them there for several minutes, during which he made a short circuit of the room, returning with four Inquisition regulars, looking nervous but resolute, and, surprisingly enough, Grand Enchanter Fiona. She nodded to the group, smiling grimly. “I failed to protect my people once,” she explained, “I will not do so again.”

A pair of horns muscled their way toward the group and Meraad emerged with his arms crossed and his head tilted to the side. After a moment of him glancing between them, he nodded. "I will join you."

"No." The healing spell in Asala's hand cut off abruptedly and caused Roderick to wince as the pain rushed back. She shifted his weight so that Reed was left holding onto him again, and she moved toward Meraad. "No, you will not," she stated firmly as she stood in front of him. The frown she wore was deep and wide and she held his wrists as tight as she dared.

He simply smiled and shook his head. "I am, and I will." A muscle tightened in her jaw and she was about to refuse him again, but he silenced her by pressing his forehead gently against her. "For you, Kadan. I have to make sure you escape safely." With that said, he withdrew and threw a glance back at Romulus and Khari. "Someone has to make sure they come back," he said still smiling. "We will be fine. I promise," he said, kissing her forehead.

She was quiet after that, her mouth open but she didn't know what to say. She stared at him long and hard before she spoke again. "You... promise?" she asked, to which he nodded. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she went into the pack at her side. She retrieved a container and pulled the lid off to reveal a white, paint-like substance. She dipped a pair of fingers into it a scooped some out.

Without needing her to ask him, he leaned forward and she drew a pair of lines across his forehead with the vitaar, and another pair down his forehead, across his brow, and all the way to his jaw. He then offered her his arms, and she drew another pair of lines down each of them. When she was done, she replaced the lid, slipped the container back in her pack, and took a step backward. She was on the verge of tears, before she threw herself into his arms.

"Come back, Kadan," and with that, she returned to Roderick's side and resumed the healing spell, throwing herself back into her work.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
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Estella had lost track of how many hours, how many miles, the Inquisition had walked since departing Haven. Their progress was understandably slow, considering the number of wounded. The cavalry’s horses, the ones they’d managed to round up for the retreat, had been given over to the injured, as had any spare space in the two supply carts they’d been able to muster in enough time. It wasn’t a lot, wasn’t near enough, but it was something. She supposed she should feel comforted by that, but she really didn’t.

As it had done so many times before, the necessity of continuing to move forward kept her from collapse, but it was a near thing. She simply led Nox, burdened down with two injured soldiers, along the trail the wagons had forged through the snow, near the back of the procession. The other Lions slogged nearby, she knew, but she hadn’t made eye contact with anyone for most of the time they’d been walking.

Now, they drew to a stop, far enough away for those in charge to feel comfortable making camp, and knowing that they had to, lest the injured become the dead. Handing Nox off to one of the soldiers so he could help the others down, Estella moved forwards into the camp and started to help pitch the tents, few as they were, the largest one devoted to the care of the wounded. Her hands moved mechanically, methodically, without any thought at all, because she was trying very hard not to have any. A few others laid all the blankets and such that they had down on the floors, and she caught sight of Leon and Hissrad assisting with the carrying of the most gravely hurt to the tent, where she expected Asala and Donovan and some of the other mages would soon be hard at work.

It would be nice, to have a use at a time like this. A real one.

When the tents were pitched, Estella helped dig a fire pit, then ventured out into the snowy landscape to find wood to burn in it. At present, no one told her she shouldn’t, because they couldn’t spare anyone the work needed to get the camp set up as soon as possible. Every time her thoughts wandered to the avalanche’s thundering down the mountainside into Haven or the sight of that dragon flying away, she shook her head and refocused, scanning the landscape for another dead tree or brush sticking up from under the snow. Every time she thought of Khari or Romulus or the party who held the gate, or Fiona or Tanith or Asala’s brother Meraad, she threw another branch over her shoulder and trekked it back to the site, not pausing before she struck out again.

Every time she thought of the people who’d died so that she could live, she took a deep, shuddering breath, and another step forward. What else could she do?

Each trip back to the fire pit brought her back to Cyrus, who’d started it with his magic and was now tending it, coaxing it to grow as large and warm as possible, feeding it gradually from the pile of wood she was bringing in so that it would burn long and steady. He’d also altered the shape of the pit, so that the outer perimeter of the fire could be used in several places for heating snow into drinkable water and cooking, things of that kind. He seemed to be doing so now, actually, a large cauldron set near the center of the flames, which licked up its thick, cast-iron sides. Several bags of supplies lay near where he sat, and water was beginning to boil in the cauldron, prompting him to begin adding other things. From what he had, it seemed their meal would be a thick stew of some kind.

Rilien could be seen on another side of the fire, steadily at work brewing potions, from the look of it, though his kit was quite small, probably being the only version of it he’d been able to stow on such short notice as they’d had. Already, though, several glass vessels were full and stoppered, stuck into the snow to cool rapidly for consumption. Larissa worked nearby, aiding him to the best of her abilities. Several other members of the Inquisition were hard at work building up a snow-wall to protect the camp from the worst of the wind, especially considering that there would not be enough tents and blankets for everyone. Out of those helping build the wall stood Sparrow, no worse for wear, possibly sporting a new wound or two, but it seemed as if she'd come out of the battle with all her limbs intact. Through chattering teeth and the occasional colorful cuss, she smoothed her fingers across the impromptu bricks and turned towards the nearest man to settle another brick in place.

Marceline had changed out of her nightgown, and now wore something more appropriate for the environment: a thick black dress and heavy leather boots. She kept Pierre close as they moved through the camp, handing out the water to those who needed it, one of whom was her husband, Michaël. He sat heavily against the cart, another soldier working to patch the cut that opened above his eye. When not watching his family, he seemed to gaze off into the distance, with a glaze to his eyes.

Zahra had positioned herself on the outskirts of their makeshift base camp. Mumbled something about keeping her eyes on the horizon in case any dragons flapped over the mountains, though if that were the case, everyone would know without her say so. In any case, they hadn't directed her anywhere, and allowed her to slink off by herself. She hadn't changed out of her bloody leathers, nor donned any warm cloaks. Hers had burned along with everyone else's belongings back in Haven.

She'd refused treatment from any of the healers, and upon close inspection, there wasn't anything inherently wrong with her. No physical wounds, no new scars, nothing at all. She hunkered herself down in the snow, just outside one of the tents, hands wrapped around her knees. Chin tipped across her knees, lips set into a hard line. The Captain looked less like the intimidating woman who had born down on the Inquisition, lips perpetually drawn into that shit-eating grin of hers and more like a lost little girl, motionless and unusually silent.

Eventually, on one of Estella's trips to retrieve more wood, though they had acquired enough for the fire to last already, she found Vesryn already out there, separated away from the rest of the group as well. There were scouts still about as well, those not too severely injured, but for the most part, they were beyond the earshot of anyone within the camp, especially when speaking softly, gently, as Vesryn did.

"I won't pretend to know what you're going through," he said. He looked uncomfortable himself, obviously unsure how to proceed. His hands rested upon the blade of his axe, his eyes hovering with concern over Estella. Throughout all the fighting, somehow he'd managed to only acquire a single, minor wound, treated by a tight wrap around his left arm near the elbow. "But if there's any way I can help, any way at all, please, tell me."

His words brought her up short, and for a moment, she struggled to understand their meaning. That, after all, required something more than automatic motion. When they finally clicked into place, though, she cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably where she’d stopped and looking at her feet. “It’s not me,” she murmured softly, and then she forced herself to look up, meeting his eyes and smiling awkwardly. “I’m not the one to worry about right now, I think.” In the end, all she was doing was feeling sorry for herself.

Asala was the one who’d lost a brother. Zahra had lost her most stalwart crewman, a member of her family. Rilien had lost one of his oldest friends. Romulus and Khari
 they’d lost their lives, they and so many others. Probably everyone here had lost someone—a compatriot, a friend, a family member or a lover. But now she was thinking about it, and she hadn’t meant to do that. Estella felt a hot sting at the back of her eyes, and dropped them again, gulping in a deep breath, trying to blink away the moisture and failing.

“Sorry, I, um.” She used the heel of her left hand to wipe off her cheeks and exhaled a shaky breath, trying not to let herself get caught up in her emotions. There were certainly a lot of them, dark and churning through her head like a violent tide.

Vesryn was quick to set down his axe against a nearby tree and cross the space between them, such that he was within arm's reach. "Listen." He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly, and ducking his head down a little so that they'd be closer to even in height. "There are dozens of reasons why you're worth worrying about right now. And only a few of them have to do with you being a Herald, or important, or anything of the sort." He spoke the title almost dismissively, as though in that particular moment it meant quite little to him indeed.

"Here's a reason for you: you're a good person. A selfless person. I've seen it. And you had to witness people make sacrifices that our blighted circumstances stopped you from helping with, or lessening. To me, that's something far more heavy to endure, and not something Asala can magically make go away." His other hand rose to her other shoulder. "I can't cast any spells, and I don't know any of the others enough to help them. But I hope I can help you. I want to."

She swallowed thickly, trying to fight down the lump that was forming in her throat. Vesryn’s face swam in and out of clarity as more tears gathered, and still she fought them back. What he was describing
 all of them had needed to witness that. He’d know—he’d been right there the whole time as well. So why was she the only one who couldn’t seem to handle it right now? How was it that everyone else was still moving, still doing what needed to be done, when what they’d suffered was at least as much as what she had?

How was it that none of them were blaming her for it?

“Don’t die then,” she said, struggling to force the words out in some steady, comprehensible way. “They died because I’m the Herald. Because they believed that this—” she held up her right hand, where the mark glowed even through her glove—“made me worth that sacrifice.” Not all of them, maybe. Certainly not Rom or Khari, but the majority of the Inquisition’s soldiers
 “Please.” She met his eyes, blinking to clear hers and make sure she had them, her voice cracking and fading to a whisper. “Promise me you won’t die for me.”

Even to phrase it that way sounded absurd to her own ears, like the height of arrogance. To presume that anyone would bother. But at the same time, she knew that many of them had. For the Herald, they’d said. She couldn’t bear it.

Vesryn actually smiled, exhaling a soft, breathy laugh. Her emotion was obviously proving somewhat infectious, though he managed to keep it within himself much better than she did. "Come here." He pulled her into an embrace, wrapping one arm around her, the other pressed against her dark hair. "I'll have you know I'm very good at not dying. I have plans to grow old and grouchy, entertaining hordes of adorable little children with tales of my heroics." There was a glint of light in his eyes, but whether it was tears or amusement was difficult to say. Likely a bit of both. She huffed weakly, something that might have been a laugh in better circumstances, and tentatively returned the hug, making obvious effort to keep her breathing steady.

"I will not lay down my life for a title anyone has, or a magic ability they wield. I have another life in my head to protect besides, remember? But she gave me the skill to follow in her ideals, and they would have me oppose whatever force tried to obliterate us tonight." He broke the embrace so that he could have her eyes again, swallowing. "And they would have me do everything in my power to help you succeed."

“Okay.” Estella nodded shakily, but she was gradually regaining the feeling of having her feet properly beneath her, of having a way to go forward, and the declaration was as much for herself as for him. She knew from experience that as along as she had a way to go, she could keep going until she was numb and half-dead. She’d done so before, in ways both literal and figurative. What they needed to do now was decide which way forward was. She knew at least one thing that had to happen for that, too. Maybe
 maybe he could help with that, as well.

“I-in your travels
 have you ever come across anyplace big enough to hold us? Somewhere we could go, without imposing on anyone else?” She knew of a few old mercenary forts that stood empty across the Orlesian countryside, but none of them were large enough. It was possible that he’d once encountered some ruins that were, or perhaps Saraya knew of some. “If we’re to have a hope
 we need somewhere to plant ourselves, all of us together.”

Vesryn nodded thoughtfully, but didn't seem surprised by the query. "We've given some thought to this. There is a place that I can show you. It's far from here, to the north. It'll be a hard journey through the mountains, but I can show you." He looked tentative about the next part, taking a step back and letting his hands fall to his sides. "I believe it will serve the Inquisition well... but I don't know how the Inquisition will react, having an elf lead them to a home. I can lead troops in a battle, but I can never be the heart of this Inquisition."

He shrugged. "That, more than ever, needs to be you. I'll be there, step for step, but I think you should lead the way."

“What? No.” There was more than one thing in that to protest, but she felt most strongly about a particular piece of it. “You two are the ones who know where it is—everyone should know that it’s your doing that gets us there.” It was, of course, impossible to explain Saraya to everyone, but Vesryn at least should be acknowledged for what he contributed to the cause. “I’ve no reservations following you if you know where to go, and neither should anyone else.” If the title and everything that came with it were to do any good, at least she should try and lead by example, in this case, the example of accepting help and wise counsel, whether it came from an elf or not.

"Think about this," he urged, still gently. "The Inquisition suffered a blow, a hard one, but one that it can still recover from. But it will never rise like it needs to without a leader. I don't believe you were chosen by Andraste, but I don't need to because I know you. The world must believe it, and they won't if they hear that the lone Herald of Andraste followed an elf every step of the way. The right thing to do here... it has to be giving these people the hope they need. It doesn't matter if Andraste chose you or not. You have the ability, the opportunity, to make their hope real. And I believe you can do it."

Anguish morphed her features. “That’s the same lie that just killed hundreds of people,” she replied, just as gently. “And I have to tell it again?” She shook her head slowly, her brows knitting tightly over her eyes. Even if she wasn’t saying it directly, by not denouncing it, she was allowing it to stand uncontested, which was enough of an endorsement. Deep down, she knew he was right, or at least, she suspected he was. She knew it was the same advice Marceline or Leon or Rilien would give her, but it didn’t make her feel any less like dirt.

She exhaled heavily, her breath clouding in the chill, and felt a new weight settle over her shoulders that had nothing to do with hauling wood. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to do this, to let people believe this, before she cracked under the pressure of it. But if she had to be the bad person here, the liar and the fake
 would it be worth it, for what they achieved?

Estella had to believe it would be. Had to believe the lie and the false front would be enough to accomplish what they needed to. She lamented that she wasn’t strong enough to do this as herself, but she couldn't be. To most of them, she would have to be something she wasn’t; she’d have to let them believe it. Just long enough.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll
 I’ll lead. But you have to be next to me. If I can’t follow you
 everyone else can.” She tried for a half-smile, shrugging one shoulder. “The world needs to know that’s possible, too, the sooner the better.”

He smiled, the expression coming more easily to him, as it always did. "I've no problem with that."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
A week of travel had taken its toll.

The Inquisition was drastically undersupplied, even in terms of camp equipment, and on most nights, the vast majority of its people slept outside, under their cloaks with their bundled gear by way of pillows, if they had any. Leon had done his rotations outside with the soldiers, and he knew that Estella and the other officers had done the same. The lack of good rest made the days even more wearying, and the horses and carts necessarily went with priority to the injured, leaving most to trek the snowy miles by foot. A large number of the most gravely wounded had succumbed to their injuries or infection or the cold—there simply weren’t enough potions and healers to go around.

For all that, though, they’d kept going. Part of it was undoubtedly the fact that every time one of the regulars looked up and forward, they could see their Herald at the front of the column, breaking the ground over which they would eventually tread, the other leaders fanned out behind her. Periodically she would consult those nearest her, and she called breaks in trekking regularly, but at the conclusion of every one, she was walking forward again. Even that much was enough to make clear that the Inquisition, like its remaining leadership, yet had purpose, destination, and the will to reach it.

But after a long week slogging through the mountains, even the most faithful believer in the cause grew nearly unbearably weary, and that discontent was beginning to seed in the ranks, many of whom could be heard to wonder aloud why they had not simply turned east, for the Hinterlands they already held, or west, towards potential allies in Orlais. Either would have been far warmer than this, and safer. They’d nearly lost one cart to a narrow and unstable pass already—it would have been a loss they could not sustain.

Fortunately, he had the suspicion that they neared the end of their trek. It was something he read off the way Estella’s tread lightened, the way she’d smiled the last time she’d paused to update directions from Vesryn. Presently, they crested another rise, sundown almost upon them, and Leon halted at the sight below.

Farther down the path before them lay a castle.

Composed of grey granite, it wasn’t enormous by the standards of such constructions, but it wasn’t modest, either. Connected to their present course by a stone bridge over a deep chasm, the castle proper was perched firmly upon the top of another rise, one that stood apart from the mountains to two of its sides, the third side falling off sharply down into a canyon beneath. It was eminently defensible from the ground, the only way in through a system of gates on the bridge, protected by guard towers.

It had roughly eight towers, two in the back considerably larger than the rest, as well as the central building, which was twice as broad again, but perhaps fifty feet shorter, lending it a sense of symmetry. It was hard to make out from this far, but the grounds within looked expansive enough to contain all the things one would expect: bailey, stables, smaller buildings; enough space for a village’s worth of people, at least. Leon noted also that several of the towers looked to be on the verge of collapse, and would need immediate attention from a mason, or rather many of them. Then again
 it was probably quite old.

"We certainly have a project ahead of ourselves, yes?" Lady Marceline stated as she pulled up beside him on her black Orlesian Courser. Behind her, Michaël led another, this one bearing a dozing Pierre. Though she spoke the words, she still seemed relieved to have finally reached their destination.

“So it seems,” he agreed pensively.

It was still a relief to see it at last, and as he trailed in the wake of the Herald, he couldn’t help but turn back periodically to assess the reactions of the others. They seemed, for the most part, both impressed and bolstered by the sight of their destination, and that eased his worry a bit. It wasn’t near the end of the work they had to do, but at least things like roofs, beds, and baths were in the foreseeable future, now. He knew from experience that these were the things that beckoned most to soldiers weary from long, hard marching.

They deserved this. To be able to sleep indoors, warm and comfortable. To not have to huddle close in hopes of conserving what warmth was to be had, or rotate with their fellows for the spots closest to the campfire. After what they’d been through, they deserved a fair bit more than that, as well, but Leon knew it was important to focus on one thing at a time for the moment.

The gates themselves proved old, but mostly still in working condition, and they were able to get all three of the ones across the bridge raised, and funnel their people, animals, and supplies through without difficulty. The bridge was missing a few chunks out of the side, which made for more careful going in places, but the underlying structure appeared quite sound.

After the final gate put them in a wide area of shriveled brown grass and weeds, Leon directed the carts be placed under a stone overhead seemingly designed with the purpose in mind, and then they were unloaded, quite quickly considering how little there was to unload. The scouts came back shortly after with an idea of which buildings were immediately accessible, which fortunately included what had to be the barracks, so the regulars had somewhere to set their things, anyway.

While they worked on settling in and getting off their feet for a while, Leon gathered some of the others to himself in hopes of making a more detailed survey of what they were working with. Cyrus and Asala should stay with the healers and continue tending the wounded for the moment, and he didn’t want to disturb Zahra, but himself, Rilien, Marceline, Estella and Vesryn might as well figure out what they now had.

“Might as well start with the main hall, I suppose.”

It was Rilien who tried the door first, and though it stuck initially, it opened when he put his shoulder into it, a cloud of dust billowing about at its motion for the first time in what might well have been centuries. The group stepped inside, to find that the situation with respect to the castle’s condition was even more dire than had been evident from the outside. The chamber they entered had vaulted ceilings as grand as any architecture in Orlais, but that was, for the moment, where the similarity ended.

This room, like the rest of the building, was built primarily from grey stone, likely pulled at some point from the mountain itself, and much, though not all of it, had remained intact. The room was longer away from them than it was wide, and clearly once served as a receiving hall. A dais at the end of it seemed poised to hold a throne, and the depressions along either side would serve well for long tables.

Of course, all of the wood in the space, and much of what must have once been its furnishings and decorations, were in utter ruins. Massive beams of wood lay over the floors, rotted and torn fabric dangling here and there from splinters or else lying strewn over the ground. It was impossible to tell so much as what color they’d once had, so advanced was their decay. The smell was not as bad as it could have been, considering, but the thick layer of choking dust over everything made breathing a labor nevertheless.

Rilien, at least, seemed unperturbed, scanning over the features of the chamber with no detectable feelings on the matter. “We ought not risk moving too much of the debris, but some of these doors are unblocked.” Several flanked each side of the hall, and he was correct that at least half of them looked to be useable without risk of further damage.

Marceline's eyes were turned upward, as though she was worried their intrusion would bring the roof down around their ears. However, a few more steps into the main hall seemed to have settled her as she instead looked toward a door on the left side of the hall. She pointed toward it and turned back to look at the others. "Shall we?" she asked. She then began to pick her way through the debris, careful to not to trip over anything, to reach the door in question. She took its latch in hand gingerly and gave a pull, but it fought against her and refused to swing wide. She huffed a little and pulled again, this time putting more weight into it until something snapped. Instead of swinging open, the door's rusted hinges snapped and tipped forward toward Marceline.

Vesryn found himself in the opportune place and swiftly reached armored hands out to catch the door, subsequently trapping Marceline in a rather small space between the flat surface of the door braced by his palms, and the chest of the elf himself. He laughed a bit uncomfortably, but did not seem displeased by the development. "Fear not, my lady. I will prevent such a low, dastardly foe as this door from marring your beauty." There was at least enough room for her to slip out, if she were willing to duck and squeeze. Which she did.

"That would be a such shame. My thanks, Ser Vesryn," she said with a smile. Grunting, he shifted the door to the side, and set it up against the wall.

With that dealt with, they entered through the now bare door frame and through another door that did not break into a side room. The room itself was of moderate size, with one half built three steps into the floor. The upper part of the floor made a pathway that led to another door at the far end of the room, while the lower part held a grand fireplace built into the wall. Like the main hall, the floor was littered with splinters of wood and torn pieces of fabric. Marceline descended the steps into the lower part of the room and placed a hand on the fireplace. As she ran her hand across the mantle, she looked around studying the room. Once she was done, she turned to face the others.

"If we are to stay here, then I will keep this room in mind for my office, if you all would allow it," she said, allowing her hand to fall from the mantle. The fireplace seemed to have found a way into her heart.

With the room thoroughly inspected, she took the steps onto the upper landing and continued to the doorway at the far end. Once through the portal they were met with a long hallway built onto the contours of the mount they were on, by the way the floor rose upward by a set of two stairs. To the right, windows were built into the wall, but the glass that once filled them were long gone. Near the end of the hall, the wall gave way to crumbling masonry, allowing them a good view of the mountain range to their side. Marceline frowned as she looked at it and shook her head, her displeasure clear.

Estella simply gave it a careful berth, skirting around the structural deficiency and towards the door at the end of the long hallway. She was careful with it, perhaps seeking to avoid a repeat of Marceline’s ill fortune, but she needn’t have worried, for the door opened easily, if with a grating squeak of hinges. She winced, glancing back over her shoulder at the rest of them. “Sorry.”

Leon suspected apologizing was a reflex for her at this point, so he simply shook his head, following her into the room on the other side.

It was quite spacious, semicircular at the far end, and contained a bank of vertical windows on that side, most of them at least partly broken out as well. Here too was the same evidence of former furniture and furnishing, now destroyed, as well as some clear weather-damage, where rain or snow had worn away at things over long decades of no maintenance. What might have once been a massive chandelier was the main piece of debris in the room, broken and scattered in all directions.

“You know, it’s almost like the place was attacked,” Estella mused, stepping carefully over various chunks of debris to the windows. It looked like they faced out to the mountain behind. “Or maybe just
 ransacked, after it was left last.” It was hard to imagine bandits all the way out here, but Leon had to agree that it did look like that way. Furniture didn’t rot itself into smashed condition, after all.

“Well, let’s hope it suffers no such ill luck whilst we’re present, shall we?” he replied wryly. The room would do well as a meeting one, though—he’d been able to save most of his maps from Haven, and a new table for them would easily fit in here; there was standing room for as many people as he could imagine needing to address at once, in such a situation. It would seem that, however much work it required beforehand, the castle would at least be able to meet their needs.

“What’s this place called, anyway?” Leon asked, glancing between Estella and Vesryn.

"Tarasyl'an Te'las," Vesryn answered simply, though he seemed well aware that further explanation would be required. "I expect that wouldn't do for a name to spread far and wide, of course, and the fortress itself is Ferelden, not elvish. The words mean 'the place where the sky was held back.' For our purposes... Skyhold, I think will do."

“Skyhold it is, then.” Quite the grandiose name, really, but the that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Now
 they just had to get it in the kind of shape that deserved the designation.

“
we’d better get to work.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
It was a few days after they had reached Skyhold, the name the leaders of the Inquisition had given the castle they now resided in. One of the towers near the corner of the compound was cleaned out and was decided to be stable enough to be of immediate use. Currently, the floors were littered with mats, blankets, and cots with the injured laying atop them. Asala had found a small table still intact on the grounds and had brought it inside to hold all manner of potions that Donovan, Milly, and some of the other mages were able to save from the attack on Haven.

Beside that was a cauldron that held enough water to give all of their patients. Presently, Asala stood at the table, her back hunched over so that she could reach the bottle. She was mixing a potion for one of the soldiers who had their leg broken from a nasty fall due to some of the stones on the wall giving away. Meanwhile on the floor next to her, the tranquil Milly was hard at work constructing a cast for the man.

With the potion mixed, Asala turned and crossed the room to where the man sat with his back against the wall. Groans and mumbling came from all around her from soldiers with afflictions. There were many with fevers and pneumonia due to the cold they had to trudge through. Donovan and the other mages made rounds to aid as many as they could, but they were clearly understaffed and under supplied. Even now, Aurora and some of the others were out beyond the castle walls to try and find herbs that they could use. She knelt by the soldier and put a comforting smile on her face before she offered the potion. "This will help with the pain and the healing," she explained, guiding it to his mouth and helping him drink it.

The smile faded as she stood and allowed Milly to take her place and begin to gently wrap the leg in a cast. She returned to the table and reached for another bottle to begin the process again, but she missed and knocked a bottle over, clattering against another. She jumped out of surprised and let out a low squeak, but fortunately she did not break anything. She was still tired, even when they had stopped moving and with a roof over their heads. She was too worried to sleep, her mind awash in thoughts she'd rather not think.

She placed the bottles upright again, and before she was able to return mixing, a firm hand descended on her shoulder and she turned to Donovan's stoic face. "Go rest," he urged. Reflexively her mouth opened to refuse, but before she could get a word out, Donovan cut her off. "Go. We will be fine," he said. She hesitated for a moment, but by the grip he had on her shoulder, he would not take no for answer. Finally she acquiesced, taking her leave through the door and out of the tower. She did not make it far, however, plopping down against the wall beside the door.

There were dozens of people moving about outside, as was to be expected, given the mountain of work that was yet to be done. Some noticed her odd positioning by the door and offered sympathetic smiles, their arms burdened down with debris or, going the other way, measured beams of wood or masonry supplies and who knew what else. Clearly, the Inquisition’s leadership had wasted no time in requisitioning whatever they could as far as essentials.

It wasn’t long before two much more familiar faces approached. Leon looked the slightest bit apprehensive, but he was carrying a wooden tray in one hand, covered over by a metal dome with a handle at the top. Estella had a bundle of blankets over one arm and a pillow tucked under the other. They both looked a bit surprised to see her where she was, but glanced at each other wordlessly, then approached.

“Asala?” Estella spoke first, her voice soft and gentle, almost difficult to hear until she took another few steps, to crouch beside her, shifting the burdens in her hands slightly so that one was free to gently touch Asala's arm, at the bicep. “Are you all right? Can you walk a bit farther?”

"I am fine, just... tired," she said. By the ways her words were drawn out and the bags that stayed under her eyes even after they reached Skyhold said that she was more than just tired. Still, she kept it bottled away for the moment and put a hand against the masonry behind her to help her to her feet. She was unsteady at first, catching Estella's shoulder to help find her legs under her again before she nodded an extending a hand, allowing Estella and Leon to take the lead.

Leon did lead, but Estella stayed back by Asala’s side, keeping a light contact with her elbow—little more than a brush of the fingers, but close enough obviously to become a stronger effort at steadying if she proved to be in need of it. As promised, they didn’t go far, only to the next tower, which was also in relatively good shape.

Entering it brought them into a small hallway, with two doors on either side. Leon took the first one on the left, which opened up into a comfortably-sized room. Clearly, some work had been put into it—the floor had been swept, washed, and then covered in a thick, plush rug, patterned in red and orange. Against the far wall, which also sported a window with a latch, was a wooden bedframe and a currently-bare mattress. A desk, stuffed armchair, and small bookcase completed the arrangement, most of the furnishings looking either new or like someone had gone to a fair bit of work making them useable after a period of time.

“It’s not much,” Estella said, half-smiling and moving to deposit the linens and pillows on the bed, “But we wanted to give you someplace that would just be yours. We’ve had people building bunks and the like since we got here, but
 uh.” She glanced at Leon, who shrugged.

“I can wait for an office chair.” Now that he had the opportunity, he set the tray down on the desk. “We brought you lunch, also. We’re
” he hesitated, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“We’re worried about you.”

"What? Why?" she asked, genuine confusion in her voice. "I am fine, r-really," she said, though she noticably swayed. She had put so much of herself into her work lately, that she no longer felt exhausted, only numb. Her mind worked faster than it should've and all of her thoughts jumbled into an inchorent mess. It was fortunate she manged to find a thread and follow it.

"There are others..." she said, pointing back the way they came. In another moment of confusion, she did manage to take a moment to look at the room they were in, before shaking her head again, "I-I-I cannot. It is too nice. Wh-what of you? Estella? Do you not need a room? Leon? Surely there is someone who needs it more than me," she asked.

Leon was quicker to her side, but despite the urgency of the initial movement, he was extremely careful in his contact, laying one hand on her shoulder and the other at the center of her back, gently guiding her into the chair, perhaps from fear for her continued stability. “Everyone who needs a place to sleep has one, or will soon,” he assured her. “There’s no need for you to be concerned about that.”

He removed his hands once she was safely lowered into the chair, and took a half-step back, probably out of respect for her space, but Estella was a little less reserved in that respect, crouching on the opposite side of the chair and resting a hand on Asala’s knee. “I’m fine,” she confirmed softly. “I’m less sure you are. Asala
 it’s been nearly two weeks. I’m just
” she swallowed thickly. There was no need to ask what she was talking about. The solemn silence that had descended over the three of them was indication enough.

"He promised," Asala said quietly, her hands neatly folded into her lap. It was what kept her up the nights since they escaped Haven, and was why she pushed herself so hard now. She had hoped by throwing herself into her work, she wouldn't have time to think, and by the time she was done she would be too tired to dream. It had not been like that. She still thought of it in between brewing potions, and those very same thoughts kept her from her sleep, despite how tired she was. Even so, she still believe Meraad would come back, and soon. "It is... Haven is a long way away. He-he just hasn't had time to get here yet."

He always came for her. Back home, he'd be the one to pull her from her studies. He found her in Haven after the Conclave was destroyed, and he'd find her again, at Skyhold. He was too impatient not to. She only wished he would hurry, she was tired of worrying for him.

“Miss Asala
” Leon’s tone was heavy, and sounded almost as exhausted as she felt. “Rilien’s already sent agents to search Haven and the surrounding area. The only people alive there are Venatori.” He said it as gently as possible, clearly well aware of how terrible the news was. “I’m sorry—more than I can say. He made a sacrifice few would be brave enough to even consider. But that’s what it was: a sacrifice. And I think you know that, too.”

Asala shook her head vigorously, throwing white strands of hair into her face. "He promised," she repeated again. "They-they cannot find him because he is... he is on his way. Here. Now," she said, though the pain was beginning to blossom in her face. "They all are. Romulus and... and Khari. He promised," despite herself, the tears began to flow from her eyes, which she quickly tried to wipe away. She didn't believe it, she couldn't believe it. She had to believe that they were somewhere in the mountains they had trekked, on their way there.

Neither bothered to argue the point with her, perhaps because the damage was already done. Estella smiled sadly, then patted down her pockets, brows furrowing slightly. It wasn’t clear exactly what she was doing until Leon beat her to it, handing her a clean handkerchief from one of his own, which she accepted wordlessly, adjusting herself so that she was half-sitting on the arm of Asala’s chair, dabbing gently underneath her eyes to help blot the tears away.

“Maybe,” she conceded in a murmur. “But you can’t go on like this, Asala. You can’t let the waiting drain you as it is. You have to sleep, and eat.”

"I am... I am not hungry," she said in between sobs, pushing the tray with the silver dish further up the desk. "I-I am so-sorry. I just... I just really need to be... be alone for now."

Estella sighed, almost imperceptibly, but then she nodded. “Okay.” She folded the handkerchief and placed it on the desk, squeezing Asala’s shoulder and rising from her spot. “If you need us, we’ll be here.” Clearly, neither she nor Leon were going to insist on remaining present, and they took a discreet exit thereafter, the latter closing the door carefully behind him.

With Estella and Leon having left, Asala no longer had to hold herself together for their sakes, finally allowing the tears to fall freely. She picked herself up from the chair and threw herself heavily onto the bed where she began to sob heavily. She cried until she fell asleep.

This time, her dreams did not hold any happy moments for her.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
“My, my. Don’t you look official.”

Cyrus could tell from one look at Estella that she was not at all comfortable in her current raiment. Someone had made her a light shirt of polished, silverite ringmail, which fell almost to her knees. Her trousers were ordinary dark linen, but russet and gold fabric was predominant throughout the rest, with a few touches of red. Her chestpiece was dyed leather, impressed with the Inquisition’s heraldry, the all-seeing eye and the blade of mercy, as well as designs thematic of flames and the sun, which carried through to her pauldrons and the silk sash that took the ringmail in at her waist and held her sword. The part of the shirt from the waist down was layered over with a skirt of sorts, an abstract sunburst in yellow patterned onto darker orange. Her boots were the color of her other leathers, banded in silverite for reinforcement. She’d bound her hair back into an Orlesian-style braid, which trailed down the rather impressive cloak behind her. It was all the sort of thing someone of status would wear to an official function, which was precisely what today was to be. Naturally, his sister likely thought it all beyond what she deserved or was suited to.

Deserving was such a peculiar notion. He couldn’t say he really understood whatever version of it she operated with. At the moment, however, the abstract thought wasn’t the one that occupied him, and he plucked a pin off the table and moved forward to her side, flattening a little flyaway hair down atop her head and using the pin to secure it in place. He was himself back in indigo and black silk, much more at home in such things than she was. He, of course, had to look presentable as well, because he was now the brother of an Inquisitor, something which amused him a great deal more for her obvious apprehension than anything else. Something about Estella’s discomfort with attention had always struck him as slightly absurd, and funny, but he knew it wasn’t so for her.

So when he stepped away from her, he gentled his smile and took her hands, lifting them to press his palms against her own and lace their fingers for a moment. He ducked his head slightly to meet her eyes. “Everything’s going to be fine, Stellulam.” His eyes narrowed, and his tone was lighter when he continued. “They can’t be any more unbearable than me, and you already have that problem well in hand, don’t you?”

She half-smiled in that way she had that wasn’t quite all the way to happy, and shook her head ruefully. “Not everyone out there is my brother, Cyrus. And you’re not unbearable. Just
 difficult.” She was joking with him, at least, which was a good sign, perhaps.

Still, it didn’t take long for the sense of unease to return to her, and she sighed shakily, her hands tightening in his. “I don’t suppose you know some back way out of Skyhold, do you? So we can escape if there are riots?” That joke, at least, fell flat, symptomatic of the all-too-serious way in which it was delivered.

Cyrus raised both eyebrows, letting his reply remain ambiguous between jesting and complete seriousness. “Stellulam, the day you genuinely want out of all of this, I will carve you a path out of Skyhold if I have to.” He tilted his head to the side and blinked down at her.

“But today, I think, is not that day, despite its trials.” When she didn’t correct him—of course she wouldn’t—he dropped one of her hands and moved himself sideways, adjusting her other so that it rested on his forearm. “Now. Please allow your first loyal subject to escort you to all your new ones.” Escort was really too formal a term, since all they’d be doing is entering the main hall through one of the side doors, but nevertheless, appearances were important.

She took the opportunity of their positioning to elbow him in the ribs before resettling her hand on his arm. “Don’t even start with that,” she scolded him, though a fair amount of the disapproval in her tone was exaggerated. Estella sucked in a deep breath and straightened her spine, giving him a short nod to indicate that they could proceed.

The door they were behind in the first place led right out into the front part of the hall, which necessitated a bit of a procession forward to the far end with the dais, but then, this had likely been deliberately arranged. The room had been one of the first repaired, and was now decorated in much the same warm palette of colors as Estella was wearing, a dark crimson carpet runner aligned with the path up to the modest throne that now sat atop the dais.

Estella’s step hitched beside him; likely someone had neglected to inform her of this particular detail, though her face didn’t change. Members of the Inquisition were variously standing or seated at the sides of the room, where twin long tables had been set with matching chairs, and new chandeliers hung over each, to complement the light pouring in from the elegant stained-glass windows behind the throne. It would have quite the effect, once someone was seated in the chair itself, which was designed to complement the rest of the dĂ©cor, hammered metal and a flowing design giving it the gleam and depth of flame, particularly when it reflected light from elsewhere.

Though there was far from enough room to admit the entire Inquisition force in the main hall, there was certainly a large portion of it, including all the officers, most of the irregulars, and all three of the organization’s subdivision leaders, the last of whom stood just beneath the dais.

Cyrus ascended the first few steps with her, shifting effortlessly to take her hand and guide her up the last few to the top without him, smiling up at her with a distinct sense of mischief and winking so only she could see, backing down the stairs to land on a level with the rest, leaving her to stand in front of the throne by herself, facing the crowd.

Lady Marceline was the first to move after that. She took long, deliberate steps to deliver her below Estella and the throne, when she turned to face the gathered Inquisition forces. She wore an immaculate black dress stitched with silver embroidery and the Inquisition Heraldry sewn onto either shoulder. Her hair held gentle curls and seemed to have been groomed especially for this occasion. In fact, she seemed to have prepared for it extensively. Dark eyeliner lined her bright ocean blue eyes, and her lips were painted an intense cherry red. She stood with a regal bearing with her hands folded against her stomach.

The moment was allowed to simmer as she did not immediately begin speaking. Instead, she looked into the throne room, meeting the eyes of many of the individuals that had gathered, a gentle but proud smile on her face. She was silent for a time, but when she began to speak, her words carried all throughout the room. "Those of you who have gathered with us here today," she began her hands motioning along with her words, "We are the Inquisition," she continued, her hand turning to a fist, "Those that would stand before us will soon realize that we will not be defeated so easily, not when our hearts still beat and we still draw breath!" she paused to allow for a swell of voices.

"Haven was a defeat," she said, solemnly, before her voice began to rise again, "But it was not the end! The Inquisition still lives. We will rise from the ashes of Haven, stronger and more determined. We will step forward with a righteous fervor, and continue forward until the enemies that sought to eradicate the us lay behind us! Men and women of the Inquisition, will you follow?" She asked to the agreement of all of those in the throne room.

She smiled against and glanced backward to Estella before she continued. "But we cannot do so without a leader, a shining light to follow in the darkest of days. A light that has already guided us from the ashes and to this place that the Inquisition now calls home. It is her example we should follow, her kindness we should remember. Our Herald. Our Inquisitor," she said, a genuine smile on her cherry lips.

Marceline turned to Leon and accepted a golden sword by the blade. It was ceremonial in nature, its hilt intricately designed to hold the impression of a dragon. Turning back to Estella, Marceline gazed up and held the sword out horizontally for her to take. "Lady Estella Avenarius, will you lead the Inquisition?"

Estella stood tall, holding herself with a poise Cyrus knew she believed to be mere affectation, and when she reached forward to accept the blade offered to her, those closest could see that her hands shook. She took it as it was presented, horizontally, and then stepped back a pace.

“I will,” she replied, her tone velvet-coated iron, heavy with resolve and soft with her natural inclination towards reserve. She shifted her grip on the unwieldy object, tilting the blade down until the tip of it balanced on the floor, putting both hands on the hilt, which rose to the center of her chest.

“Lady Inquisitor Avenarius.” Leon spoke solemnly, projecting to be heard by everyone, and bowed at the waist towards her, holding the position. The rest of the room took its cue from him, one by one inclining themselves or taking a knee where they stood, raising their fists to their hearts. Cyrus himself placed his open hand there, sweeping low. Silence pervaded for several heartbeats, until she spoke again.

“Rise, Inquisition,” she said, and they did, to find that she wore a smile, gentle and mild. “I will lead, but I will not do so alone. Here beside me now stand people who have made all of this, our efforts to close the Breach and now our efforts against the Elder One, possible. Here before me now, and out beyond this room, strive others, without whose support the Inquisition would falter and fade. A leader is nothing and no one without those that follow her, and I’m no different.”

She lifted her chin, to look down towards the end of the hallway. “And with us now are two people whose accomplishments, whose contributions to the cause, deserve great recognition, and more grandiose words than these. Knight-Captain SĂ©verine Lacan and Miss Aurora Rose, please approach.” This part, at least, she seemed more comfortable with. He supposed that was because she'd be able to shift the attention away from herself for a while.

Aurora approached with a smile on her face, not directed to Estella the Inquisitor, but rather, the Estella beneath the title it seemed. They'd known of each other long before the Inquisition was a thought in someone's mind, and even a small bit of pride seemed to be in Aurora's face as she looked up to the new Inquisitor. The woman, while not a circle mage herself, wore the finely made robes of an Enchanter.

SĂ©verine's approach was not as openly friendly as Aurora's, though it was genuinely proud, and tall. Her Knight-Captain's plate was polished to a glimmering shine, robes freshly cleaned and smoothed. Her ebony hair was draped about her in several separate braids, purely for ceremonial purposes. She stopped beside Aurora, gauntleted hands clasped behind her back.

Estella’s smile inched fractionally wider. “Both of you came to the Inquisition as our allies. The leader of the Free Mages of Thedas, and a Knight-Captain of Kirkwall’s Templar Order. And those things you will remain. But
 I would like to ask you also to become something else. You’ve both proven your courage and skill beyond the shadow of doubt. If you are willing, I would have each of you take the role of Captain in the Inquisition’s army, so that you might continue to lead your fellows in our name.”

She shifted the ceremonial blade to one side, holding it in her left hand. “Will you swear your loyalty to the Inquisition, to serve the people of Thedas, until such time as the threat it rises to meet has been vanquished and it is dissolved?" She said the words carefully, deliberately, and the silence from all the rest of the gathered was absolute, not so much as a shifting of a chair or a throat clearing to be heard from anyone.

SĂ©verine was the first to take a step forward, and she settled down upon a knee, shifting her hands atop it. "It would be my honor, Inquisitor." The lines of her face were hard, and genuine. A new scar from the battle at Haven rested across the bridge of her nose. "For those that have already sacrificed all, I will continue to serve, until the threat has been destroyed, and the peace restored."

Aurora's acceptance wasn't nearly so grand. She followed SĂ©verine to her knee, her smile slipping away into something far more solemn. "I will," she said simply, but firmly, inclining her head at the words.

Estella inclined her head and raised the blade, touching first each of SĂ©verine’s shoulders, and then each of Aurora’s. “Then I give to each of you the title and rank of Captain, and all the rights and responsibilities it carries with it. Rise, and join your fellows.”

When they had departed to the sides of the room, Estella seemed to hesitate, for just a moment. The plan here had simply been for her to dismiss the assembled, allowing them to go about their business so that she could go about hers, but she did not immediately do so. Instead, her eyes dropped to the floor for a moment before she raised them again and cast them out over the soldiers. “I know that it still seems bleak,” she said, and she swallowed visibly. “What we all saw that day—all those soldiers, and a dragon, and everything else
 it’s hard to keep hoping for the best after seeing something like that. After losing your friends, or comrades, or people who were family to you.”

She frowned grimly, and shook her head. “And I know that it took courage, to keep going after that. Any one of you, any one of us, could have chosen to give up then, to let the responsibility for this fall onto the shoulders of others. You could have gone home, to your families and the people you love and the lives you knew, and held all of that close to you, in a way that those we lost can no longer do.” Her grip on the sword tightened until her knuckles were white. “And we’re asking a lot of you. I’m asking a lot of you, when I ask you to take on faith that this can be done, and that we will achieve it.”

She was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I can’t express to you how grateful I am that you’re still here. Still willing to fight for this. Nothing I can say or do will be enough to thank you for the choice you made, the one you make every day you remain. But I
 I can make you a promise. I promise you that I’ll never give up, on this or on you. Whatever happens, however grim this gets, whatever becomes of me, I can keep going. Because I know that you’re willing to do the same. This isn’t my Inquisition—it’s yours. And when we defeat the Elder One
 that victory will not be mine.

It will be ours.”

Cyrus started the applause, half-smiling and clapping his hands together twice. That was all it took—the rest of the crowd joined him soon afterwards in a generous swell of noise. It would seem something she’d said had resonated with them. Perhaps all of it had. The words weren’t the most elegant or poetic, but they were genuine, and honest, obviously so, and he suspected that was what stirred them most of all.

With the ceremonies having drawn to a close, most of those present were dismissed, and returned to their regular duties. Some remained, for now came the other part of the day’s events: Stellulam was to sit in judgement of the Inquisition’s prisoners, and Cyrus could not claim to be looking forward to the first item on the docket.

For these purposes, less formality was required, and Estella was relieved of the ceremonial sword, though she did have to actually sit on the throne, which provided him with another flicker of amusement. Once everyone was settled, the eyes in the room turned to Marceline, who had the list of matters to be addressed. He knew well what was on it, but there were certain procedures that had to be observed regardless.

Marceline gazed down at the list, which had been delivered to her by Larissa moments ago with a clipboard. "Lady Estella," she began, looking up from the clipboard as she spoke. "You, of course, remember Cassius Viridius of Tevinter, yes?" It was difficult to forget the man. "Ferelden has allowed us to keep him within our custody. The formal charges levied against Lord Viridius are attempted enslavement of the Free Mages of Thedas, as well as attempted assassination against you and others of the Inquisition."

Behind them, the rattling of chains signified the man in question being brought in. "Tevinter has since publicly denounced his actions and stripped him of his rank due to these crimes," she explained though there were a flutter of her eyes. It seemed that she did not put much stock in Tevinter's denouncement.

Estella’s brows visibly furrowed, and she glanced over at Cyrus, concern clear in her eyes, but she turned back directly afterwards, regarding Cassius with an expression best called thoughtfulness. “Have you anything to say on your own behalf, Lord Viridius?”

Time in the Inquisition’s custody had done little to erode Cassius’s natural dignity, and even cuffed in manacles with his feet bound together, he stood tall and commanding. He appeared to regard those around him carefully, but with an ill-concealed disdain. The question brought his attention to Estella herself for perhaps the first time since he’d entered. There was a certain irony in the picture they made: once, Stellulam had stood before the Magister on his throne, and petitioned him for his cooperation. Now, it was he that stood before her, and she that was throned, however uncomfortable Cyrus knew she was there.

He had to admit, he liked this version of the image a great deal more.

When his teacher spoke, it was in a voice raspy from disuse, but still genteel, the Imperial accent clear without being thick. “We all make choices. Sometimes, we choose imprudently. I acted to protect my House and my family, and I do not regret that, nor do I apologize for it. Kill me if you will, but I shan’t confess any wrongdoing.” He seemed resigned at least to the fact that his fate was truly in her hands, but he quite evidently yet retained his pride.

It would be a cold day in a Seheron summer before Cassius ever admitted that anything he did was wrong. That much had never changed. Magisters did not apologize. They did not regret, either—at least not publicly. Sometimes, they chose poorly, but that was always the fault of incomplete information or unpredictable circumstance, never the Magister. To admit error was to admit weakness, and weakness was fatal in the Magisterium and the decadent culture of nobility that surrounded it. Better to risk death at the hand of someone generally benevolent than to expose one’s bleeding wounds to the sharks in Minrathous.

Estella wore an expression that was melancholy, but not surprised. She’d been raised at the very periphery of that world, but no one was truly free of it. Pursing her lips, she moved her eyes from Cassius to Leonhardt, Marceline, and Rilien. “You know as much of his deeds as I do, and he brings nothing further in his defense. What would you do?”

Leon scowled slightly, shaking his head. “Truthfully? I’d let Ferelden have him. He ran the Arl of Redcliffe out of his castle, and they’re not particularly amenable to us right now, either. Handing him over may ease Arl Teagan’s soreness, and he has the ear of the King.” She considered that for a moment, then looked to Lady Marceline, who nodded her agreement.

"It would certainly go towards easing over our relations with Ferelden, and we will need as many allies as possible."

“Kill him.” That was Rilien, blunt and monotone as usual. “Ferelden would do the same, and remanding him to their custody would cause the impression that we either lack the authority or the will to punish him. At this early stage especially, we cannot be believed to be missing either one.”

Cyrus had not moved his stare from Cassius the entire time, and now the old man was looking back at him, too, as though expecting him to agree with the tranquil. And really, perhaps he should. He’d certainly been in that frame of mind when Cassius had first surrendered; only Stellulam had stayed his hand then. He doubted she would want to kill him now, either, and wondered if she would do it. He figured she’d see little distinction between ordering it herself and sending him to Ferelden to receive the same.

That was one very rare way in which they might just be alike. Memory seized him momentarily, and he glanced down at his own hands, at the ghost-image of the blood that would always be upon them, when he looked the right way. There was part of him that hated Cassius, had hated him even before all of this. But he wondered if that was the only part there was. Could even he truly despise someone who’d raised him, more a father than anyone he’d ever known? Which part was more despicable: the part that did, or the part that didn’t?

With a sharp breath, Cyrus snapped himself back to the present, speaking abruptly. “Killing him would be a waste. Letting Ferelden do so would be marginally less of one, but still much less use than he could be.” He let that sink in a second, then continued dispassionately. “That man, for all his many faults, is one of the most brilliant magical minds in Thedas. One of two people to ever succeed in the manipulation of time, and a scholar of towering intellect. He’s not to be trusted, but he can be relied upon to always act in his own interest, and that of his House. He doesn’t care about anything else.” He shrugged, keenly aware that he could just about be describing himself with the same words.

“Make him an offer he can’t refuse, and his work will pay the Inquisition a thousandfold what it takes to keep him imprisoned and fed.”

Estella looked to be deep in thought, glancing from him back to Cassius, then over at the others. Leon lifted a shoulder, conveying clearly enough that it was her decision to make, and she frowned slightly. “I think
 that we need what resources we can muster, as you’ve all pointed out, in one way or another.” She shifted her attention to Cassius, and spoke politely, but with a firmness uncommon to her.

“What you’ve done, what you tried to do, cannot go ignored, Lord Viridius. You’ve incurred a debt to the Inquisition, and you’ll have to pay it. Work for us until this is over, spend your nights in a prison cell, and you’ll keep your life. You’ll be supervised at all times by a templar and a mage to guard you, and be given limited access to the materials necessary for your work. If you attempt to escape or circumvent the conditions of this punishment by working sub-standardly or intentionally subverting us, I’m quite certain Cyrus will be able to inform us, and this process will happen again, with no third option. Are the terms of your sentence clear to you?”

Cassius’s jaw was tight, but he nodded, even inclining himself slightly in a bowing motion, though it was clearly difficult for him to do. “You are most merciful, Lady Inquisitor. I shall bear your conditions in mind.”

With that, he was escorted out by the guard, presumably to whatever cell they were keeping him in. Cyrus wasn’t sorry to see him go. He glanced at Marceline. He hadn’t the faintest idea who was next.

Marceline looked at the list in her hand again, but after reading it closed her eyes and began to rub her brow. "This is different," she said, looking back up to Estella. "And strange. A few weeks after we arrived to Skyhold we discovered this man attacking the stronghold. With a goat." Marceline said, delivering the line in a deadpan akin to Rilien's. "Throwing the goat against the castle wall, in fact." She paused to allow that to sink in before the doors to swung open to permit the man to enter. Like Cassius before him, he was clad in shackles and flanked by two Inquisition soldiers, though another woman who did not appear to be a part of the Inquisition's main force also accompanied them.

"Chief Movran the Under, father of the Avvar that you defeated in the Fallow Mire," Marceline frowned at that, still seemingly displeased by what had transpired there. There was an imperceptive shake of her head and she sighed somewhat, still seeming a little confused on why the man would assault their keep with a goat. Though, who could blame her. "I also present to you Signy Sky-Lance, an Avvar chief herself and our resident expert on their culture and customs. She is present to assist you in your judgement," Marceline continued, introducing the woman.

Signy was a tall woman, perhaps six feet in height, with a dark complexion and thick red hair to just beneath her shoulders. Her armor, light and composed primarily of leather and hide, left her upper arms bare, making it obvious that one of them was patterned beautifully with dark blue tattoos which extended up to tease the line of her jaw. She wore an expression that, while subtle, left little doubt as to the fact that she was highly entertained by all of this. That said, she observed what was now customary, and inclined herself politely to Estella.

Cyrus was still trying to comprehend the idea that this man had attacked Skyhold
 by throwing a goat at it. He snorted, then smothered a laugh by coughing into his hand, trying to keep a straight face. Just imagining this man, with his ibex-horn helmet and all that apparently-for-intimidation body paint, hurling a goat straight for the castle wall—well, it would take a lot of strength, or a catapult. He wasn’t sure which was funnier. Both were very much so. Estella looked like she was trying not to smile herself.

When the attention settled upon him, Movran spoke, apparently completely unbothered by his circumstances. “You killed my idiot son, and I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your hold with goats’ blood.” He shrugged, almost as if to dismiss the oddity of it.

“The custom does exist.” That was Signy, who had moved to stand to the side of the dais, next to Cyrus. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest, and she held herself with relaxed ease. “Though whole goats are not required. Just the blood.” She raised an eyebrow at Movran, who chuckled softly.

“They bled a little, didn’t they?” Signy smiled a little wider and shrugged. “No foul, Inquisition. My son meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with you instead. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat, they say.” Cyrus glanced at Signy, who lifted one shoulder as if to indicate that she couldn’t deny it. It was also unsurprising that these Avvar didn’t like Tevinters. No one ever did. Clearly, Movran had no idea that one of them was sitting on the throne.

“Do as you’ve earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads.” He paused, seeming to study Estella for a moment. “I’d not have thought one of your stature could defeat him, but my clan tells me you did. In honorable combat no less. I’ve no further quarrel with you or yours.”

“I don’t doubt it seems strange to you, but he means it.” Signy spoke again, rocking back idly on her heels. “Honor demands that he answer your deed the way he did, but now that he’s done so, the matter is finished. If his son had been the victim of treachery, that would be a different matter, but your kill was clean, and in the defense of yourself and others. We can respect that, just as we respect your right to answer as your customs would bid you.” Movran inclined his head in agreement.

Estella pursed her lips thoughtfully, and made eye contact with Signy. “I’m not sure I have any customs for what to do when someone throws a goat at my residence,” she replied, clearly exercising great effort to say that with a straight face. Still, she managed. “What do yours generally advise in such a situation?”

“Usually? Nothing.” Signy blinked, almost surprised, it would seem, to be asked how the Avvar would handle the matter. “His actions are a symbolic gesture. I think it clear that there was no love lost between them anyway. Thane Movran fulfilled his familial duties. That is all.” She appeared to be curious now, regarding Estella with a keenness she’d not previously shown.

Estella did smile, then, just slightly. “Well, all right then. Thane Movran, you’re free to return to your people. We’ll keep the goats, though.” A glimmer of amusement entered her expression. “It seems a fair trade for needing to clean the blood off the walls.”

Movran laughed, this time full-bellied and wholly genuine, it would seem. “Then they are my gift to you, Inquisitor. May the Lady guide your hand.” The guards on either side moved to unshackle him, and he was clearly none the worse for wear, giving Estella a slight bow before he turned and exited the main hall, head held high.

“Well.” Cyrus spoke lightly, glancing up at Estella. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She sighed deeply, pushing herself off the throne at first opportunity and descending the stairs. “It
 could have been worse, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to the next time I have to do this.”

He supposed that was fair enough.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
It was a few days after Estella sat on Skyhold's throne for the first time. Marceline and the other advisors stood with their Inquisitor around a long table that held maps of both Orlais and Ferelden, as well as many other papers spread across them. A model figurine of the Inquisition's Heraldry stood in a specific place on the map, the location where they resided in Skyhold. Other, smaller figures were spread out across much of the map, each set belonging to a specific advisor. Currently, Marceline found herself in the middle of a strategy meeting with the others. They had established Skyhold as their base of operations and named Estella their Inquisitor. Now was the time to plan the next step.

Marceline stood a step away from the table, a glass of wine in her hand. Unconsciously she swirled the dark purple liquid in her hand as she looked down at the table. They knew very little of their enemy, only someone or something called the Elder One had gathered enough Venatori and Red Templars in order to fashion an army. Other than that, they were reduced to guessing. The location of the Elder One's base was unknown to them, along with the numbers in his army, and other rather necessary items. Marceline simple sighed and took a drink from glass, before going back and swirling the liquid again.

Estella’s eyes were fixed on the map, her expression pensive. “We know a few things they might try to do,” she mused, “surely our best chance is to catch them out in something underhanded. If we can get an agent or two, we might be able to start unraveling the skein.” She bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. She’d been holding up quite well since her official appointment, at least externally. She seemed to be quite against the finer armor and silk, but had consented at least to trade her maroon and silver Lions’ linens in for the russet and gold of the Inquisition. How she was beneath the face she wore was harder to say—she wasn’t entirely ineffective at hiding her feelings, it seemed.

“The common thread, the one that both Cassius’s future contained and Envy’s plans hinted at, was the assassination sequence. Either it’s something they really want to do, and will therefore probably attempt even despite our survival, or
 it’s a trap.” He sighed, then glanced across the table to Rilien.

“What does Lord Drakon have to say?”

“We have his support.” The tranquil’s reply was brief, but he elaborated. “He will pay the Lions himself from this point, which allows us to appropriately salary several new officers. He has also officially contracted with us for their services, and given his permission for us to promote them within the hierarchy as we see fit. You have leave to make Corvin a captain, and Lia as well.” He paused a moment, blinking down at the representation of Val Royeaux on the map.

“Ser Lucien has taken our warning seriously, but there is little he can do about it without more concrete information. Nevertheless, he will be in contact with Lady Montblanc, and my agents in the capital, and coordinate a search for such. It will be difficult, with the war, but he reports that the fighting in some regions has begun to abate. The chevaliers are uneasy with how things are changing while they are asked to fight amongst themselves.”

"Correspondance with my father corroborates this. Though he cannot offer his official support due to his standing with the loyalist Chevaliers under Empress Celene, Marshall Lucas LĂ©cuyer wishes us the best and will send us reports on the Orlesian civil war," she said, pausing a moment to take another drink from her glass. Though she didn't display anything outwardly, she was worried for her father, having been drawn out of retirement to fight against their countrymen. The regular correspondance set her heart at ease a little, but the fact remained that her father still fought in a war. They both did, she supposed.

She tilted her head back down to the maps, but shook her head once more. "Even if were were to discover this Elder One's identity, and were able to accurately pin down what it is that he or she plans to do, there lay other issues that will surface in our near future. Issues that are no less important," Marceline said, tapping the stem of her glass. She did not envision it necessary that the Inquisition expand so quickly. "Currently, we operate off of donations from our noble allies-- some of which you may have noticed touring the castle. However, if the Inquisition is to grow in order to combat all threats, then charitable donations will soon not be enough." A thin frown lined her painted cherry lips.

"I fear that we may have to begin taking loans in order to be able to pay for the expenses that arise. My mother, Comtesse Gabrielle, has agreed to one such loan with a very generous interest rate. However, we will need much more if the Inquisition is to survive," she said, solemnly. They can not fight against this Elder One if they did not have the resources necessary.

“When you put it like that
 I should write my sister.” Leon had spoken very little of his family, but it was obvious enough that he was from some form of noble stock. He grimaced, though whether at the prospect of this communication or the news itself was hard to say.

Before anyone could contribute anything further, the door burst open, the usually-composed Reed barreling through like demons were chasing him. “Inquisitor, Commander. You’re—that is
” he paused long enough to gulp in a breath, then shook his head, an expression on his face far beyond his usual skeptical assessment of the strange happenings around him. “It’s Romulus. He’s alive, and at the gate.”

Marceline looked about as shocked as her even expression could manage. For a moment, the room was silent from what they had heard. Marceline's own eyes were wide and her head taken on a slight tilt. A beat passed before she looked to the others. "We should go," she understated. Like the others, she had thought Romulus and the others had died in the attack on Haven, having sacrificed himself for the rest of the Inquisition. To hear otherwise, well, it was a surprise to put it mildly. The others began to file out the door behind Reed, while Marceline took a moment to down the rest of her wine, before setting the glass on the table and following.

The news had already reached the rest of the castle, but the sound of the clamor echoing through the halls. Their steps quickened until their path brought them to the double doors that led outside to the front gate. A pair of Inquisition soldiers opened the door for them to pass through and deposited them onto the stairwell that led to the ground below. From their position, they could see a crowd had gathered around the gate, in hopes no doubt to catch a glimpse of the Herald they thought they had lost.

He did not make any attempts at hiding himself, standing unhooded among the center of armed individuals bearing the sunburst brand stitched upon their clothing. His cloak was new, only dusted from light travel it appeared, and Romulus himself looked quite different, in addition to his clothing. His hair was longer atop his head, and a filled-out beard covered the man's jawline and upper lip. There were a great many speaking, trying to get the Herald's attention, or just chattering excitedly to each other, but Romulus appeared to be waiting for the Inquisition's leaders to appear.

He stood alongside the immediately recognizeable visage of Khari, sans mask or hood and grinning broadly. She waved as they approached. Another redheaded woman, this one human, flanked him on the other side, bearing the group's suburst brand and wearing more polished pieces of armor than the rest. She stood proud and tall, hands folded before, though they soon sweeped out, when she noticed the obvious Inquisition leaders, coming down towards the gate.

"Good people of the Inquisition, I give to you your Herald, who survived the events of Haven, despite all the forces of darkness threw at him. He has fought through cold, sickness, and Tevinter pursuit to rejoin you now, and tell you, that he is the blood of Andraste, the first son in the line of endless daughters!" The crowd erupted in murmuring and talk, the utmost amount of mixed reactions, while Romulus turned and whispered something to the woman, obviously displeased with something. Very few knew what to make of the woman's introduction, but plenty just seemed happy to have the second of their Heralds back, especially considering all he reportedly went through just to stand there.

The pronouncement seemed to catch Leon off-guard for a moment, but he recovered swiftly, and as usually happened when he wanted to go somewhere, people got out of his way as he advanced forward. Estella moved in his wake, until they were both directly in front of their returned comrades and the newcomers. It was difficult to tell what the newly-minted Inquisitor was thinking, at least until she smiled.

“Welcome back, both of you. I’m so glad you made it.” And clearly, she was.

Khari didn’t let her get away with just the words, however, and took half a dozen steps forward, more at a run than a walk, to half-tackle her in a tight hug that drove them both backwards several more paces. “What a coincidence! I’m really glad we made it too!” She actually lifted Estella several inches off the ground, apparently having no reservations whatsoever about doing any of this in public with much of the Inquisition hanging around. Estella actually laughed, a bright sound that lacked most of her customary reserve, looking a bit surprised to be so enthusiastically greeted, but not at all unhappy about it. Even after she was put back on the ground, she wore a grin, her eyes a tad wet, though whether that was because she was overwhelmed by the good news or because Khari had hugged her tightly enough to squeeze a few tears out of her was rather unclear.

"It is so very good to see that you both are alive and well," Marceline said, a genuine smile even on her lips. The cheer that had developed over them was infectious and even drew her in. She stood beside Leon, taking the sight of Romulus and Khari backed by an armed escort in. "We had feared the worst," she explained, before her gaze shifted next to him, to the redheaded woman that had announced him. She beheld the woman for a moment, her smile wavering. What she had just announced was best left for a later discussion between all involved, but the mere fact that they had returned safely seemed to have flooded any negative impact such a proclamation could have.

"It seems that there is much to be discussed," she allowed a pause into her words while she returned her attention back to Romulus, "But, that will come in good time. Until then," she said, stepping forward and extending a hand for Romulus to take, "Welcome home, Lord Herald." There was an arch to her brow as she spoke the word, as if asking him if home was, indeed, the correct word to use.

"Thank you," he replied, taking the offered hand, though his eyes and his smile could not help but be directed at the sight of Khari attempting to swallow Estella with her limbs. "I plan to see this through with the Inquisition, to the end."

"That is exceptionally wonderful to hear," Marceline answered, inclining her head in a show of respect. No doubt his presence would help to take some of the weight off of Estella's shoulder, as well as do wonders for the Inquisition's morale. Her smile brightened as she laid a gentle hand on Romulus's shoulder, and gestured toward the castle proper. "Come, the sooner we speak, the better," she said, allowing Leon to lead the way back. Amongst all of the faces cheering for the return of their Herald, Marceline saw the back of only one person's head, a familiar mane of white hair framed by a pair of horns heading away from the crowd.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon drew a deep breath into his lungs, holding it and counting to five before he let it out again. The large, semicircular chamber they’d chosen for the war room was nearly full to capacity, as he’d been rather liberal with his summonses, unsure what expertise would be necessary and what would not. Besides himself, Estella, Marceline, and Rilien, the room also held Romulus, Khari, Vesryn, and Cyrus. Reed and Larissa were present as well, situated in one corner of the room, both supplied to take notes on anything significant. He suspected they would not stop writing once they began.

The Inquisition’s commander cleared his throat softly, having prioritized the order in which he’d make his queries, doing his best to account for the fact that at least some of the others were bound to interject with queries of their own. He’d decided getting an accounting of events, and any consequent intelligence, was first priority.

He smiled mildly at both Romulus and Khari. It truly was good to see them well, but for the moment, there was too much else to be done to linger on that. He would leave the celebration to the troops outside, who were almost certainly doing so at this moment. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, we’d thought you both lost after the events at Haven.” They had, essentially, volunteered to give up their lives for the rest. Fortunately, it would seem that at least the two of them had not needed to pay that steep a price after all. Leon folded his hands together behind his back.

“What happened?”

Romulus took a moment to get acclimated to the new meeting room, which was far grander than what they'd been afforded in Haven. It even had windows. And these offered a breathtaking view to the mountains that surrounded Skyhold's position in the Frostbacks. When he was ready, he leaned forward, placing his hands upon the edges of the table.

"We held our position at the trebuchet for as long as we could. Venatori and Red Templars were drawn to it. Eventually, that dragon made a pass, and obliterated a section of the wall. Everyone was thrown back. I was the closest to it, and was severely injured. The dragon circled around to land inside the wall, and the army's leaders came through the flames."

“A bunch of people, actually.” Khari picked up the thread of the explanation there. “The first lot were Venatori, probably the elites. Mages, but ones who moved like
 like an army, a real one. Their leader was this man—he seemed to be human, but
” Her brows furrowed for a moment, but then she shook her head. “Anyway. He was tall, definitely a mage, and wore a mask over one side of his face.” She raised a hand to cover the left half of her own.

“He and the Venatori, uh
 they seemed like a vanguard or something. The leader, he killed Fiona, like it wasn’t even an effort for him.” Considering who Fiona was, that news boded extremely poorly, to say the least. “Behind them came
” She struggled for the right words for a moment. “It looked like a darkspawn, I guess. But
 there were also chunks of that glowy red lyrium on him, and he talked. A lot, actually.” She scratched her head, glancing briefly at Romulus.

“He was really tall, taller than you, Commander. But kinda weirdly spindly, like someone took all his parts and stretched them out. He had magic, too. By that point it was just me, Rom, and Meraad against this guy and his dragon and his army.” Her voice, usually at least slightly good-humored or light, was heavy, thick. “I, uh
 charged them. Aimed for the big Darkspawn.” She didn’t make eye contact with anyone, instead fixing her eyes somewhere near Leon’s shoulder. “It—he, I guess
 he just kinda gestured, and then this force picked me up and flung me into the trebuchet. Hurt like hell.” Her gaze came back into focus on the last part, at least, and she managed a little smile, more self-effacing than anything.

Romulus nodded somewhat gravely, not refuting anything Khari had said. His own voice had constricted somewhat since he'd last spoke. "They were only interested in me. The bait worked as well as we'd hoped. Meraad tried to stand up to the dragon on his own..." He left unsaid how well the attempt had gone. It was not difficult to imagine.

"The darkspawn Khari described is the Elder One we've been hearing about. His name is Corypheus, and he was responsible for the Breach and the deaths of everyone at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. In fact, he spoke a great deal, believing his victory complete." He shook his head at the thought, either from bewilderment or the darkness of the memory that the particular night in question carried with it.

"He spoke of championing Tevinter, assaulting the heavens. He said we interrupted a ritual," he looked to Estella, "the day we received our marks. He called them Anchors. 'Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty,' he said."

He delivered the line with no attempt at impersonating the Elder One, this Corypheus, though by his tone, he found a great deal of confusion in what the creature spoke of. "He tossed me away like I was nothing, and I hit the side of a well or something. He wanted to remove the mark from my hand with some sort of magical tool, but determined that it couldn't be done. I was to die, but Khari managed to set off the trebuchet, and dragged me into the well before the avalanche crushed the town." He half smiled at her briefly, as though he still couldn't quite believe they lived despite all of that.

"That's what we know of the enemy. The rest of the time was spent just trying not to die, and... discovering some interesting things." He did not actually look eager to enter that particular discussion.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t yet have to. “It called itself Corypheus?” Cyrus spoke with obvious surprise, and more appeared on his face when he glanced about the room only to find that no one else shared his shock. Blinking several times, he decided more explanation was prudent. “Corypheus was the name of the Conductor of the Choir of Silence. He was the Old God Dumat’s high priest at the time all of them entered the Fade physically. It was more than a thousand years ago.” From the sounds of it, he wasn’t sure whether he believed the implication of the darkspawn naming himself such, and he snorted softly.

“Elder One, indeed.”

“The Grey Wardens had this creature sealed in the Free Marches, bound by blood magic ritual.” That contribution, perhaps more immediately relevant to their interests, came from Rilien. “Several of those I knew in Kirkwall broke the seal and killed it. Or believed they did. I will contact them immediately—there may be more they can tell us.”

It was almost too much information to process. But Leon knew from experience that when something seemed overwhelming, the best way to handle it was to break it down into its parts. The part about Corypheus’s possible origin, he left aside for the moment, focusing instead on Rilien’s contribution regarding a recent previous encounter. “Please do,” he replied, inclining his head in the Spymaster’s general direction. Anything else they wanted to talk about regarding that should probably wait until they could talk to one of these friends of his, anyway.

That left several other choices: the marks, their enemy’s goals, the other man who’d appeared with him, who was likely a general or right hand of some sort, and then the elephant in the room—what the woman who had appeared with Romulus had said about him. The marks, he thought, were probably a matter for Cyrus and Asala to do some work with, and that would be later than this meeting, anyway. Corypheus’s goals were unclear, beyond what Romulus had already said, and the while they might be able to get somewhere informationally if they knew who his prominent underlings were, the description Khari gave wasn’t enough to work with yet.

That left one more thing they could likely address in this meeting, and Leon turned violet eyes on Romulus. The Herald’s unease hadn’t gone unnoticed, but it was surely an important-enough matter that it bore explanation as soon as possible. “Romulus, the manner of your return did raise a number of questions. Would you please explain to us what it is that you have discovered?”

He grimaced slightly. "I'm sorry about that. It wasn't how I would've made my return, but... there are no subtle ways to enter this place." He half smiled, as much making fun of his own tendency to hide as he was complimenting the Inquisition on the new fortifications. He cleared his throat.

"The woman who spoke is named Anais. She leads a group that operates out of a place called Winterwatch in the Hinterlands. I traveled there with Asala and several of the Lions, and earned their loyalty by closing a rift. Her people rescued Khari and I from a mounted group of Venatori that nearly caught us." That seemed to be the easiest part of the explanation, and Romulus swallowed, taking a moment to formulate what came next in his mind. "Anais had studied under an order that devoted themselves to the history of Andraste, and her bloodline. She'd been researching a theory since Redcliffe."

He placed his palms back upon the table, as though to steady himself. "She believes I am a living descendant of Andraste herself. She introduced me to a man I met in Redcliffe, who turned out to be my father. I don't know if it can be proven, but she claims to be working on a way. From what we have, between Anais and my father... it seems right." He practically shook when he admitted that, effectively giving away that he believed it himself. The idea seemed to scare him more than anything, though there was a glimmer of something in his grey eyes. Hope, perhaps.

Well. That did, in fact, sound even stranger the second time.

Leon’s relationship to his faith had always been a great deal more nuanced and complicated than that of most people he knew. It didn’t bother him to acknowledge the mortality and the humanness of most of the figures involved in the Chant, and he’d never been one to, say, condemn outright the actions even of Maferath or the Archon Hessarian. Those were, naturally, unpopular positions, as was the common Tevinter belief that Andraste was not so much an exalted Bride of the Maker as she was foremost a human woman and a mage. He’d never seen the tension in saying she was both.

So it was perhaps easier to swallow for him than many faithful that her descendants were still very much alive. It wasn’t something everyone believed, nor something everyone liked to think about, but it was well within the realm of possibility, though as far as most knew, the line had disappeared a long time ago. Harder to believe than the fact that her descendants existed was that someone had managed to track them down. But he didn’t know this Anais or what she knew, and so on that, at least, he chose to suspend judgement.

“That, I think, is something best dealt with when she proves it or fails to do so,” he said at last. “In the meantime, I think it may be most prudent to prevent further declarations of the kind that accompanied your arrival.” His lips twitched into a rueful smile. “It’s not impossible that you are who she says you are, and if so, that will have implications. But those implications will go more than one way. Some will react as Anais and her group have. Others will deny it, and hate you for so much as suggesting that it could be true. Everything you’ve done, your entire life, will fall under the kind of scrutiny we have hitherto tried to divert from you. If you choose to make this information public, you will have to be prepared for that—to own your history and everything you do from now on as well. It will not be easy.” He didn’t mean to sound to dire about it, but he spoke the truth as he saw it. Being a public figure, especially one propelled to it with a claim like that, true or not, was very different from being anyone else.

"If I may, Ser Leonhardt?" Marceline interjected. Up to now, she quietly listened and kept her thoughts to herself. Her face was impassive, nearly impossible to glean any information on how she felt about all of this through her body language. Until now, she watched Romulus with a hawklike gaze, at least until her facade broke away with a smile. "Even if what this Anais says was true, and you must understand that by no means am I implying that it is not. There are far too many possibilities to discount it completely. But, the Inquisition cannot officially declare you Andraste's heir."

The smile on her lips remained, though, as she leaned forward, her arms crossed at her chest, "However, rumors have a strange way of propagating. Amongst the crowd that witnessed your speaker's declaration, a number of the nobility were present. Whom no doubt will spread news of what they have heard when they return home," Marceline's head tilted toward Leon, "The Inquisition will neither confirm nor deny these rumors," it was not as if they had many options. Either stance would anger someone. "With luck, those who wish to believe shall, and those who do not, simply will not."

Romulus nodded, taking a moment to absorb their reactions to the news. "Whatever you believe is best. I'm... still not sure what to do with the information myself." He then looked to Estella, and offered a reassuring smile. "But I do know that I'm here to stay, and serve the Inquisition in whatever manner it will have me. That's my choice now."

She looked a bit unsure in response, halfway raising a hand as though to stave off some part of what had been said. Likely the serve part, considering her nature. In the end though, she sighed a little, half-smiling back. “We’re happy to have you, in any case.”

That, really, seemed to be the bottom line here, and Leon nodded. “Exactly so. Thank you—both of you, for the information as well. By all means, get some rest. We’ll sort out what to do about all of this as soon as possible.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
“Sir.”

Reed’s voice broke Leon’s reverie, and he shook his head, trying to clear his vision. His headache was splitting, but he hadn’t realized he was simply staring off into space until his aide had addressed him. The most alarming thing was that he hadn’t even realized the newly-promoted lieutenant had even entered the room in the first place.

Leon’s new office was on the wall-level of one of the towers. The whole thing was his space, actually, which he found rather excessive. He didn’t need an entire tower to himself, but at least it was one of the smaller ones. His quarters were above, accessible by ladder, and below lay the armory, so perhaps it was inaccurate to say that the whole thing was reserved for his use. Even so
 but he was losing track of his thoughts again, and forced himself to snap out of it, regarding Reed with his usual mild gaze.

Correctly taking this as cue to continue, he did. “You asked me to tell you when Miss Asala left her quarters, or if she stopped eating. She’s gone back to work, sir, in the infirmary.” His delivery was neutral, but he sounded perhaps a little relieved. Leon could not blame him—many people had taken the losses at Haven hard, but none quite so much so as Asala, which was expected, considering whom she had lost. With a short sigh, Leon nodded to Reed and stood.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I should go check on her.” Mostly, he felt he needed to apologize. With more distance from the events and considerable thought, he’d decided that Estella’s approach was probably better than his own, considering the circumstances—he should have let her hope a little longer that Meraad lived. Perhaps the grief would have been less shattering if it crept in over time, handled bit by bit, rather than delivered like a hammerblow. Just because he would prefer the single devastating hit to the slow, unbearable loss of hope didn’t mean everyone would. It didn’t seem like Asala had.

Had he really forgotten, what it was like to be anything but this? A soldier, accustomed if not immune to death, even the death of close friends and comrades? But then, he had known this reality even before he was properly a soldier. It was one of the first things of significance that he could remember learning.

“Sir?” That was Reed again, and Leon remembered that he’d meant to go, but hadn’t yet moved. “Are you
?”

“I’m fine, Lieutenant. I appreciate the concern.” Leon smiled benignly, turning aside further inquiry with only the application of that composed expression and a few words. That had taken many years to perfect, but he’d managed in the end. He answered Reed’s salute with a nod, and exited his office onto the battlements, not really minding the mountain wind that stirred his heavy cloak. Summer would be upon them soon, and perhaps Skyhold would at last be subject to milder weather than it had yet been. The Conclave had exploded in the dead of winter—it was hard to believe it had been months ago, now, and yet in other respects, he didn’t understand how it hadn’t been years.

The next tower over was the one the mages occupied, and the room at the bottom floor was the infirmary, with a lounge above and many sets of quarters further up. He entered at the lounge level, but he was a common-enough sight that he didn’t startle them with his simple presence anymore, though he knew that no few of them were still nervous in his presence. He wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was a Seeker, the Commander, or simply a very large person. Perhaps it was some combination of the three. He tried not to give them any more reasons to be wary of him, anyway, and took the stairs down as quickly as was polite, putting him in the infirmary.

And there she was, immediately recognizable even among the many people moving about, in large part for being, as he was, head and shoulders taller than a great number of people. He’d admit the horns were also distinctive, however. Leon made his way over to her workstation, stepping deliberately such that his approach would be noticed. Though it seemed that she still didn't, so focused was she on her work.

“You know,” he said gently, “there’s quite a large garden courtyard here in Skyhold. I think we’ll be able to keep you in much better supply than before.” He leaned himself against the wall a polite distance from her work station, folding his hands behind him.

A number of jars sat open on her station, various herbs and medical reagents gathered in small piles on top of the table. Asala was currently in the midst of separating the various supplies into their corresponding labeled jar. On the wall in front of her sat a long shelf that already held a number of the labeled jars, though some spots were left empty, no doubt the ones that already lay on her table. They had recieved a shipment of supplies recently, and she seemed to have set to neatly organizing them. Donovan stood on her other side, doing the same except for bandages and splints. However, at the Commander's arrival, he nodded a greeting and took his leave, apparently deciding to let them have a moment to themselves.

Grief hadn't changed her skittish nature, as it turned out. Asala twitched, clearly caught by surprise by his words, and turned to see him. She turned to him with saucerlike eyes, a jar labeled Embrium in her hands, filled to the brim with the crimson leaves of the plant. She quickly took a glance down at the jar before turning back to the table to set it back down. "Uh..." she said, though she didn't formulate any actual words. Instead, she simply nodded and smiled. Her smile, Leon noted, was more melancholy than it was happy.

He wasn’t that surprised by the fact, though he did feel a twinge of sympathy. He suddenly wasn’t sure whether he should even bring it up; probably the reminder would be less welcome than just about anything else he could say, but he didn’t think he could simply not mention it, either. Leon hadn’t ever really thought of himself as a person lacking social graces. Certainly, he wasn’t the fluid speaker Marceline was, and he didn’t have the easy charm of Vesryn or the effortless wit of Cyrus, but he’d never been particularly awkward, either.

This, though
 this made him feel awkward.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he ventured at last. If she reacted badly, he supposed he could just leave and never mention it again, or something. He struggled with the next words, because he really didn’t want to hurt her, and by comparison to most of the people he knew, she was quite fragile indeed. “The last time I spoke to you
 I was more callous than I should have been. It
 I forgot what it was like, the first time I lost someone I loved. It took me a little while to remember how different it was from any loss since.” He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to miss that detail—perhaps it was only the sheer amount of time that had elapsed, or perhaps it was something a little worse.

Asala's feet shuffled beneath her and she refused to meet Leon's eyes, looking instead down and away. She was very definitely uncomfortable with broaching the subject, but by the lack of an immediate reply, she also didn't know how to respond. It wasn't until a few moments later that she picked up a jar that read aloe, and began to inspect it that she finally said something. "It is... fine," she said with a rather timid tone. "You... did what you felt you had to," continued, turning the jar over in her hands. She seemed tired.

“And sometimes,” he replied, “I am wrong.”

But he decided to leave it at that. Grief was different for everyone, and if she would rather avoid the topic entirely, that was her business, and none of his unless she chose to share. “Is there anything I can do to help with these?” He nodded to the jars she was surrounded by, picking up on her apparent fatigue but guessing she wouldn’t consent to simply stop working. Perhaps another pair of hands would lighten the burden a bit.

"Um..." She finally took her eyes off of the jar and to the table she had been working at moments ago. She scanned and paused, seemingly working out the best way they could use him. When she turned back to him, her lips held a weak smile. "Uh... If you can tell the difference between the herbs, I could... use the help sorting them," Asala said, gesturing to the herbs that were laid out on her table. She moved with much less of a frantic pace now, it seemed, far different than when she was drowning herself in her work only weeks ago.

“Of course.” That much, he could do quite easily. Leon moved around the workstation, so as to take up a spot actually at it instead of next to it, which was slightly awkward considering his size and the fact that he was sharing it, but he’d long learned by this point to be fluid enough and light enough on his feet that the problems that came of the bulk of his frame were minimized. Of course, that only applied when he was paying attention, as he tended to demonstrate whenever he was not.

His gloved hands made quick work of sorting the various plants, though a few looked similar enough to each other that he had to identify them by smell, occasionally raising a sprig to his nose. Some of them had been picked at different points in the growth cycle as well, which actually made them suitable for radically different purposes, so he kept separate piles on those criteria as well.

Several minutes into their work, soft footfalls signaled the approach of someone new to the infirmary. Romulus seemed to carry himself differently now, taller, a little more easily, less withdrawn into himself. His clothes and cloak were cleaner than he'd typically kept them in Haven. Still, he looked a bit uncertain, particularly upon approaching the workstation that Asala and Leon worked at, and clearing his throat.

"I heard you were back at work," he said carefully, coming to a stop just beyond arm's reach of the workstation. It seemed word traveled quickly. "I wanted to check on you, make sure you're doing alright." He paused for a second, shifting his weight onto his other foot, clearly deciding whether or not to add something. In the end, it slipped out.

"I missed you. I'm sure Khari won't mind me saying that she could never do your job." Old, healing wounds aside, it was obvious from his tone that wasn't the only reason he'd missed her.

Asala turned and held Romulus in her gaze for a moment. She seemed unsure of something, before she averted her gaze elsewhere. She looked at his feet as she spoke. "I hope..." she managed before she hesitated again. Something else was on her mind and it wasn't difficult to figure out what it was. The last time Asala had seen Romulus it had been Haven, with Meraad leaving with them to try and buy them time to escape. Now he returned, and Meraad was nowhere to be found. The melancholy and sadness was clear on her face, but she did not try to escape from the situation.

"I hope that she was enough and that you... weren't injured too badly," she said with an apologetic smile, though her eyes still remained downward. "It was... not too difficult, I hope. Oh... uh, your... journey, I mean," she said, finally making herself look at him, though when she began to trip over her words again, her eyes fell.

"It was not easy," he admitted, "but I'm alive. And I learned a lot about myself." He surveyed her for a moment, running a hand through his hair uneasily.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Asala. I didn't know Meraad well, but his bravery was plain to see. He died bravely." He looked like he wanted to say more, but also like he wasn't sure what to add. Death was an unpleasant thing, and there were only so many ways to soften it.

She managed a small, though pained, smile onto her lips as she nodded. "Thank you," she said quietly, glancing up to meet his eyes once more. She wavered for a moment, and her eyes threatened to mist over. Surprisingly however, they did not and instead she took a deep breath which seemed to have strengthened her resolve. She nodded, and glanced at her work table before returning her look to Romulus.

"Is there, uh, anything I can--I can do? For you I mean? Now?" she inquired with a tilt of her head.

Romulus took the cue easily enough, and nodded, clapping his hands together once. "Yes, actually. Most of my tonics were lost in the attack, or used after it. I'd hoped to steal some supplies, if you have some you can spare." His eyes passed swiftly over the sorted piles and labeled jars.

"You... do not have to steal them," she said quizzically. Leon cleared his throat, suppressing a chuckle. "But yes. We have an abundant supply now," she said, gesturing to the labeled jars sitting on the shelves "Just let one of us know, so we can, uh... keep track of stock," she said, scratching beneath her horns. It seemed that keeping stock wasn't her idea, but someone else's. By the way that Donovan nodded in approval off away from them said that it was most likely his.

"Right," Romulus assented. "I'll... make a list of what I need to take, and get back to you."

"Thank you," Asala said with an appreciative nod. A quiet moment passed with Asala glancing at the door that led outside before she spoke. "If... you both will excuse me. I... am going to take a walk. Maybe I will... visit the garden," she said with a heavy smile to Leon. It was apparent that she needed time to herself think about some things, and soon she made her exit.

Donovan watched her leave, his expression as impassive as the tranquil that he worked with. He made his way over to where Leon and Romulus stood, staring at the door the whole while. Finally he turned to regard them both. "She will be fine," he stated plainly, "Asala is stronger than she lets on. All she needs is time."

Leon nodded simply. “Of course.” He certainly didn’t expect a person to recover from the death of a family member in the space of a month and a half, especially considering it hadn’t really been confirmed for her until a week or so ago. At least she was doing things like taking breaks now.

With a nod to Donovan and a half-smile in Romulus’s direction, he turned back to his work. He’d at least bundle and label all of these before returning to his office.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon hummed, setting another half-full supply crate aside and stepping farther towards the back of the tack room. Most of the wooden boxes in this room were being used, which meant either he’d have to find something he could put into another box, or else go check the smithy and see if they had anything. Those would probably be too big, though, and he was in a considerable hurry, which just made his present lack of success all that much more frustrating to him.

With a grunt, he picked up a stack of three crates and shifted them to the side of the room—someone had neglected to organize the place in any logical way whatsoever. He’d have to send Reed down to have a discussion with the Quartermaster. The spare horsemanship supplies they stored here were certainly not top priority, but the Inquisition had been at Skyhold for nearly two months. This should have been done already—

A sudden cracking sound disrupted his chain of thought, and Leon snapped his eyes down to his hands, where he’d broken through one of the slats on the bottom crate with his grip. Swearing softly in his mother tongue, he controlled the fall of the crates as well as he could, catching the uppermost one as it fell from the stack and setting it to rights. There was a loud bang as the one on the bottom hit the wooden floor of the building, and Leon sighed heavily, running a hand down his face.

“Having troubles, Commander?” The sly tone of voice could only belong to Cyrus, apparently drawn to the room by the crashing of the crates onto the ground. “I wasn’t aware a man of your rank spent his afternoons organizing messy storage areas, but I suppose everyone has their eccentricities.” He smiled, the expression in good humor at least, and leaned a shoulder against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.

Estella leaned around him, fixing Leon with a much more concerned expression. That probably made some sense, since she’d had more exposure to his unfortunate episodes than her brother had. That somehow only managed to make him feel worse, but he concealed it in the same way he always did—he smiled gently and shrugged his massive shoulders. “If only all eccentricities were so productive. But no—I came here in search of an empty box or crate, a small one.”

The Inquisitor blinked, raising both eyebrows. “Um. I think I have one in my, uh
 office, still. I’m still only just setting it up, so
” She paused, tilting her head to one side. “I can go get it for you, and bring it to yours?”

He was reluctant to send her on what was essentially an errand for him, a personal one at that, but she seemed willing enough to do it, and so he nodded. “I would appreciate that, Estella. If you would be so kind as to meet me back there in a few minutes?” She nodded and stepped backwards out the door, turning towards the main keep and leaving him with Cyrus.

“I’m stopping by the kitchens on the way back,” Leon said, not really sure if the slightly-elder Avenarius had any interest in accompanying him. In either case, he had to get past him to exit the room.

Cyrus lifted a shoulder, stepping back and out of the doorframe with a smooth motion. “I notice you’ve yet to explain what all this is about.” When Leon set in the direction of the kitchens, Cyrus fell into step beside him, keeping pace easily despite the five-inch difference in their heights. “Is it to remain a secret, or can I convince you to divulge, hm?”

Leon scoffed softly, shaking his head. “It’s not really a secret in the first place,” he said, ducking into the mess and making his way to the back, where the humbler of Skyhold’s kitchens was to be found. There was the one in the main building, which served the officers, irregulars, and diplomatic guests, and the one here, which was for the barracks and visiting merchants, that sort of thing. As in Haven, the regulars didn’t eat badly by any means, but these were people who did not require unnecessarily-extravagant fare, and so the Inquisition bought whatever was available and affordable, and the cooks put it to use.

“I’ve told you already, there’s nothing for you to eat until—oh, it’s you, Commander.” The cook on duty at the moment was a middle-aged dwarven woman, and Leon was rather glad she’d recognized him in time, because she might well have smacked his knee with a kitchen implement had she not. As it was, she looked a little chagrined, and he shook his head slightly.

“Quite all right, Ygrisse. I came to request some milk or cream, if you’ve any to spare.”

She raised a brow, but didn’t seem to find the request all that unusual. “Sure we do. Here.” She stepped down from the block she used to bring herself up to counter-level and moved to the back of the room, near the door out the other side. Flipping open the lid of an icebox, she pulled out a glass bottle and tossed it in his direction. The lob was easy, and Leon caught it by reflex, nodding his thanks.

“Much obliged. We’ll be out of your hair now.”

Ygrisse chuckled. “No trouble, Commander. You should bring this one back more often. He looks a little like he could use a meal.” She nodded her chin upwards at Cyrus, who sighed.

“Why does everyone say that? It’s not like I’m particularly thin.” He looked down at himself as though to make the point, and to be fair, he wasn’t. He had the build of a leaner man, certainly, but he was in much better condition physically than most of those who used magic as a method of combat. He glanced over at Leon. “Perhaps I should stop standing next to you. It’s bound to make anyone look peckish by comparison.”

Ygrisse laughed outright. “Fair enough. Now go on, both of you. I’ve work to do.” She waved them out with an impatient gesture, and both took their leave the way they’d come. As Leon had no other stops to make, they climbed an inner staircase to the ramparts thereafter. The wind was cold up here, and strong, but it didn’t bother him much anymore.

A door on level with the wall led into his office, and Leon pushed it open mostly with his shoulder, leading the way inside. It was much warmer therein, mostly the result of the sudden loss of wind and the fire going in the hearth on the north wall. It wasn’t a particularly luxurious space, being quite plain compared to, say, Lady Marceline’s own, but Leon preferred it this way. His desk was minimalist in terms of lines and very large overall, in part a concession to his own dimensions and in part just because he had so many things to put on it. Paperwork, inkwells and quills, wax and a seal, and any books he might be using for reference. The rest of his small collection was in a shelf not too far away, and he’d finally acquired chairs, two of which sat in a corner, on either side of a small round table.

Estella, it seemed, had already made it inside, and she was crouched near the desk, a small crate beside her, having already found the point of this whole excursion. On a pile of blankets in front of the desk, several small bodies squirmed about, eyes closed, little paws reaching out for something that was not there. Pitiful mewling noises came from the spot, and Leon sighed heavily. The sound drew her attention towards them, and when she turned, her expression was caught somewhere between wonder and melancholy.

“Leon
” She didn’t seem to know what to say next.

“Kittens?” Cyrus moved around to his sister’s other side, crouching as well, though at a greater distance. He studied them like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them, a slight frown on his face. There were five in total, ranging in coloration from the largest, a tortoiseshell-patterned one with white paws, all the way down to the runt, an all-black female who already looked like she was half a step from death.

His brows drew together over his eyes, and he looked skeptically up at Leon. “What happened to the mother cat? These can’t be any more than a day old.”

“She died,” Leon replied quietly. “I think she was from Haven originally—she must have gotten on one of the carts somehow and made the journey with us. The first time I saw her, I thought she was starved.” The distended belly would have been explained by that just as easily, and she was otherwise extremely thin and mangy. “I’d been trying to get her to eat for several weeks, but I didn’t think she’d ever come close enough for me to do anything but that.”

Apparently, however, when push had come to shove and she’d sought out someplace safe to have her litter, she’d chosen to wedge herself under his desk. “She wasn’t strong enough to survive the labor. I buried her in the garden last night.” His eyes fell to the kittens, and he picked up the box Estella had brought with her. It would serve his purposes just fine, for now.

“Can the two of you mind them while I move their blankets into this? I don’t want them crawling away somewhere and getting hurt.” Estella nodded immediately, using her hands to carefully scoop up the smallest one first, shifting to look at her brother, holding her cupped hands out towards him.

“Careful. She’s really little.”

“Uh
” For once, Cyrus looked completely out of his element, uncertain and awkward. He fell back onto his rear, crossing his legs underneath him on the floor. “Are you sure you can’t just hold all of them? I’m not good with
 fragile things.” He said it with disdain, perhaps, but there was something off about it, as though it were meant to conceal something else, though what that something was couldn’t be discerned. His face twisted into a grimace as he held his hands out and let his sister carefully hand him the kitten, which immediately pawed weakly at the base of his thumb with its tiny claws.

Cyrus flinched, though obviously not from pain, and brought it close to his chest, settling it in the crook of his elbow. His obvious discomfort only seemed to increase, but he obligingly let Estella hand him two more. Tension remained clearly observable in the line of his shoulders, and a muscle in his jaw jumped.

Leon was fairly sure he knew the look, because he felt it often enough himself: a reluctance to handle something so small and fragile, for fear he lacked the gentleness required. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep them alive in the first place, but
 it felt wrong not to at least make the attempt. If that mother cat had jumped into a cart with them all the way from Haven, and sought this place out as the right one to have her kittens, well
 it seemed the least he could do to try and save them from her fate. Perhaps he was making too much of it; it was rare that he was this sentimental.

Carefully, he lined the crate with the blankets, settling onto the ground himself. Reaching into a pocket, he produced the fruits of his first stop on today’s supply run: alchemical droppers he’d borrowed from Rilien. The tranquil had assured him that they were clean and sanitary, and since he lacked any other means of feeding them, he hoped they’d work. He handed one each to Estella and Cyrus. “If you don’t mind lending me a hand, I’d like to make sure they all eat something as soon as possible. The others can rest in the crate until we can get to them.” He was particularly worried about the runty one Cyrus held.

Estella hummed an agreement and saw to the arrangements, handing one of the kittens to Leon and transferring two of the ones her brother held back into the crate and the warmth of the blankets. She went to pick up the milk bottle and frowned, her brows knitting together. “This is probably too cold. Here
” She concentrated for a moment, and slowly, condensation began to form on the outside of the glass bottle. After a few seconds, she smiled brightly. “That’s better. Cyrus, hand me your dropper?”

Cyrus, still holding the runt, handed it over without protest. When he received it back, however, he glanced between it and the kitten with very evident trepidation. “Stellulam, I do not know what I am doing.” The words were almost pained, though whether that was because he had admitted to not knowing something or because the situation was simply profoundly uncomfortable to him was difficult to say.

“I know,” she replied, “that’s why I’m going to show you.” She held her hand out for Leon’s dropper, and he gave it over without protest, sensing that she was the one with the knowledge here and perfectly willing to let her do the teaching. He hardly had any idea what he was doing, either, anyway.

“Not really how I was planning on this day going,” he conceded, moving a gloved index finger gently along the side of the orange-striped creature dwarfed by his other hand. Even through the thin leather, he could feel its tiny rib cage, the bones even more frail than those belonging to a bird, at this stage. It was almost alarming, to know that this was a life he could hold like this. It scared him, how utterly delicate it was. How one wrong move, one unlucky hand-spasm from him, could snuff that life out. A strange thing to be afraid of, for someone who killed for a living. It mewled softly, and he felt something in his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure if there was some relevant difference or not, between that and this, but he felt one. Maybe it was just that no one had ever depended on him for its livelihood in this way before.

“You and I both." Cyrus was quick to quip back, but he seemed afraid to stop watching the kitten he held, and his eyes remained fixed on her.

When Estella handed Leon's dropper back to him, he accepted it, finding the glass warm to the touch. He’d never actually seen her do magic before; he’d been told she was a mage, but forgotten the fact until this point. She certainly didn’t use it in the same way Cyrus or Asala did. “You have to be really careful with them,” she said softly, cradling hers close to her body. “And you have to mind what they’re telling you. If you try to go too fast, they’ll get sick, or inhale it. So if you have to, err on the side of going much too slow.”

She demonstrated, lowering the tip of her dropper to the kitten’s questing mouth, only for it to turn its head away. “I know,” she murmured, “not what you want, is it? I promise it’s good for you, bellatulus.” She squeezed the end of the dropper enough to bead a bit of the milk on the end of it and tried again, just as gently. This time, it seemed to work, and it wasn’t long before the kitten, likely ravenous, had consumed the entire dropper’s worth, its belly rounding out slightly with satiation.

“Well,” she said, moving it back to the crate with its siblings, “they can eat. That’s a good sign. You two try it.”

Cyrus wore an almost too-serious expression, peering down at the little thing in resting against the inside of his arm like it was a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved. His brows descended heavily over his eyes, which were narrowed slightly. It wasn’t impossible to note that his hand shook a little when he moved his dropper, and perhaps because of this, it took him more than half a dozen tries before he was at all successful, and even then, he went much more slowly than Estella had, utterly fixated on the task to which he’d been set, however reluctantly.

He heaved a sigh of obvious relief when the dropper was empty, glancing up at the both of them. In the moment before he remembered to smooth over his expression, it was surprisingly soft, considering his usual attitude towards things. “I’m not doing another one.” He announced it decisively, but he moved with utmost delicacy when he put the kitten down in her box, and rubbed the top of her head with the pad of a finger.

“They’re
 very soft, aren’t they?”

“They are.” Leon supposed he’d have to take their word for it, considering that he was wearing gloves. They managed to get all of the kittens fed, and he had to admit to an immense sense of relief when they did.

“They’re definitely not out of the woods yet,” Estella said sadly, petting them gently as they fell asleep, “but if we keep them warm and their blankets clean and feed them regularly, they have a fighting chance.” Leon knew her well enough to guess that she’d be quite insistent on helping with that, and frankly he was glad of it. She seemed to have a better idea of how to handle all of this than he did.

“Where did you learn to take care of kittens?” He knew the Lions taught a lot of skills, but this was definitely not one of them.

She glanced up at him and smiled. “Minrathous has a lot of strays,” she said. “I was in a situation like this once. One of the Chantry servants, Falon, taught me how to do this kind of thing. He was
 very good with all sorts of animals.” He supposed that made some kind of sense.

“And you Cyrus? I don’t think I can look after them all by myself, and Estella likely won’t be able to, either.” He was much less certain of what the other Avenarius would do than he was of his sister. Generosity was not the first trait that naturally came to mind when one considered him, but he’d been surprisingly willing to make an attempt of this today, so perhaps there was yet a point in asking.

For a moment, Cyrus regarded him with a flat look, but then his eyes wandered down to the box, and the sleeping creatures within, and he shook his head. “I suppose.” He didn’t exactly sound pleased about it, but he wasn’t refusing. “But I make no promises.” His lips pursed, but whatever else he’d been thinking of saying, he kept to himself. His protest, such as it was, seemed a bit thin, but there was real reluctance in his expression.

Estella, at least, didn’t seem to believe that he was really all that upset about it, and she rolled her eyes at him. “It’ll give him a reason to leave his atelier. I’m all for it.”

Leon chuckled, then nodded slightly, rising to his feet. “All right then. I can keep them for the rest of today, but I have several meetings tomorrow, so I’ll bring them by your office, shall I?” She inclined her head by way of agreement, rising as well and taking her brother’s arm when he did the same.

“Sure. Let us know if you need help with them later tonight or something, though. And start working on names. They’ll need those eventually.” She half-smiled, then elbowed Cyrus. “This one gets to name the little girl, though. I saw that look on your face.”

“I've no idea what you're talking about. There was no look." Their lighthearted bickering carried on past Leon's office door, but faded as it closed behind them.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
The view from her balcony was simply brilliant. Marceline had taken it upon herself to occupy the living space atop the main tower, which was connected to the main hall via long staircase and and short hall. A rather large four-poster bed rested against the far wall, its bedding made and tucked into the mattress immaculately. Above that hung a purple banner of Marceline's house heraldry stitched in silver, a shield emblazoned with the image of a raven sitting atop a vine of grapes. On the wall adjacent was a large wardrobe which held a number of her finely tailored dresses. Across from that and pressed into a corner sideways was a desk whose seat would still give her the gorgeous view out of her balcony.

It was certainly the room of a noblewoman, and Lady Marceline was not yet even done decorating to her liking. "My apologies for the bare accomodations, I still have pieces of furniture on its way from home," she explained to her two guests. Leon, Cyrus, and herself had chosen the moment to put aside their duties and to do something other than work. "I am particularly anxious to get in a rug that I had imported from Antiva. The floor is nearly unbearably cold in the morning," she added taking an unsavory glance at the wooden floor beneath their feet.

It was summer, but the mountain mornings still carried a bit of a chill with it, but fortunately it heated up during the afternoon. The weather was nice enough that she had the double doors that led out onto the balcony thrown open. On the balcony itself was a long table, and on the table sat a number of items. Most prominently featured were the selections of bottles that they had all brought, dust still present on the necks of some. Surrounding them were a basket full of various types of bread, a plate of select cheeses, another plate holding different luncheon meats, and finally a dish of crackers.

Marceline allowed herself a mild smile as she looked between both her guests. "I must admit, I have been looking forward to this opportunity for a time now. It is a relief to do something other than try and manage the Inquisition's finances while meeting with the nobility." They were still receiving donations from their allies among the nobility, though fortunately their petitions to take tours of Skyhold had dropped somewhat since they had established themselves. Still, it was not a rare thing to cross the hold's grounds and catch the reflection off of an Orlesian mask.

Cyrus didn’t stand overmuch on the formality, and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs set at the long table, relaxing his usual impeccable posture into the seat back and half-smiling in that curiously-sharp way he had. He looked entirely comfortable, as though he did this sort of thing all the time, and in all fairness, he might once have done. “What's this?” His tone was teasing, but mildly so. “Even the esteemable Lady Marceline grows tired of balancing books and attending to the eccentricities of blue-blooded gawkers? There’s hope for the likes of us yet, Leon.”

Leaning forward, he reached towards one of the bottles on the table, dusting it off slightly with a cloth napkin. Removing what looked to be a foldable corkscrew from a pocket in his tunic, he popped it open with a series of practiced motions, moving forward again to pull three of the glasses towards himself. Into each, he poured a small amount of the dull golden liquid—one of his selections for this particular exchange. He declined to distribute them, however, apparently waiting for the others to get settled.

Leon did so as well, choosing a seat on the near side, so as to look out over the view from where he sat. For someone who left the matters of nobility wholly to Marceline, he didn’t look uncomfortable at a setup like this, either, as though it might not be precisely unfamiliar to him, either, though he lacked Cyrus’s obvious ease and comfort. Then again, that seemed to be true generally. He was smiling though, perhaps from the other man’s jest. “My thanks for the invitation, Lady Marceline.” He nodded amicably to her, then turned his attention with interest to Cyrus’s glasses.

“Ah, I’d heard Imperial brandy was worth writing home about. How did you manage to get it shipped here, though?”

While they spoke, Marceline took a seat on the other side so as to see them both, her back to the open air. “I still know people in the right places.” The reply was a little enigmatic, but Cyrus said no more, simply handing a glass to each of them. They weren’t full of course—this was more a tasting than an effort for any of them to become inebriated. “This one has a bit more honey to it than most do. I like it best with something a bit heavier, but the camembert will do quite well.” He lifted his glass a bit into the air.

“To our mutual culinary edification.”

Marceline raised her glass to clink off the others while allowing herself a smile. Instead of downing the liquid immediately, she gently swirled it in her glass before lifting it to her nose so that she could get the aroma. Once satisfied, she finally allowed herself a sip of the liquid. It rolled smoothly over the tongue, but it was immediately obvious as having a heavier kick than ale, a sort of sharp burn that settled in on the way down. Though made of grapes, like wine, it resembled in taste a strangely-sweet whiskey, and the tart flavor of fruit was blended, indeed, with something like honey, rich and saccharine. Marceline paused to think on the taste for a moment before she spoke. "It certainly has a kick, does it not? But it is not an unpleasant kick. I am rather fond of the aroma as well," she said, swirling the liquid again under her nose. She could find the tart fruitiness in the scent. "Where is this distilled?" She asked. While it was not the type of liquor that Michaël particularly enjoyed, her father did however. A bottle or of something similar would be a wonderful gift to send him.

“This particular one? The river valley just outside Vyrantium. The lowlands there are quite amenable to grapes. I can put you in contact with the distributer, if you’re so inclined. She’d be quite happy to have a client from somewhere outside the Imperium, I’m sure.”

He rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers for a moment, chewing over the cheese he’d taken to accompany the drink, then ventured a different variety of question. “You’re from growing country yourself, aren’t you, Marceline? I understand you’ve inherited a vineyard and production facilities of your own.” He either didn’t notice that he’d dropped her title from her name, or he’d done it on purpose, because he neither made note of it nor corrected himself. Either way, she did not say anything to correct him. Were they in public, she may have, but they were in a social outing and she did not feel the need to point out the faux pas.

"I am and I have," she answered, though a slight frown appeared in her lips. "The LĂ©cuyer Vineyard, and the West Banks as a whole are mine, yes, but my mother is once again in charge of operations. With my obligations and attention focused on the Inquisition, I am unable to run our business efficently. Though fortunately, mother was more than happy to resume her duties as my steward. I do not think she enjoyed retirement as much as she believed she would," Marceline added with a smile.

“Sounds familiar,” Leon put in, his tone somewhere between nostalgic and amused. “There are some people, I think, who really don’t suit a life of inactivity.” He reached across the table next, taking up three new glasses and a bottle, picking up Cyrus’s corkscrew and using it to open a squatter, squarish bottle of liquor, the glass dark and smoky. The label was black, the letters on it silvery, and the glass itself was cut with some eye to aesthetics, though it was a sharp, angular sort.

“This is my contribution. I think my sister was a little too happy to learn that I intended to share with friends, because she sent me the really good stuff.” He smiled wryly. “Anderfels whiskey. You should, ah
 drink slowly. It tastes better than Golden Scythe, but it’s almost as potent.” He barely covered the bottoms of their glasses with a thin finger’s width of liquid, the color a reddish amber. Even from as far away as they sat, the smell was sharp and obvious, and he handed the glasses over, raising for another toast.

“To
 well, to family, I suppose.” He shrugged, knocking his own glass back with the ease of much practice.

"To family," Marceline repeated, clinking the glasses once more. Like before, she swirled the liquid and lifted it under her nose, though this time it was wholly unnecessary, and in fact came from a habit alone. A habit that burned the inside of her nose, and she noticeably took the glass away from her nose quicker than usual. However, despite the omen, she had her pride as a connoisseur and knocked the shot back much like Leon did. It was probably a mistake. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he called the whiskey potent; the sort they had in Orlais, that she was more familiar with, didn’t have near the bite this did. Though the taste was strong, with a fair number of oak and smoke flavors to it, it was clearly of good make, just
 very overpowering.

Marceline stifled a cough and quietly reached for the nearest glass of water, and attempted her best to nonchalantly sip from it. One sip turned into two, and then two turned to half the glass, but she could still feel the burn in her nose and chest. Though she made no vocal complaint, she silently wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and helped herself to a wheat roll. "It certainly is... stout," Marceline admitted, pulling a chunk out of the roll and placing it in her mouth. After she swallowed, she continued, "Michaël would most certainly enjoy this," she said. Her husband was rather fond of strong drink, but she wondered if it was too much for even him.

It was impossible to miss the sound of Cyrus laughing to her left, though he was doing so quietly. “Let no one doubt your talent for diplomacy.” His own glass was empty as well, though she hadn’t seen in what manner he’d consumed it, and he looked relatively unaffected. Perhaps he’d elected to go a bit more slowly. She stared at him with an even frown for a moment before a smile worked its way into her features. It was her fault for letting her pride to get the better of her.

Leon smiled, too, his humor just as evident. “It’s
 an acquired taste, I think.” While they waited for her to sufficiently recover and make her own contribution to the exchange, he changed topics slightly. “Are you still planning to send Pierre to live with your mother for a while, Lady Marceline? I think it might be more comfortable for him if he didn’t spend the winter here; I’m still not sure how well the castle’s going to handle the cold.”

"Yes, the weather in Orlais's heartlands is much more favorable than it would be here in the mountains," she explained. While it certainly did grow cooler back home, it would certainly not snow as much as it would in the mountains or as it had in Haven. "He should spend time at home, I would like it if he learned of the business much of the same way I had, and mother is a superb teacher." She then frowned again, sighed, and continued, "I would also like him there to keep mother company. She is a stern woman, yes, she has a soft spot for Pierre. The business slows during the fall and winter months, and she would get lonely with father away due to the civil war. I worry," she said, exchanging glances between Leon and Cyrus.

"What of your family, Leon?" she asked with genuine curiosity.

He lifted a shoulder, leaning back a bit in his seat. The expression on his face was fond, but still very much in the present moment. “My family and I have been separate for most of my life,” he explained. “I was given to the Chantry around the time I turned eleven, and entered templar training not long afterwards. I do visit, though. My mother died when I was quite young, but my father and two older siblings still inhabit our land. Gerwulf is the heir—he’s been married a while now, and I’ve a niece and a nephew. Verena heads the family’s forces, and nags me in letters.” Leon smiled, and moved his eyes to Marceline.

“I think it’s quite remarkable, though. The way you can raise a child in the midst of all of this. I certainly couldn’t.”

“I don’t think I could raise a child ever.” Cyrus said it humorously, but there was nonetheless a detectable thread of sincerity in the words. “Especially not if it was anything like I was.” His eyes glinted with mirth, and he reached for a round portion of bread, manipulating it in his right hand so that it rolled along the length of his forearm to his elbow, where he caught it with his left. “I was terrible, really. Still am, I suppose.” He lofted a brow, as though anticipating confirmation.

“Your Pierre is extremely well-behaved, by comparison."

"He is a young gentleman," Marceline agreed with a proud smile. She saw much of herself in the young man, in his demeanor and personality, but she also saw some of Michaël in him as well. She could tell by the set of his shoulders and the square in his jaw that Pierre would grow tall and strong like his father. "It is our hope that he will grow to be able to do anything he so desires, though it is my hope that he will wish to inherit the family business," she said with a coy smile and a slight laugh. However, the smile was short lived, and it gave way to a frown.

She could not pretend that it was that easy however. "I still worry. Michaël and I both do," she began, her features even set. "With our obligations, we fear that we are not able to be present as much as we would like. I wish I was able to spend more time with him, but I simply cannnot," she said. "I am pleased that he has managed to find a friendship with Asala." Marceline had noticed Pierre spending time with the Qunari woman in Haven, and she could not disapprove. It was clear that Asala was a kind young woman, and was a healthy friend to have.

Cyrus looked thoughtful for a moment, unusually free of the half-mocking demeanor which seemed to characterize him most of the time. “Friends have a way of changing things.” It was unclear if he spoke from personal experience or was merely offering up something he’d heard, but he didn’t exactly seem happy to say it. He shook his head just a little bit, though, and moved away from the subject.

“And what have you brought to our little exchange, Marceline?”

"A Cabernet Sauvignon," she answered, reaching for her bottle. The bottle itself was dark and dusty with the label having browned from age in her cellar. However, the stamp her heraldry of the shield and raven and its vintage was still immediately recognizable with black ink. She took Cyrus's corkscrew in hand and in a practiced sequence had the cork free in moments. She smiled as she began to pour into their glasses. The liquid was a thick, dark purple with a hue of red reflecting off of the edges. She was generous with the pour, but did not overdo it to better let the wine breathe.

She swirled the wine much like she did the other liquors, but she spoke too. "I will spare you from the sales pitch," she said, with a coy smile, "Just know that it is a LĂ©cuyer Special Select, taken from my own personal stores," she explained. Finally she lifted it under her nose and took in the scent. Among the various aromas were an earthy wood, with a strong note of blackcurrants. She took a drink and allowed the flavor to settle over her tongue. It was a heavy drink, with the taste of blackcurrants at the fore, though beneath that were layers of tastes of vanilla and, oddly enough, a hint of green peppers.

“I’m not much of a wine person,” Leon admitted after his first swallow. “But that’s really quite good.” He offered a smile and a shrug, gathering up a few pieces of cheese and some bread to eat with it, presumably, and relaxed further back into his chair. His eyes wandered out over the view, and it was quite spectacular, really.

“I suppose I’ll add it to my list. Things I’d never have experienced but for the Inquisition.” His expression became slightly wry, and his focus momentarily returned to the other two. “At least not everything on it is completely terrible.”

“Commander, I think you may be even more cynical than I am. It’s quite refreshing.” Cyrus looked amused as ever, his smile widening a little to something with a hint of genuine pleasure in it. “I can happily drink to that, though. To things not entirely terrible, enjoyed with people not entirely intolerable.” He raised his glass and tilted it forward.

Marceline simply laughed and raised her glass as well, clinking it together with the others.

"Agreed."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon really needed to stop trying to walk and read at the same time.

He’d managed to crack his forehead on another doorframe, though mercifully no one was around this time, and he winced, reaching up to his brow and rubbing the sore spot with a sigh. Sometimes, he really wished he were just a few inches shorter.

Ducking under the side entrance this time, he made his way around to the long staircase that led up past Rilien’s personal floor to the workshop directly beneath the rookery. He’d been summoned, more or less, by word of some kind of breakthrough regarding
 well, he wasn’t entirely sure what yet. Something to do with the Red Templars. Since he needed to run these papers over to the spymaster anyway, he’d figured it wouldn’t hurt to check on whatever it was in person. Rilien was hardly one to waste time.

The door to the workshop was open, and Leon stepped inside, his head clearing the doorframe this time, clearing his throat politely in case his presence had gone unnoticed.

Rilien wasn’t by himself this time, and indeed seemed to be conferring with a young-looking dwarven woman, her short, dark hair pulled into a small tail. She wore mostly heavy-duty clothing, overlaid with leathers for work rather than battle, and from various belts, bandoliers, and harnesses were strung a wide array of metal objects, most of them either tools of some kind or what looked like small mechanisms and devices. Leon had met her once before, shortly after she joined the Inquisition, and she’d given him his mesh tea-steeping contraption, a small thing that was designed with a sort of mindful simplicity. Her name, he could recall, was Sennesía, though she introduced herself as both that and Widget, apparently an informal nickname referring to her proclivity for designing such implements as she carried.

Presently, both she and Rilien were examining something on a wooden worktable, Sennesía standing on a wooden block to aid her height. Though she appeared much the same as she had last time he saw her, Rilien was not quite his usual self. His skin looked waxy and slightly drawn, paler even than usual, and it would seem he’d been sweating a fair bit, from the dampened ends of the hair near his nape. His expression was unchanged, but his physical appearance itself was clearly that of a person unwell.

When they turned to greet him, Sennesía’s motion gave him a look at what they were examining: a red crystal of perhaps six inches in length and three in width. From the way it glowed, it had to be red lyrium. “Ah. ‘Lo there, Commander.” Sennesía spoke with a slightly roughened accent, as though she’d been raised among people with a great deal less education than Leon had.

“Good afternoon, Miss Sennesía,” Leon replied mildly, though he did not bother to disguise his concern at Rilien’s present condition. “Rilien? You said you had something to tell me, but are you sure it cannot wait? You seem
 ill.” Leon wasn’t really sure how else to put it, but in his limited experience, Rilien hadn’t bothered with tact unless it was necessary for something, and so he figured the tranquil wouldn’t mind if he did the same.

The mechanist gave him a look like that was something she’d said already, but Rilien shook his head slightly. “It is the lyrium. I will recover when it is removed.” His tone held as steadily as ever, so clearly whatever physical effects he was feeling were manageable, even if they made him look like hell. “More importantly, we have arrived at a theory regarding what makes red lyrium different from the ordinary variety.” He moved his eyes to Sennesía, who nodded.

“I worked in lyrium mines fer a few years, in Orzammar. M’ family’s minin’ caste, so it’s what I knew first.” She looked briefly awkward, but then hurried onwards in the explanation. “Anyway, er
 it’s got some interestin’ properties. Rilien here gets sick around it, faster ‘n anyone else does, but he’s sensitive to magic, he says, so I figure
 the magic is sick, too.” She reached up to scratch at the back of her head, shrugging a bit. The pause in the explanation seemed polite, rather than one created because she had no more to say. Evidently, she expected a question here.

“Sick? Sick how?” Leon hadn’t heard of such a thing before, but of course red lyrium itself was a relatively new development, at least on the surface of Thedas. The dwarves of Orzammar hadn’t been familiar, either—the world’s first exposure to the stuff in living memory had been through something unearthed in an ancient thaig, or so the story went. The only other things that far down in the earth were supposed to be the old Tevinter gods that became archdemons, and the darkspawn that searched endlessly for their slumbering-places.

“Sick like
 tainted.” Sennesía compressed her lips into a thin line, then sighed and dropped her hand back to her side. “The song’s different, y’see. Us in the minin’ caste, we can learn t’ hear the song, but this isn’t the normal one. The taint’s the only reason I can think why this stuff poisons dwarves, like that Bartrand fellow Rilien mentioned. If it was like any other lyrium, it wouldn’t be able t' do that, ‘cept if it was raw, which that bit wasn’t.”

Rilien nodded slightly, folding his arms into his sleeves and taking a step away from the work table. “I believe Sennesía’s deductions to be correct. I as well have frequently worked with lyrium, and though my tranquility was never complete, I have only ever felt it barely. Not like this. It exudes physical heat, but also
 there are mental effects, and they are not entirely unlike accounts of what occurs to Grey Wardens at the end of their lifespans, or those who are affected by the taint and become ghouls.”

Leon grit his teeth at the mention of Grey Wardens, but eased the tension in his jaw with conscious effort. “So what does this mean? I thought the Blight only affected living things, not inanimate objects like stone.” Of course, lyrium wasn’t always stone, he knew that. But it was either that or a powder, or a potable liquid, so the point remained the same. He eyed the piece on the table warily. He didn’t feel any different, being in proximity to it, but then, he wasn’t a mage, and he’d never taken lyrium—templars only received their first dose at the conclusion of their training, and he’d been moved into the Seekers before that happened.

“You are correct.” Rilien stood a fraction more stiffly than usual, but a little bit of color was returning to him already.

“It means lyrium’s a livin’ thing. Sort of.” Sennesía looked unsure how to explain it, and shrugged again. “It’s somethin’ some people have always thought, though you’d have to ask someone who knows more about magic for the fancy details. But I know it sings, and if it sings, seems like it could be alive.” She exhaled a short, sharp sigh, scratching her cheek just beneath her eye.

“The theory’s really interestin’, but probably not the most important part for you. What you’ll want t’ know is that it could make a lot of people sick. Folks like me, with a bit of resistance, they’ll be okay fer a while, but not too long, if there’s a lot of it. You’ve seen what it does t’ templars who drink the stuff.” She paused there, perhaps feeling little more needed to be said on that point. “Ingestin’ even once’d probably kill a mage, so you’ll want t' keep that lot well away. Probably better if they don’t even touch it. Normal tranquil are probably about as okay as us dwarves, considerin’.”

She stopped there, though, and glanced at Rilien expectantly. He picked up easily on the cue and the thread of conversation both. “Actually, Commander, I understand that you fought red templars with your hands at Therinfal. Did you at no point feel any ill effects?”

Leon moved a little further into the workshop, taking up a spot at the worktable, studying the red lyrium with some trepidation. He still didn’t feel anything, really. “No. I know I hit it directly a few times, too. Probably managed to inhale some dust
” He trailed off, something from an earlier discussion coming back to him. “Captain SĂ©verine said that Ophelia, another Seeker, had publicly consumed some as the templars did, but appeared to suffer no ill effects. And if the symptoms are as bad as we’ve seen in others, I would have noticed when I met up with her. She didn’t look or sound affected at all.”

He reached forward for the shard, picking it up in a gloved hand and turning it over. He would admit, the light it emitted seemed rather sinister-looking to him, but he felt nothing in particular. Putting it back down for a moment, he tugged his glove off and touched it directly. Still nothing, not even a mild hint of nausea, though it was indeed quite warm to his fingers. He didn’t want to cut himself with it, of course—even he didn’t want to risk something like that directly in his bloodstream if he could avoid it, but if Ophelia was anything to go by, even that might not do anything to him.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “Maybe Seekers are resistant for some reason.”

“Huh.” Sennesía was looking at him curiously. “Even I wouldn’t want to touch that with my bare hands.” She was, indeed, wearing thick-looking work gloves up to her elbows, and had apparently been making use of eye-protection as well, from the goggles perched on her head.

Rilien’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave no indication as to why. “In any case, it is only a theory. We will have to study it further, and devise some way of storing it that cancels the effects completely.”

The mechanist nodded. “Cold does somethin’, I noticed, though it might not be a good somethin’ for us. If I keep it in a lead box like this, I can’t hear the singin’, so that’s probably a good bet fer now.” With great care, she lifted the shard into the box in question and set it down, closing the heavy lid over the whole container. “Well, I’m goin’ t’ go put this away. Fer the best, I think.” She looked apprehensively at Rilien, shaking her head. “You get some rest now, Rilien. You don’t look too great, if you’ll forgive me sayin’ so.”

Leon had been about to offer to help with the box, but she seemed to have it well in-hand, and after she left, he gently closed the door behind her. Deciding that calling further attention to Rilien’s condition was unlikely to be of any help, he instead handed the tranquil the papers he’d originally come bearing. “Scout reports. I thought you’d make better use of them than I can, at the moment.” He paused, trying to work up to the other reason he was here, the one that he found it much more difficult to discuss. He didn’t find it easy to talk about, in general, particularly not to people he had to see on any kind of regular basis. Fortunately, Rilien wasn’t really the sort of person who would bring it up or look at him differently simply because he knew, and so it was a little more bearable.

“The, ah
 potions you’re making for me. Have you been modifying the formula at all?” He didn’t think Rilien would do something like that, but he felt he had to make sure, just in case. Whether or not he meant any harm, the tranquil was, to Leon’s estimation, the kind of person who often went for efficiency, and sometimes that meant changing things without bothering to tell anyone, as the Seeker himself knew from personal experience.

Rilien blinked at him, and if he’d been anyone else, the minute alteration in his expression might have qualified as offense. “I have not. Are they performing substandardly?” He crossed the room to the alchemy table he’d set up, this one now with a full standing kit, much larger than the portable version in the rookery above. From the shelf behind the table, he took down half a dozen glass vials, slotting them easily into the spaces between his fingers, and returned to the center of the room, holding them up to the light of the chandelier for inspection—likely Leon’s rather than his own.

And they did indeed look exactly the same as they always had, a blackened red rendered almost carbuncle in the light. Leon knew for a fact that they’d tasted the same as well, dismissing one possible cause of his present predicament. “No, no they’ve been rather the opposite, actually.” That was just the problem. He’d suspected Rilien might have altered the formula explicitly because they seemed better than they usually were. “It’s just
 the effects seem to be lingering longer, and
 bleeding over, into situations where I’d really prefer they didn’t.” He’d noticed an increased degree of irritability, for one, and he suspected something was making his physical symptoms worse as well. Headaches, muscle-spasms, and his persistent inability to get a good night’s sleep may well all be connected.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything you could tell me about that?”

Rilien set the vials down on the nearest flat surface, clearly leaving them there for Leon to take, and spent a moment considering the question. “The reagent is exceedingly rare.” He glanced down at one of the vials. “I had not had much experience brewing with it before you asked me to, and there is little alchemic literature on its properties and side effects. But I have encountered other texts, wherein others who have used it have described the long-term effects.”

There was another pause, this one a little longer. “Your progression down the list is accelerated. That is perhaps to be expected—most people in your position only require one dose at all. Your continued consumption is most likely to blame.”

Leon sighed deeply. That, of course, was the most obvious answer, though he’d been hoping for a different one, one he could do something about. He’d always known this would have consequences. Ophelia had warned him of as much. His faith had bid him accept those consequences. And now
 his position in the Inquisition demanded that he continue to do so, faith or no faith. He swallowed. It was quite one thing for those consequences to be some indeterminate number of years in the future. It was another altogether to be able to feel them beginning to take their toll.

“How long, do you suppose?” He asked the question just as evenly as Rilien usually spoke, unwilling to expend any more on it than that.

“That will depend on how often you imbibe it between now and then. If you continue at your recent rate, perhaps a year or two in total. If you slow down, it may take longer.” Rilien’s words were dispassionate, but he tilted his head faintly to one side. “If you were to consult others with some relevant expertise, you may be able to extend that further. Seeing a healer about it regularly would not do harm. And I understand that the Imperium has many people who may know more than I do about blood magic.” They of course had both a healer and an Imperial mage among the Inquisition’s irregulars.

Leon’s immediate instinct was to reject the suggestions. But
 the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if it might not help to talk to Cyrus, at least, see if there was anything he might know about this kind of thing. The problem was, he didn’t really understand all the pieces of it. He doubted even Ophelia did. She didn’t have the same problem after all, despite being a Seeker herself. They both knew, though, that no healer could repair the damage done by their methods of combat, and considering just how sensitive and easily-distressed Asala was, not to mention her current state of being barely functional, he wasn’t going to talk to her about his problem anytime soon.

“As you say,” was what he ended up going with, and he inclined his head to Rilien, taking up the vials and depositing them in a pocket. “You’ve my thanks, for this much.” He’d seldom met an alchemist willing to do the work for him, once they knew what it was for, what it would do. He didn’t tell most of them, of course.

“I will continue to look into the matter.” Rilien returned the slight nod with one of his own. “If there is an alchemical solution, I will find it.” His words contained no trace of uncertainty.

Leon smiled, the expression for once exactly as bitter as he felt, though the feeling wasn’t directed at Rilien. Far from it. But he said nothing further, taking his leave from the workshop. There was no alchemical solution—he was quite sure there was no solution at all. Those had been the terms.

The strength he needed, his life in exchange.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The fresh snow crunched underneath their feet as Marceline traveled alongside Leon. Winter was upon them now, with new drifts of snow being supplied to Skyhold's grounds daily. Even then, snowflakes lazily drifted from the sky, and provided a stark contrast for the moment that they lingered in her well-kept mane of black hair. She was dressed for the weather with a thick black coat with silver fur lining the collar. The mountains would only make the winter chill all the more sharp, and they could probably look forward to snow for several more months.

“I do hope you have men keeping the roads clear,” Marceline said with her neck arched upward, studying the falling snowflakes. They would depend on those roads in the following months for supplies like food and clothing. A lot of diplomacy went into securing contracts and trade routes for goods. It would be a shame to see all of her work undone by snow blockages. Her words, however, were merely musings. She had faith that Leon had the soldiers doing whatever was required of them.

Her head fell back down and turned toward Leon, “Speaking of the soldiers, there are some things I wish to discuss.”

“I wished to see how you felt using the army in an attempt to bring in a source of income,” Thus far, the Inquisition had mainly relied on donations and loans from across Thedas, though primarily Orlais and Ferelden. However, donations would soon become scarce as the Inquisition established itself, and there were only so many loans they could take out before the debt crushed them. “If you feel they are ready, of course,” If not, then the whole thing was moot.

Leon, perhaps due to sheer size, didn’t seem much bothered by the cold. His own cloak was comparatively light, made of nothing more than roughspun wool with a deep red linen lining. He crossed his arms upon Marceline’s suggestion, causing the edges of the garment to fall forward. His brows furrowed.

“Bring in income?” he echoed, sounding dubious at best. “It’s not a matter of readiness, Lady Marceline, but a matter of ethics. If you’re suggesting that we hire ourselves out to the highest bidder or take sides in a civil war in hopes of getting paid
” he trailed off, shaking his head. “That’s not really the kind of thing an army like this one should be doing.”

“I did not mean for the suggestion to sound so mercenary, Ser Leon.” Taking a side in the civil war would not only be unethical, but would also lead to a conflict of interest and undeniable bias. Her father fought for the Empress however, and she would not condone placing the Inquisition's army in his way. “You understand as much as I that war brings all sorts out of the woodwork. Bandits, highwaymen, plus we now have the Venatori and the Red Templars to contend with. With the majority of the Chevaliers' attention turned toward the civil war, there are not as many trained soldiers patrolling the roads or keeping the holds safe.”

Marceline shrugged and glanced upward toward Leon's face. “I am simply suggesting we fill that need. Now, do not misunderstand me,” Marceline, her own brows furrowed, “I do not want to initiate a protection racket where safety comes at a price, but... The Inquisition will need income to feed and pay her soldiers.”

Leon seemed somewhat mollified by the clarification, but his frown didn’t disappear. “In principle, that’s not a bad idea, but
 the kind of people who would benefit from our protection are not the kind who have much to give in terms of donations. We may end up spending more on transport and supplies than we get back for the effort. Much as I’d like to help, that might be better left to the Lord-General’s chevaliers. Not to mention Orlais is a sovereign nation even despite the civil war. We don’t really have a legal right to—look out!”

Before she could react, whatever it was struck her hard in the face. A freezing cold sensation was immediate as it spread through her face and seeped into her neckline. She halted midstep and gasped, swiping her face and bending over to free the snow stuck in her collar. Snow. It was then she realized that she'd been struck by a snowball. After removing as much of it as she could from her face and clothes, she shot a gaze upward, looking for the most likely culprit. Her brows were furrowed and her eyes narrow, though her face did not hold a look of outright rage instead sitting somewhere at accusing.

The first person she saw was her husband, having himself a hearty laugh. MichaĂ«l had returned to Skyhold from their estate on the West Banks a number of weeks back. Once he realized that she was staring at him however, his laughter stopped immediately. An alarmed expression entered his face as he quickly pointed toward the elven woman beside him. “Her,” he hastily accused.

Khari glared at him, but quickly threw up both hands in a placating gesture. One of them still grasped a second snowball. “Uh
 sorry, Lady Marceline. I was aiming for Leon, I swear!” Apparently she expected this information to make things less bad.

A loud snort sounded above the pin-drop silence, followed by hoarse, uncontrolled laughter. It carried itself across Skyhold’s grounds and belonged to the resident pirate, Zahra, who appeared to be struggling to keep herself on her feet. She was crooked forward with one hand perched on her wobbly knees, and the other planted firmly on the closest building. A breathy intake of breath later and she was rubbing her hands and knuckles across her eyes. If any attempt was made to stifle her amusement, it was a feeble one. “You should see—I can’t believe,” she sputtered between giggles and snorts, “your faces.”

She appeared to have made some effort when it came to dressing for the weather. No amount of pride could keep the chattering of teeth at bay. She’d chosen simpler clothes, though they still appeared unusual. Dark leathers, bound with soft brown linens. A heavy black cloak rimmed with some sort of animal fur hung over her shaking shoulders. Her hair hung free, in a wild mess, woven with small braids and beads upon closer inspection.

“That’s not helpful, Zee!” Khari threw the other chunk of snow she was holding for the laughing woman. Certainly, her aim could use some work—it barely clipped Zahra before spinning off slightly to the right. Zahra’s laugh only grew louder when the snowball careened off her shoulder. She was already ducking down to gather snow in her own fingerless gloves, wolfish grin wild on her dusky face.

Coming up behind the elf and the chevalier was a bundled up Romulus, heavy cloak draped around him and a hood covering his head. He stepped lightly through the snow, but if he was trying to put his particular skillset to use, he wasn't doing it very well. The dusky-skinned Herald still looked far from home traipsing about through the snow, but he at least looked a little warmer than he had the previous winter.

He was rapidly forming a snowball in his own gloves, packing it into a throwable condition. As soon as he had he aimed it for Khari, and his aim was true; it exploded right against the back of her neck, and Romulus showed a toothy grin as he shrugged. "It's only fair, I think."

She pretended to look offended for all of two seconds before cracking a smile just as wide. “Oh yeah? We'll see what's fair." Apology already forgotten, Khari stooped and drew up a handful of snow.

Across the courtyard where the inn sat, a window on the second level popped open and swung outward. The white-blonde mane of Vesryn appeared, his eyes surveying the sudden snowy conflict. "Are you having fun, Herald?" he asked incredulously. "I didn't think you knew how."

"Why don't you come down, then? I'll show you." Romulus was already working on another snowball, eyes watching all those present, his grin unwavering. Vesryn took the bait, disappearing immediately from the window and closing it behind him.

Next to Marceline, Leon chuckled under his breath. “I do believe we’d best either take cover or arm ourselves,” he said, a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. “That’s my official advice as commander, by the way.” Leaning forward slightly, he scraped some snow off a banister to his left, exposing the grey stone and compressing the flakes together between his palms. Taking his sound advice, Marceline quietly took a step backward and slipped into the rather large silhouette cast by Leon.

He eyed the entrance to the inn, apparently waiting for Vesryn to emerge before loosing the snowball. Given his strength, it wasn’t an outlandish possibility that he’d be able to hit someone all the way across the courtyard, either.

The elf swiftly moved out of the inn's doorway, like a child in a pretend game of warfare, which for all intents and purposes, this was. He had an actual implement of war, however. His tower shield led the way, and it was this alone that saved him from a snowy smack in the jaw. With snow sliding down the metallic front of the shield, Vesryn advanced, planting the shield into the ground just as another attack came from Romulus. He began working up a snowball of his own, though his efforts were a little hindered from holding up the shield.

"Is that all? My grandmother has a fiercer attack than this lot."

A soft thud accompanied a snowball striking him in the back; the culprit was soon revealed. Estella stepped out from behind a corner of the inn, one hand holding up part of her cloak, which was for the moment a makeshift basket for what looked like several more snowballs. “Surprise?” She half-smiled, darting away to take cover of her own behind a pile of chopped wood, stacked adjacent to the inn’s other side.

She adopted a steady rate of fire—her accuracy was at least better than Khari’s, though perhaps not by much.

She was certainly, however, not responsible for the volley of perhaps a dozen snowballs that arched onto the field from behind her, pelting anyone unfortunate enough to not duck behind cover in time. From her angle, Marceline could easily discern the cause—Cyrus strolled up behind his sister, wearing a broad grin. With a sharp hand gesture, he levitated another five or six chunks of snow into the air and hurled them as well.

“Asala?” The Qunari woman was indeed not far behind. “Have you ever attempted snow-fort architecture?”

“I have never had snow,” Asala answered cheerfully, the majority of her attention diverted instead toward a decently sized bubble levitating nearby. The bubble was completely opaque, having been filled with snow. “Though, Pierre and I did create a... snow man, back in Haven.” She stared at the snow-filled bubble for a moment before staring at Cyrus with a blank expression for another few moments.

She was quiet, before her eyes lit up in understanding. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and brought the bubble around to their front, morphing and shaping the snow in the air. By the time she sat it down, they had a nice, compressed snow wall between them and the rest of the combatants. With that, she beamed proudly. At least, until she was struck by a snowball.

“Cheating! That’s cheating—,” Zahra cried beneath the hail of levitating snowballs, raining down like arrows. A few had certainly struck their mark. Remnants of snow shook from her shoulders, and hair. If she was at all upset at having clumps of snow mussed in her wild mane, she certainly didn’t show it. Instead it appeared as if she was trudging through the snow and behind Asala’s makeshift wall, hidden from view. At least from the snow-ball churning demon grinning beside Estella. A lone snowball veered over their heads, and Zahra appeared a moment later, further to the right. Arms thrown back. Shuffling through the snow as if it were water. She dipped lower and attempted to tackle Cyrus into a nearby snowdrift, laugh already bubbling from her lips.

They went down in a heap; a pause in the constant barrage of snowballs from the south side allowed an opportunity for counterattack.

With a good deal of the attention turned toward the scuffle between Cyrus and Zahra, Marceline finally peeked out from Leon's shadow. She shot a glance around at the rapidly increasing number of individuals embroiled in their little snow battle. In a one fluid movement, she leaned out from behind Leon and loosed the snowball she'd been holding on to toward Khari. There was a little twist to her lips as she slid closer to her Seeker bulwark. Marceline always got her vengeance.

Above the frosty battle, and across the powdered walls, sat a lone figure. A woman perched across the brickwork like one of Rilien’s cackling ravens, though she hadn’t made a sound. She kicked her legs back and forth and absently fluffed snow from her knees, white-haired and dressed in clothes fit for Skyhold’s nippy weather. A soft brown hood was pulled over her head, but upon closer scrutiny, it appeared as if she was smiling. It pulled against the scar on her face.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Crimson sails flapped and rustled overhead as the Riptide sliced through oncoming waves. There was an occasional salty spray that broke over the wooden figurehead. It crowned over the painted face and pattered across the forecastle. It was difficult enough to miss the elegantly crafted woman staring off into the distance, breasts bared and hands planted across her knees. Her midsection was covered with wooden ruffles. Painted with the same rouge as the sails, though it hardly applied any modesty. Whoever had etched its face had certainly spent a painstaking amount of time on it. She nearly looked real. In the ship’s belly lied the hold and the crew’s quarters, individually decorated and ridiculously large. Hammocks, wooden beds built into the walls, and an assortment of chests. There was a small stock of barrels in the furthest chamber, filled with who knows what and a makeshift kitchen that appeared as if it’d just been built.

Borja had certainly been accurate when he’d said that the little vessel sailed truer than his own. Quicker, at least. A great deal smaller than his heavily-gunned battleship, the Riptide speedily progressed towards their destination—where to? Zahra wasn’t entirely sure, but when Rom and Khari had approached her with the request, she was loath to deny them. Her ship, she’d said, was as good as theirs. Always, anytime. Besides, she’d been itching for a reason to clamber back onto these decks. She’d missed it. Dearly. Skyhold was all well and fine, but it paled in comparison to the freedom she felt striking across the seas, an expanse of glass or choppy waves. As much as Zahra missed the cawing of gulls, and the salty breeze kissing her cheeks
 it reminded her of loss, of the absence of Aslan who’d always stood at her side. A vigilant giant keeping her from tumbling straight off the cliffs she toed so close to.

Even if Skyhold’s chill still nipped at their heels, she’d chosen a lighter fare. She assumed the weather would incline itself to her preferred state, after all. Zahra wore a loose cotton shirt tucked into tight leather pants, with a red sash and thick belt wound around her waist. She had her sleeves pulled up to her elbows and oddly enough had forgone wearing boots. Riptide’s deck was smooth enough to abandon good manners and civilities. This was her ship after all. She hadn’t left her companions with any instructions other than to enjoy the ride, explore the ship as they saw fit. They could sneak down into the hold’s kitchen and nab some biscuits before Brialle hid them away or help Nuka shuffle around the ship, tugging on the rigging with curse-words sifting through her lips. Or simply find a place to sleep. Garland was snoozing near the forecastle and his figurehead. Impressively ignoring the spray of water splashing across his face. He could sleep anywhere, that one.

Zahra found herself lounging near Nixium and the Riptide’s helm. Usually she’d harass the little elf. Stick her hands through the cylindrical spokes or teasingly jerk the rudder in the opposite direction. Anything to acquire an annoyed grumble, or a small, steepled smile depending on the occasion. But today, she wasn’t in the mood. She hunched over the chestnut railing and leaned her elbows across it. In these moments, you couldn't tell where the gray skies ended and the gray seas began. Thick clouds swirled in a tumult above, blue-gray waves swirled below, crashing into the side of the ship. It reminded her of things. Memories, mostly. Of the day she’d first stepped foot aboard a ship. A pirate ship. How ridiculously terrified she’d been. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting a familiar face, and chirped a quiet laugh when she saw no one standing there.

Ridiculous.

Something nudged into her shoulder. Zahra glanced over to her right and faced a tin flask: two inches from her face. Behind it was Nixium’s impassive expression. Betraying nothing behind those bright eyes of hers. Not even a smile, nor a word or explanation. She supposed she didn’t need one. Her smile simpered into something less wistful as she accepted the flask. She twisted off the lid and tipped her head back to seize a generous mouthful.

Ridiculous.

"Borja's impressed," came the voice of Romulus, and soon the visage of the man himself appeared nearing the helm. "I heard him say we're making good time. Thought I'd pass the compliment along, since he's unlikely to do it himself." He was dressed comfortably again, in a loose tunic and pants, and only a pair of sandals separating his feet from the ship's deck. His beard, too, he'd trimmed, down to its lowest layer. Likely he wanted to keep it for their return to the cold when this was over.

Romulus took a seat on a nearby railing, keeping himself anchored with one hand grabbing a rope tied up to a sail. He looked comfortable on the water, at home, even. If he was putting on some kind of act, it was a good one. "Thanks again for doing this. I know my father was sparse with the details. I think he sees you as a rival, actually." He seemed to remember himself, and walked to within arm's reach of the pair.

"Don't think we've met yet," he said, addressing Nixium. He outstretched a bare hand. "I'm Romulus."

Zahra spotted Romulus before he spoke. Or the top of his head anyhow. Ascending the wooden stairs, quiet as a mouse. If he’d wanted to startle them, she doubted it would’ve been difficult. She passed the sloshing flask back to Nixium and stretched her arms up towards the gray skies, wriggling her fingers. It’d been awhile since she’d had so many passengers aboard the Riptide. People not officially belonging to her crew
 but somehow managing to fit in just the same. She felt a crick in her neck and internally blamed old age. Maker knows she wasn’t as young as she used to be. “That’s just like him,” her laugh was genuine, and a little reflective, “Stubborn man. You’re right. I’d never hear it.”

She watched as Romulus perched himself across the railing, seeming every bit a sailor. Or pirate, if she had her way. She wondered just how different his life might’ve been if he’d been raised by Borja himself. It’d taken her awhile to even believe they were related. Would they have met on the seas? Would Borja have taken a different path altogether? Lived a nice and quiet life in the hills. It almost made her laugh. From what she’d heard, they’d been through quite a lot before finally appearing in Skyhold. Of course, she hadn’t broached the subject. And wouldn’t unless he asked. Though she felt a small tickle of regret at how she behaved in Redcliffe. At Rom’s father, no less. All bared fangs and venom. She’d have to apologize, someday. Perhaps.

“What kind of pirate would I be if I couldn’t help my friends?” It was a rhetorical question because at this point she was treading past the line of contractual responsibilities. This time, she’d strayed too close. She supposed it made her a weak mercenary. One that wasn’t so inclined to choose wealth over her companions. An odd transition to be sure, and one she found not so unpleasant. She pushed the wild mess of curls from her eyes and nodded her head. It appeared as if she wasn’t quite used to being thanked either. “Rival? You know, Borja’s one of the greatest sea pirates I’ve ever seen. Doubt he thought much of me when I was a just a whelp. Thought I was too mouthy for my own good. He’s probably right.” She held a finger in front of her lips and snorted, “Don’t tell him I said so.”

The red-headed elf regarded him coolly. Not in the manner that appeared impolite, or rude. Simply one belonging to an individual who preferred watching and listening over speaking herself. Nixium tilted her head and trailed her eyes across his outstretched hand. She blinked up at him and reached past his proffered hand, grabbing onto his forearm instead. A firm grip. If she was at all perplexed by the odd handshake, she gave no indication. “Nixium. Navigator. I keep this one from sinking our ship.” It might’ve been a joke if she’d laughed or smiled but she only nodded.

Behind them, Zahra snorted louder. “She isn’t lying.”

"Good thing you're here then," Romulus chortled back. "We've got a long ways to go still, and then a long ways back." The humor faded from his tone, an indication that he was moving to some business at hand. Indeed, he hadn't yet told her where they going, or what they were doing when they got there.

"We're headed to Llomerryn, or nearby at least. There's a Qunari ship docked there with a prisoner that we need to recover, man named Conrado. Long story short, he's an underworld sort that sold out my mother and father a long time ago. Someone had reason enough to want my mother dead for her bloodline, and if Conrado can point us in their direction, we might have a real lead on proof of my ancestry." He made his way back to his position on the railing, taking a seat again. "Not the simplest operation, I know. But you shouldn't have to risk the ship. I figure we'll want to go in with something a little smaller."

“That can be arranged.” The new voice was Leon’s distinctively-accented bass. The Seeker had shed most of his customary layers in concession to the rapidly-warming climate, though he still exposed no more than his face and forearms to the sun. He looked like the type that burned easy, between the blond hair and the fair complexion.

The tread of his boots was soft over the planks of the deck—either he hadn’t taken long to adjust to the rolling of the ship, or else he had experience with boat travel already. He spoke to all three of them, though perhaps mostly Romulus. “There’s not as much Chantry presence in Rivain as elsewhere, but for our purposes, that’s good. What is there aren’t templars or the sorts that speak the Chant on street corners. We do have agents, though, and more than one unmarked boat, I’m sure.” It seemed to go without saying that he could request such a thing and receive it.

Zahra said little to interrupt the flow of conversation. Only nodded when it was appropriate. She hadn’t been privy to any battle plans, though she felt a little more at ease knowing why they were going
 if not where. Llomerryn? She’d honestly never been there, but she’d sailed close enough to spot their terrifying ships. Even she wasn’t stupid enough to trespass too close. Dreadnoughts could tear them to pieces. And as restrained as Aslan was with his history, he’d instructed her how to avoid such conflicts. Though, she would’ve been lying if she said she didn’t want to see more Qunari. His people. His ways. A shame this wasn’t a frivolous occasion. She glanced between Leon and Romulus, resting her hands back at her hips.

Rivain. Home, then. A wistful sigh sifted from between Zahra’s lips. It was dangerously close to home, in any case. A rough fishing village surrounded by piers and docks and old, creaking boats. She didn’t often wonder what her family was up to. Though she missed her brothers, dearly. Though even less of the fiancee she’d fled from. She did think of the day Aslan appeared in the sour-smelling tavern. Remembered him proposing that she simply leave if she hated living there so much. Easy for him to say. And then she’d gone as if she’d never been there in the first place. Stepped off the docks without so much as a backwards glance. They’d sail straight past it if her estimations were right.

She shook the thoughts from her head and studied Romulus. Never thought she’d be in the business of recapturing prisoners. She had no qualms who they faced in Llomerryn. Or how they’d pull it off. Nor did she understand the weight of this particular pursuit, but she did know that it was important to him. That’s all that mattered.

"That's good," Romulus responded. "In any case, I can't imagine we'll get in and get out without coming across anyone. Even Qunari ships aren't that big. Best to go without anything that can link us with the Inquisition. Goes without saying that I don't want to bring any unnecessary trouble on us." Killing Qunari unprovoked was a certainly a good way to do that, even if Skyhold was about as far as possible from Par Vollen.

"Somehow I doubt the Qunari would be willing to just hand him over. They don't like to bend on these sorts of things, from what I've seen." There was something a little dark in the last words Romulus spoke, but he didn't elaborate on it any further.

“Their intelligence-gathering capabilities are also very good in Llomerryn,” Leon pointed out. “We’re going to need to be as unobtrusive as possible as soon as we hit land—even a bit before. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a viddathari that close to Kont-Ar.” He frowned slightly. “Actually, you’re probably going to want to keep your face hidden as much as you can. I don’t know if the tattoos would be recognizable, but they might be.” He gestured vaguely to his own visage as he said it.

Before any sort of response could be made to that, there was a soft groan from off to the left. Khari, looking distinctly green around the gills, staggered towards the prow of the boat, muttering something impossible to hear. She hit the railing hands-first, bending over it for a few seconds before she fell into a seated position, dangling her legs over the edge and pressing her forehead into one of the vertical bars keeping the handrail in place.

“Zee
 you’re great and your crew is great, but I hate your boat. Ugh.” She paused to take several deep breaths. “How do I make it stop moving?”

“You should see the other boats. Riptide’s smooth as butter in comparison.” Zahra snorted through her laughter and rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles. She hardly looked sympathetic when she sauntered over and leaned against the railing to Khari’s side, “An acquired taste, I think.”

Asala followed close behind, whom in contrast seemed right at home on the deck of the ship. She too had shed much of the layers she'd usually wore at Skyhold. She walked barefooted along the wooden deck, with loose breeches that cut off at her calf and a shirt that exposed her midriff. In fact she even appeared to have a slight skip in her step as she came to stand over Khari.

Asala bent over and gently gathered the woman's fiery red hair in her hands to keep it out of her face. The look on her face was one of pity as gazed upon the poor creature. “You, uh... do not,” Asala answered. “But you will get used to it. In time. Maybe.” She did not seem at all convinced by her own words. It was all she could do to shoot the others a shaky smile that all but said probably not.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
They’d been in Llomerryn for the better part of a day, docked at the harbor. Khari was itching to set her feet back on land, but they were waiting for Anais to show up, and apparently it was better if they kept themselves mostly out of sight. Her guts were not thanking her—they still hadn’t settled, even if the boat wasn’t really moving much now. It was better if she wasn’t below, though. Khari had sprawled herself out on the deck near the helm, arms thrown out to either side, obeying the injunction not to make a spectacle of herself and her body’s demand for fresh air at the same time.

The night sky was pretty here, without much around to block the view. Still, she was mostly sure she liked it better at Skyhold. A wave rolled into the harbor, dipping the boat slightly underneath her. She groaned softly when something churned in her innards. The idea of sailing was great—too bad the reality sucked so much.

Zahra stood off a few feet from Khari’s right side, looking every bit the forlorn lover. Arms splayed across the railing. Finger trailing circles around the knots of the wood. Almost as if she were bidding someone farewell for a time. It would’ve looked peculiar to anyone else, or perhaps, as if she were deep in thought. Not quite so armed as the other group, but prepared all the same, the captain’s bow was strapped to her back and her thin rapier hung at her hip.

Soft footfalls across the deck heralded Rom's approach. He'd been restless ever since they arrived, to say the least. He was out of the comfortable travel clothes and into something more suitable for their mission: near black garb, and next to nothing that would make noise when he moved. He was armed to the teeth as well, even if not all of his weapons were visible. One did not take on even an unprepared portion of the Qunari's military arm lightly.

"She's here," he said softly, giving Khari a squeeze on the shoulder and pointing towards the dock. "About time."

Anais was also out of the usual half-plate they'd grown accustomed to seeing her in, instead wearing nondescript black clothing, including a light hooded cloak, which she currently had drawn over her vibrant red hair. She was accompanied by two others, one who appeared to be her own agent, or fellow cultist, and the other an agent of the Inquisition. It was only Anais who came aboard, though.

"Your Worship," she greeted Rom first, with a respectful bow of her head. Rom impatiently waited for her to finish. When Anais raised her head again, she glanced around at those assembled on the deck. "Is the Qunari mage here? Asala, was it? I've seen to it that the Qunari are expecting a saarebas. Tantalizing bait."

As if on cue, the Qunari woman in question strode out from under deck, her attention focused on the harbor in the distance. She lingered a step beyond the threshold, looking up and down the coast for a moment as if searching for something. Eventually however, she turned and finally noticed that all eyes were turned toward her. She flicked between them as her head tilted quizzically.

“Um...?”

"Saarebas," Anais repeated, her tone indicating a low estimation of Asala's intelligence. "Bait. You're to lead as many Qunari as possible away from their ship, thus giving us a better chance to retrieve the prisoner. This may require you to attack some of them, and it will require some endurance. Are you capable?"

Asala noticably twitched at being called Saarebas, but otherwise said nothing. Instead, she averted her gaze to their feet.

Rom had crossed his arms by this point, leaning back against the mast of the ship. "You won't be going alone," he said. "We'll be splitting up, so you'll have some people to watch your back." He looked expectantly in Khari's direction. "Right?"

Khari gave Anais a sidelong look for all of a second before grinning at Asala. “We’re gonna go on a merry little chase, you and me. And Cap’n Zee.” Oh, that had rhymed. Awesome.

She figured she was pretty useless for sneaking around and onto occupied boats. She could be quiet enough, but the armor clanked and there was no way she was going without it for a job like this, so she’d decided pretty early that she’d play to her strengths and be a huge pain in the ass instead. There were plenty of other people who could do the rest of it.

“Rom, Leon, Anais, and Borja here are gonna get on board the ship while we’re running around with Qunari on our heels.” Asala didn’t exactly know the whole plan yet; Khari figured she deserved to be told. “But all we’ve gotta worry about is not getting skewered by javelins. Sounds like a good time, right?”

She didn’t expect agreement.

She was not disappointed. “No... It does not,” she answered flatly. Once more, Asala flicked her eyes between them before she signed through her nose, apparently resigning to her task. “I do not suppose there is another way... But if this will help you...” she added, looking at Romulus while she spoke. She then looked down at her bare feet and shrugged. “I will need boots,” she stated, returning back under deck to undoubtedly go fetch a pair.

"It'll have to do," Anais said, seemingly more to herself than anyone. "The boat is prepared and nearby, Your Worship. We should move into position."

Borja started down the ship's ramp onto the dock, sheathing a knife at his waist. "About time. I've waited long enough." Rom made his way over to Khari, offering a squeeze on the shoulder. He looked a bit uncomfortable about everything as well.

"Look after Asala. And don't do anything too stupid. No one should get hurt for this. We'll make it fast."

“No risk, no reward.” Khari meant it in jest, though—it would be one thing if she were doing this by herself, but there were other people to think about here. Asala in particular was not likely to enjoy the experience of being chased around by a bunch of the same people that nearly sewed her mouth shut or whatever else Qunari did with their mages. Khari might not be the quickest on the emotional uptake, so to speak, but even she knew that everyone had their sore spots. If they could have done this without putting her at risk, she’d have wanted to.

She flashed Rom a jagged half-smile, clapping him on the upper part of his arm. “We’ll be fine. I’m almost as good at getting out of trouble as I am at getting into it.”



Had she been with anyone else, those other people probably would have known better than to let Khari be more-or-less in charge of the plan. But she was with Asala, who was probably honestly a bit too timid to register a complaint, and Zee, who would probably also think that what she had planned was a great idea. Or at least a fun one.

Llomerryn was actually pretty bustling, even at this time of night. Most of the buildings near the harbor had candles burning in the windows or lanterns outside or whatever other light they needed. The smell of burning incense and spices Khari didn’t know the names for hung thick and heavy on the salt air—she could taste it all on the back of her tongue. She had the feeling that some of the incense was actually more like what her uncle put in his ironbark pipe, only headier.

The street was flanked with little stands as well, draped in colorful fabrics she couldn’t fully appreciate in the semidark, embroidered with metallic thread that she could. All kinds of food was available for perusal: fruit she’d never seen, fish right from the ocean, and round fuzzy coconuts she kind of wanted to try.

The hawkers weren’t as avid in the evening as they were at other times; everyone seemed content to call out occasionally and otherwise leave the small crowd traversing the night bazaar to their business. At least that made it slightly easier to tear her attention from all the food and focus on the task at hand.

It wasn’t unusual for Khari to be the person who stuck out like a sore thumb in whatever situation. So it was unsurprising that she did now. Qunari weren’t that hard to find around here, and of course Zee blended on her own home turf, so to speak. But she hadn’t seen many other elves, and not a single Dalish, which was pretty predictable. It would be to their advantage, actually.

Their targets were mostly clustered near the docks proper, casting wary eyes about the immediate area. As Anais had promised, they looked to be expecting trouble; all of them were armed. The solemn looks on their faces could have been that, or just the fact that none of them had a sense of humor. Was humor outlawed in the Qun? She’d ask Asala, but that might get her a serious answer.

So instead of contemplating it further, Khari did what she usually did and waved goodbye to caution, happy to see it go. “Hey you! Big, grouchy Qunari! It’s a couple of infidels and their illegal mage friend!” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Asala and grinned. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Behind her, Asala sighed and lifted both hands into the air. They were immediately enveloped in her blue energy to truly drive mage home.

It didn’t take the Qunari long to decide. Khari’s eyes rounded; she ducked the first javelin, which buried itself in the post of a small fruit cart. “Sorry!” The merchant looked at her like she had two heads for a second, but she couldn’t really stick around to explain.

Time to run.

A loud laugh sounded across the throng of wooden carts laden with fruit. A few heads turned. Customers who’d heard Khari’s catcalls. Wide and reflective as soon as Asala’s electric-blue fists pumped in the air. Zahra’s own eyes were two mischievous saucers, shoulders bristling with giddy energy. She grappled onto the nearest cart and hefted it over with a grunt. It caught another javelin as its contents scattered across the ground. Bright red apples rolled towards their feet as they advanced. Shouting angrily, shaking their weapons, while she crooned with her hands cupped to her mouth, “Come get us, flaming shites!”

With that she tugged at Asala’s elbow in order to turn her around in the opposite direction. She pointed out a side-alley with stairs and mouthed there, there.

A flash of blue, and the sound of a javelin clattering harmlessly to the ground followed. With that out of the way, Asala turned with the tug of her sleeve and followed close behind Khari and Zahra. From behind them, harsh cries of Qunlat vocabulary could be heard, Saarebas chief among them. They had not escaped Asala, judging by her downcast brow and tight lipped frown plastered to her face. Clearly, she was not enjoying it near as much as the other two.

Khari was determined to have her fun regardless. When the two of them ducked into one alleyway, she split off, heading down another. The general idea was that it’d be good to split the pursuing forces, but she hadn’t counted on just how singleminded the Qunari were going to be about this. Not one of them followed her, all of them pursuing the fleeing Saarebas with the fervor of true damn believers.

Well then. That narrowed the options a little.

Accelerating until she was moving at a breakneck sprint, Khari hung a sharp left at the next intersection, bringing herself into the path of Zee and Asala, who were about half a block down, their pursuers hot on their heels. How to slow down a rampaging squad of Qunari, then? Khari cast her eyes around the market street, but it wasn't until she turned them up that she got her first really good idea.

Hopping back into a run, she increased the distance between herself and the others, getting the lead she’d need to keep if this was going to work. There was a big crash behind her; maybe Zee had overturned another cart or something. Visualizing her path, Khari jumped, landing atop a shipping crate stamped with a big, fancy red logo—probably Orlesian Port Authority. Planting her hands on the next one, she swung herself up, then jumped vertically, catching the sill of the second-story window above. Using it to crawl along the wall, she hopped off onto the nearest rooftop, running along the edge and drawing Intercessor at the same time.

The market streets were festooned with many colorful fabric banners at irregular intervals, some of them proclaiming the names of nearby businesses—others seemed to be there for no other reason than to make the place more colorful and visually-interesting. Hefting her sword in both hands, Khari crouched at the edge of the roof, watching the approach of the runners.

No sooner had Asala and Zee made it past below than she swung, cleaving through the rope securing one such heavy banner in place with no difficulty. Bereft of support on her side, it fell with a thick flutter, blanketing the Qunari in dense blue canvas, still held up at the other end by the rope. The first few were horribly twisted in it, weapons pinned at their sides. The ones after had to step around with more care if they didn’t want to get entangled themselves.

“Keep going!” She shouted at the others, already on the move again herself. “I’ve got a few more things to try!”

As long as they could stay ahead of their hunters, they’d do fine.

Zahra skidded to a halt as soon as the heavy fabric blanketed the Qunari pursuers behind them. She grinned up at Khari and threw her a thumbs up, though she was quick to turn back towards her running companion. There was an imperceptible shift on her face, an expression that likened concerned rather than pure fun. It seemed as if she noticed the houndish behavior of their pursuers, or at least that they hadn`t been all too concerned by Khari`s disappearance. She shouldered Asala forward and smiled, “Whatever they’re saying—don’t listen. Run ahead, I’ll give them something to piss their pants about.”

With that said, Zahra swung on her heels, facing the scrambling Qunari and slipped Truthbringer from her shoulder. She notched an arrow and aimed towards them. She loosed in one fluid, graceful movement. It didn’t meet it’s mark. Not in the conventional sense, anyhow. Only grazed the closest one’s arm. He yowled and cursed something she wouldn’t have been able to understand. Deft fingers plucked two more arrows from her quiver. Loosed them frighteningly close, though it did little to stave their advance. As soon as they ventured closer she turned back towards the direction Asala had run and jogged at her heels, pulling the bow back over her head so that it rested on her back.

Khari, meanwhile, kept pace from above. Only a couple Qunari had so much as bothered to throw javelins at her—even those seemed like an afterthought. So she disrupted them with whatever came to hand. Another banner, an awning with round, decorative lanterns to roll around on the street, the window boxes from several buildings
 none of it was enough to do any great harm, but it was annoying enough to slow them down.

By this point, she figured they’d been running long enough to give Rom and the rest of them time enough to get onto the ship, grab Conrado, and leave, so she had to shift gears—now she needed a way to get them clear of their pursuers so they could disappear into the crowd.

From her vantage, she picked out the narrowest alley she saw. “Guys, hang a right!”

Khari jumped down from her rooftop, sliding down a fabric overhang to land solidly on her feet. This was really the first time in a while that being small and having haphazard armor without too many solid pieces had helped her, rather than the opposite.

She waited for the other two to run into the alleyway she’d picked, then grabbed a fruit cart with wheels, dumping the coconuts onto the ground and sliding it in front of the alley entrance behind them. Intercessor made quick work of the axels, meaning it wouldn’t be quite as easy to move aside. “Hey Asala, how ‘bout a nice barrier?” The small size of the street should make that possible, right?

Asala nodded and tossed up the requested barrier. The Qunari began to trip over themselves as they tried to navigate the coconuts, but instead more often that not an errant step caused them to slip on the rounded surfaces. The ones that were lucky or deft enough to maneuver the minefield of coconuts had to contend with the downed cart-- which a few just careened into. The one or two that also managed to vault the cart did not expect the final barrier however, as they struck luminescent wall hard enough to send them back into the cart behind them.

Asala took a moment to belt something out in Qunlat before turning and quickly making her way down the alley, her glowing hands that kept the shield in place raised above her head as she went.

Khari's laughter lingered long after they were gone.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
The cloud cover was solid enough to shadow their approach. The Inquisition had been able to requisition the boat, but Anais had seen to its preparation, painting it black and helping them blend in with the darkness of the water and the empty docks. The Qunari weren't expecting an infiltration party, when all they knew about was a loose mage seeking pointless retribution. With any luck, they would have the advantage.

Romulus was nervous, and his mind hovered on the fact that he'd never gone on a personal mission before. The objectives had always been meaningless in Tevinter; steal this, kill him and his wife, pry secrets from the target. None of it had anything to do with him, no more than a solider had to do with the weapon that stabbed him. He'd sided with the Inquisition, fully thrown in his lot with them, but even their tasks were so much larger than he felt, so beyond him, even with the mark on his hand.

But his target tonight was valuable only because there was a chance he knew something about him, about his mother, his past. The potential source that could make everything about him meaningful. He honestly wasn't sure he was ready for that. Could anyone be?

"Your Worship," Anais said cautiously, noting his rather glazed look. Romulus met her eyes, not quite understanding. Borja snapped his fingers once from where he sat next to the cultist leader.

"Wake up, son." His tone was coarse, harsh, abrupt, and it had the desired effect. Romulus stopped thinking about the implications of the mission, and instead thought about the mission itself.

"I apologize, High Seeker, if this approach is somewhat uncivil," Anais said to Leon. "I believed it would be most efficient. I did not think the heathens would be willing to bargain."

Leon wore a placid expression—it was hard to say exactly what he thought of all this. A small furrow appeared between his brows when Anais spoke, but he shook his head. “The Qunari are not known for compromise in matters they take to be of importance,” he said mildly. “They rather resemble the Chantry in that way.” He rolled his shoulders—given that the goal was infiltration and not direct warfare, he’d elected not to wear any armor, and of course he was as bereft of weapons as always.

"Conrado's not worth more than a few coppers anyhow," Borja grumbled, pushing his oar through the inky black water. "They'd get more worth outta watching his head roll than selling him to us."

"Hopefully he proves more valuable to present company, then." Anais gestured ahead. "We're here. Bring us in."

It was no dreadnought, but it wasn't really possible for the Qunari to construct a seafaring vessel that wasn't intimidating. This one was perhaps twice the length of Zahra's ship, and it towered above the water, with at least three levels including the top deck. Romulus couldn't see any guards looking their way on the deck, but he was willing to wager they were up and about. Even if there hadn't been an outside threat, he imagined they wouldn't let their guard down in a neutral city.

Borja and Romulus worked together to bring the boat up alongside the ship, and once they got close enough, their way in became apparent. Towards the rear of the ship was an opening, larger than would be needed for an oar. In fact, Romulus wasn't sure what exactly it was there for, but he wouldn't question the gift too much.

"Think you can reach that?" Borja asked of the commander, in a whisper. "You're the strongest of us. Better you pull us up than the other way around."

Leon gauged it for a moment, before dipping his chin in a slow nod, speaking softly. “Certainly.” Without any sign of difficulty, he hopped up onto the side rail of their commandeered ship. His balance was solid, but even considering his size and the extra height, it was a considerable jump to reach the opening. His muscle stood him in good stead—the leap he made was powerful, and he caught the edge of the opening, pulling himself in smoothly and surprisingly quietly.

It took him a few moments longer than expected to reappear; he leaned out of the opening, suggesting that the floor on the other side was somewhat lower. With a beckoning gesture, he indicated his readiness to catch the first of the others and pull them up behind him.

"Secure the boat, Captain Borja," Anais quietly ordered. With a stone-faced expression, the Rivaini pirate complied, grabbing a spool of rope and fastening their little boat to the Qunari ship, while the cultist leader stood and nimbly leaped up to catch Leon's waiting arm. She was pulled up easily enough, disappearing quietly inside. Romulus was next.

Upon being assisted inside, he took stock of their surroundings. The middle level of the ship appeared to be the rowing deck, judging by the rows of empty benches with oars left in between. Romulus didn't doubt the ship was capable of remarkable speeds when it was at top shape, with both the wind and considerable Qunari muscle-power pushing it along. A number of bed racks were situated along the wall towards the bow and stern, but thankfully none of them were occupied.

Most notable was the metal weapon that sat in a rolling wooden contraption just inside the opening they'd squeezed through. Romulus had heard many times of the Qunari's devastating naval weaponry, these gaatlok weapons as they were called, but he'd never actually seen one before. He could not even begin to surmise how it worked, but judging by the size of the ammunition in the nearby crate, it was capable of fearsome damage in a single shot.

"Ah," Borja whispered after he clambered in and laid eyes on the thing, "managed to steal one of these for my ship once. One of my finest moments, that."

"Quiet," Anais snapped. "We make for the hold. After me."

Their way down was to their right, at the rear of the ship. Anais and Romulus led the way, and now that they moved, it was easy to hear the sounds of heavy footsteps on the deck right above them. The ship was certainly awake and alert, it simply wasn't looking in the right direction. They'd have to take care not to draw their eyes or ears.

Thankfully, putting another floor between them and the upper deck would help, and they descended the ladder-like stairs as quickly and quietly as they could manage. There was barely any light to go by, only a few well-placed candles in wall mounts, which served both to conceal them, and to make it more difficult for them to see where they were going. Borja was obviously the least adept at being purely stealthy of the group, and so he focused on following directly in the path of Leon.

The ship's brig, if it could be called that, was a small section of two cells positioned next to the cargo, of which there was a considerable amount stowed in crates. As for the cells, only one was occupied. Conrado was a man of clear mixed descent, with lighter skin than the majority of Rivainis, and near white-blond hair that was sorely in need of some organization. His captors had been none too gentle with him, it seemed, but he wasn't cut up or bleeding, only bruised and battered. He sat in a wooden chair with his arms bound behind him, head down towards the floor. For all Romulus could tell, he was sleeping.

The two guards watching over him were not, however, but they weren't exactly on high alert either. One Qunari leaned with his back against the cell bars, his long polearm in hand, while the other sat in a meditative pose, facing Conrado and murmuring something to himself.

Anais looked to Romulus and Leon, gesturing with her head that they should feel free to take action. Romulus figured Anais cared little if the Qunari lived or died, but it was undoubtedly the better course to try to subdue them, not kill them. He looked beside him, to see if Leon was ready to move on them.

The Seeker was already looking his way, and nodded once. He tilted his head slightly, indicating he’d take the one on the left—the one standing and armed. Their course set, they burst from cover. Leon crossed most of the intervening distance in two strides, grabbing the spear as it was leveled towards him and yanking forward. Unerringly, he stepped into the Qunari’s side, one of his gloved hands fitting over the man’s nose and mouth. His other hand wound around his neck, putting him into a sleeper hold and muffling any sound.

Aside from a grunt, only the scuffing of feet on the wood as the Qunari tried to free himself escaped from that side of the room. With no way to breathe and no way to use his spear, he passed out before long, and Leon lowered him carefully to the ground.

Romulus was not proud of attacking someone in the middle of meditation, but it needed to be done. Stowing his knife, he went barehanded as well, and surprised the second Qunari from behind the moment when Leon struck. He didn't have the same level of strength the commander was capable of, but it wouldn't be needed, as he wrapped both arms and legs constrictively around the Qunari before he could react. He pulled him backwards, preventing him from crying out, and they rolled on their sides.

He struggled, but could not break free or reach his weapon, and it wasn't long before his soft kicks against the lowest deck of the ship ceased entirely. Romulus released him once he'd gone limp, and got back to his feet. Conrado had woken from the sounds of the struggle, or become alert if he hadn't been asleep at all. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his sight in the dimly lit space.

"What in the... who are... oh, shit." His eyes settled on the approaching form of Borja, as apparently time had not diminished his ability to recognize the man. "Hello, Adan." His tenuous cheer did not carry over to the pirate captain.

"Keep quiet, rat," Borja grumbled. "There'll be time to talk later." Anais strode forward, plucking a key from the belt of the formerly meditating Qunari, and using it to unlock the door. It swung open without so much as a squeak, and she stepped aside to allow Romulus to enter first.

"You know who I am?" he asked quietly. Conrado didn't even need a moment to study him. Instead he warily watched his old acquaintance.

"Aye. I'd thank you for the rescue, but the present company is even less desirable than the Qunari's."

It was then that obvious footsteps began to descend towards their position, and a lone Qunari appeared soon after, coming around the corner and laying eyes on the scene. He had just enough time to open his mouth before a blade burst from the back of his throat, spewing blood down his chest. Anais withdrew the dagger from behind him, immediately going to support him and ease his fall as he quietly and violently choked to death. When he stilled, she looked up from where she crouched over his corpse.

"We must move, quickly." She locked eyes with Leon. "Can you subdue and carry him, please?"

"Wait, wait," Conrado pleaded. "My things. The rucksack just over there. A valuable Qunari dagger of some kind inside, lots of history behind it, or something. Bring it with us."

"You can't be serious," Borja spat.

"We should collect his things, Your Worship," Anais suggested. "They could prove useful. The dagger should stay, though, if the Qunari desire it so."

"I'll take it, then," Romulus said, crossing the room and collecting the rucksack in question. He removed an ornate looking dagger from inside, hardly a usable weapon anymore, but he wouldn't question it if it had significance to the Qunari. He set it on a crate. The death of one Qunari was unfortunate, but Romulus grimly noted that currently they would have no way to link the move here to the Inquisition.

“I’d rather not have to knock you out,” Leon told Conrado. “So please do yourself a favor and cooperate.” That said, he didn’t seem inclined to take it on faith that Conrado would simply remain obligingly silent; instead he fashioned a gag from a strip of fabric. He must have had it on him, because it didn’t come from any of the supplies in the hold.

It didn’t seem to trouble him much to heft the man into a rescue carry over one shoulder; he nodded to Romulus. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else gets stabbed, shall we?”

Romulus silently nodded his agreement, and they made their way back the way they came, carefully stepping around the slain Qunari. Conrado could be heard muttering something, the word undignified mixed in there somewhere, but he soon fell silent, and did not resist. It was likely that if the Qunari discovered them now, they would not be willing to spare their lives, a fact Conrado was undoubtedly aware of. Romulus wasn't even sure what they would do with him if and when they'd acquired what they wanted, but it was a few more hours of life at the very least.

Despite his certainty that something else would go wrong, the remainder of their getaway was clean. One by one they lowered themselves down into the boat, which Borja unhooked from the ship. Conrado was passed down to Romulus before Leon climbed down, the last one into the boat, and they rowed away.

Just when the ship was fading in the darkness, the sounds of shouts cut through the night air, as the Qunari discovered the infiltration. But the culprits were long gone.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
They were once again back out to sea; Asala could feel the slight ebb of the ship as she gently rocked on the tide. She could not see the waves, however, as she was presently below the Riptide's decks. After Khari, Zahra, and she managed to elude their pursuit, they had made their way back to the ship, taking a roundabout path just in case. They had returned just in time to meet Romulus and Leon, along with the others doing the same. They had set out to sea immediately in order to put as much distance between them and the Qunari as they could, but from her understanding, they did not have a destination in mind yet.

She was actually attempting the draw up the courage to speak to Zahra about that when Anais found her. In the usual sharpness Asala had come to expect from the woman, she had requested her presence below deck to ensure that their prisoner “kept breathing.” The way she had said it made her feel uncomfortable, which was the exact reason she felt it necessary she was present. In a room illuminated by candles, Romulus, Leon, Zahra, Borja, and Anais stood around their prisoner, Conrado, bound to a chair. Asala stood quietly in the corner, though she watched the proceedings with a careful eye. Prisoner or no, she did not wish for undue harm to fall upon Conrado.

Since it was Zahra who’d directed them into the a fairly empty side-chamber in Riptide’s belly, she, too, stood off to the side. Candlelight barely illuminated her features, as she’d taken a spot in one of the corners, balanced atop a barrel. It was difficult to tell what she thought about the whole situation, but it didn’t seem as if she was bothered by the implications of violence. Nor did she break the heavy silence engulfing the room as Rom and the others encircled their prisoner, Conrado. She brushed thick strands of hair from her eyes and glanced over in Asala’s direction, seated opposite to her. Her mouth formed a hard line, barely a frown before she turned her attention back to the center of the room.

"Lovely company I find myself in..."

Conrado just about whispered the words, as though he'd struggled to keep them inside, and ultimately failed. He immediately braced, knowing what it would get him, and he was not disappointed, as Borja stepped forward and gave the smuggler a wallop to the side of the head, leaving Conrado groaning. Romulus leaned back against the nearest of support beams, while Anais searched through the bag of Conrado's belongings. None had taken the time to change out of their darkened gear for the night raid. It was almost morning now, and sleep was beginning to creep up on all of them. They'd need rest before long, but first, this needed to be done.

"You'll speak when asked a question, wretch," Borja spat, shaking out his hand. Anais didn't seem interested in leading the questioning, and Borja was a bit of a blunt instrument, so Romulus stepped forward, and crouched down until he was actually below Conrado's level.

"Rosamara Borja," he said, throwing her name out there for him to hear. "You were asked to smuggle them from the very city we just left, and then somewhere in these very waters they were attacked."

"You don't have to remind me, Herald of Andraste," Conrado murmured, not meeting his eyes. "I've been living the consequences of that day ever since."

"So you admit to selling them out, betraying their course?"

Now his eyes came up. "I'd say no, but you're only looking for one answer here. Yeah, I sold your parents out. But you have to believe me, I didn't think they were going to try to kill them."

Borja appearing to expending great effort to keep his knife in its sheath. Instead he rushed forward, nearly pushing Romulus aside as he took hold of Conrado's coat. He pushed forward and sent the smuggler tipping onto his back, landing with a loud thud, the hulking presence of the pirate lord hovering over him. Borja fumed.

"Liar! They were assassins, killing like the bloody Crows, spilling blood the second they boarded! What could you possibly think they wanted, a fucking chat over tea?"

"Well of course they didn't present themselves like murderers to me, Adan!" Conrado protested, speaking much more quickly now. "These weren't people to mess with, but I honestly thought they wanted to help! Once I gave them what they wanted to know—"

"I'm the bloody bastard you don't want to mess with!" Borja roared, raising his fist to strike. Romulus caught it at the backswing, having come to his father's side after Conrado was taken down. Borja furiously threw off the hand. "Don't touch me, boy!" The fist came down, hard, leaving Conrado coughing. He spat out blood to his side. Borja leaned in uncomfortably close. "Who were these people, and what did they want from you? Besides betraying my wife."

His tone was deadly, to the point where Anais had stopped digging and watched with interest, and Romulus stood hesitantly over them both, obviously unsure what to do. But Conrado seemed more than willing to comply. "They never gave me a name, and I only met a few at a time. Looked like common thieves, save for these marks on their wrists. They said they suspected Rosamara was more than she seemed, that she had divine ancestry, and that I could help prove it."

"How could you help?" This came from Anais, peering at Conrado from under her hood. Conrado hesitated, eyes bouncing between the cultist leader and the pirate lord, before Borja slammed his fist down into the floor.

"Answer her!"

"Rosamara, she... she came to me, from time to time. Confided in me. We... we were closer than you knew."

Borja stared down at Conrado a long time, the room falling into utter silence, while he seemingly pondered what to do. The smuggler helplessly awaited judgement, eyes finding Romulus several times as though pleading for him to intervene, but Romulus made no move, struggling with the revelation himself. Then Borja's knife came out of the sheath on his chest, and he twirled it deftly about above Conrado's head. He looked sideways to Anais.

"You find anything useful in there? Anything that renders this lying sack of shit obsolete?"

"Continue, smuggler," was Anais's response. Borja gritted his teeth.

"Some part of you must have known this, Adan," Conrado said hurriedly. "She loved you, but she saw what Llommeryn did to you. The drinking, the violence, the enemies you always seemed to make. You must admit you were often not there for her. Nor were you yourself always faithful."

The words for once seemed to strike Borja more than they angered him. Indeed, it was as though he'd been hit with a blow to the chest, with the way his breathing changed pace and tightened. He almost laughed once, even, before he sheathed the knife again and turned from Conrado, finally removing his weight from the man and allowing him to breathe properly. Borja paced around towards the back of the room, ending up leaning forward on his arm against a wall. Romulus reluctantly grabbed the back of the chair Conrado was strapped to, and pulled it back up onto its legs.

"This relationship gave you information, then?" Anais said. If anything, she just seemed enthralled by all of this. "What did you give the ones seeking Rosamara?"

"Information from a journal. Rosamara's. I'd seen her writing in it some nights, very late. I... I stole it, I admit. The last time we saw each other, when I got them on that ship leaving Llommeryn."

"Did you give them the journal?" Romulus asked, coming around in front of Conrado. "Do you have any idea where it is now?"

"They let me keep it," Conrado said, wearily. He looked towards the pack of his things. "Further evidence of their good intentions, in my eyes. Had it sewn into the lining of my pack, very subtly. It's a little book, hard to notice if you don't know where to look." Anais immediately began to examine the bag again, this time feeling the bag itself rather than pulling any more contents from inside. Conrado sighed quietly. "Don't suppose I could have my hands back? Not like I'm going to be escaping from individuals such as yourselves."

Borja turned to put his back to the wall, but simply glowered in place at his old acquaintance. Rather than look to anyone for permission, Romulus went ahead and cut Conrado free. The smuggler initially did nothing more than rub his wrists once they were out of the rope bindings, but he soon reached out for the bag. Anais dumped his personal belongings entirely out onto the floor and handed it over.

Before he could even ask, Romulus had extended the handle of a smaller knife to him. Conrado took it with a silent nod of thanks, and began making a careful incision into the bag. "It was a ritual of some sort they seemed most interested in, some kind of old magic, I don't know." Once he'd cut a wide enough window in the bag, he reached inside. "Never read more than a page of it myself. Didn't feel right. But I guess if anyone should have it, you should."

He handed a small black journal to Romulus, the cover and binding worn down with time but still solidly intact. Anais stared at it with unblinking eyes, like it was the beating heart of Andraste herself. Romulus looked through the pages, eyes scanning quickly over them. "This was written in several hands. Different languages. I can't read it."

"An heirloom, perhaps?" Anais suggested, inching closer. "I would be honored to assist you in translating it, Your Worship."

Romulus honestly didn't look the most thrilled at the offer, but he nodded his head. Conrado's expression shifted to something approaching relief. Borja still glowered, however. "What's to be done with this one, then?" he asked, in a low growl. "If I've any say, he'll come with me, back to the Northern Sword."

There was an uncomfortable pause which almost begged a protest to interrupt, but Romulus hesitated, and Anais followed his lead. Conrado looked steadier than he had before, and searched out the Herald's eyes. "Good intentions or no, my actions brought death to your mother, and his wife. I've outrun that for far too long."

"It's settled, then," Anais concluded, with that strange sort of energy she often had when she was excited or enthralled by something. "I will assist the Blood of Andraste in the translation of the text, and Conrado will be given to Captain Borja upon our return to the Waking Sea."

That seemed to decide the matter. Everyone but Conrado and Borja filed out of the room; Romulus and Anais split off in search of someplace suitable to translate, presumably. That left Asala with Leon and Zahra. The commander sighed almost inaudibly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Certainly not the approach I’d have taken,” he murmured. It was unclear whether he was speaking to them or mostly to himself.

He dropped his hand, offering a thin smile. “I think I’m heading up onto the deck for a while. I’ll be around if either of you need anything. Captain. Asala.” He bobbed his head—slightly awkwardly, considering the relative size of him in the hallway—then turned to head up the stairs.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
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Emptiness is an illusion. Beneath my feet,
Grains of sand beyond counting.
Above my head, a sea of stars.
Alone, they are small,
A faint and flickering light in the darkness,
A lost and fallen fragment of earth.

Alone, they make the emptiness real.
Together, they are the bones of the world.
—An excerpt from the Tome of Koslun, The Body Canto
Image

It was strange, to have the others follow behind her. Usually, it was the opposite, with Asala gladly allowing someone else to take the lead while she walked behind them and away from their expectant stares. What was stranger still was the fact that it didn't bother her as much as it supposedly should have. She was giddy, as it turned out, a lightness to her step and an excitement bubbling up from deep within. How long had it been since she'd last been home? Way back when Meraad decided for them that they should set out and seek the newly freed mages to better hone their skills. They were naive and ultimately optimistic back then, not to mention extremely lucky that they had happened upon Aurora and her group to learn under. That was four years ago, a long time to be away from home.

The Riptide laid anchor some ways behind them, hidden in a small bay, it was there they saw the first signs of habitation. Several small fishing boats had laid upturned on the sand, and Asala had revealed that fish had been a mainstay of their diet. A well worn path carved in land, running parallel to a mountain range to their west. Once it had been decided that they were to finally visit her home, Asala had pointed its location out to Zahra on a map, midway along Rivain's eastern coast, on the other side of the mountains from the country's capital of Dairsmuid.

She spun in the middle of a step, turning to the others that followed her. "We should not be too much further now," she said with a smile. The climate was tropically warm, and her dress showed. She was without her crimson cloak, and instead wore no shoes, light and airy breeches that flapped in the coastal winds, and a shirt with the midriff exposed. It only made sense that she feel at home at home.

Leon seemed to have made no concessions at all for the climate, but if that caused him discomfort, he certainly wasn't showing it. He pursed his lips slightly when she spoke, shifting his eyes so he was looking over her shoulder and towards the horizon ahead of them. “I suppose I should have asked earlier, but are you sure that the rest of us will be welcome? It can hardly be the policy of a group hiding from the Qunari to allow anyone at all within their settlement."

Asala thought about it for a moment as she walked backwards. The thought truly hadn't ever crossed her mind, she just assumed that it would've been fine. Eventually however, she shrugged and wore a sweet smile, "It will be fine," she said, dismissively. Spinning back on her heel, she continued to lead them down the path, but she continued to speak. "See, Ash-Rethsaam is small enough to not warrant attention from the Mainland and hidden enough to escape prying eyes. They have other things to worry about than a small Tal-Vashoth commune-- Or, at least, that is what Tammy had told me," she explained, throwing back a warm smile. There were days, especially when they first arrived, that Asala had worried that her new home would found by the Qunari.

Then she realized that may not have been what he meant. "Oh," she said, turning around again, "If you mean because that you are not, uh... Qunari," she said, tapping on her horns to indicate she meant the race, not the religion, "Then do not worry. There were other elves and humans among us as well," she added, though she did linger on Leon for a moment. Granted, none of them were as large as he was.

Zahra stretched her arms above her head in a wide, cat-like manner. As if she were one, basking in the sun. For all appearances, she was far happier on this type of land then she’d ever been at Skyhold. Of course, the weather might have had something to do with it. She’d forgone wearing shoes as well, kicking up sand between her wriggling toes, though she held her boots over her shoulder, buckles grasped in her hand. As far as clothes were concerned, she’d shed her warmer garments, and instead chose more comfortable fares: a loose white shirt with no sleeves, a brown leather vest with half the lacings undone, and a pair of puffed blue and teal trousers cinched slightly below her knees.

She hummed a tune in the back of her throat and joined Leon at his side, watching as Asala skipped ahead and turned so that she was walking backwards. By the slight frown on her lips, it appeared as if she hadn’t thought of their racial inclinations either. She looked to the horizon around Asala’s midriff, because she was, after all, quite short. The frown only lasted a fraction of a second, because the excitement radiating off the small captain was palpable, barely contained. “I’m sure we won’t be thrown into any cages, what with our esteemed guide here,” she added a toss of her wild hair. There was a slight pause, and one of Zahra’s hands lifted just below Leon’s chin. “Besides, you’d fit right in. You’re practically a giant.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he replied, dry as the sand surrounding them. Nonetheless, he seemed satisfied enough by Asala’s reassurances, though that didn’t quite stop him from looking around with a certain wariness and caution. Maybe nothing would have.

With that settled, Asala turned back toward the path in front of them. It wasn't long that something else caught her attention, and this time it wasn't behind her. Off to the side of their trail came a rustling underneath the foliage and a pair of low voices coming with it. Asala came to stop to peer toward the sounds, intently curious as to what could be making it. Or rather, who. It wasn't an animal-- no animal she knew of laughed like that, and the footfalls were too heavy to belong to some other creature. As she waited, an excitement wound through her frame. It was soon thereafter that they revealed themselves.

A pair of men stepped out of the brush. One was very obviously Qunari, young, with a pair of sweeping horns, a bronze skin tone and a bloodied spear held in his off hand. His man hand was occupied holding a pole on his shoulder. The pole held the creature that the blood on his spear belonged to, a large boar with glistening ivory tusks. The other man, the one who held the other end of the pole, and laboriously at that, was an elf who stood about a head and a half shorter than the Qunari. Their conversation quickly came to a stop as the two of them caught sight of Asala and her friends.

They were quiet for a moment, both Asala and the men, both parties looking the other up and down. It wasn't long before recognition struck the man. "Asala?" he asked, incredulous.

It took a moment longer for Asala to recognize his face, but eventually she did. "Rashad?" She asked, taking a step toward him. That was all it took. Rashad dropped the pole holding the boar, leaving the elven man scrambling forward with the creature's entire weight now on his shoulder alone. Rashad clasped Asala's shoulders and took a closer look, as if to confirm that it was really her. She tensed initially at the sudden contact, but quickly relaxed, overjoyed because she found some one she recognized, and recognized her. Granted, she didn't remember his horns being as large as they were.

Apparently satisfied that, yes, it was her, he laughed and brought her in close for a hug, despite her small squeak. She soon returned his hug, and when he released her, he began to speak in Qunlat. "It's how long since I last saw you? Three? Four years? And here we are tripping over you. Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" While he spoke, the elven man had shucked his end of the pole and came to stand between both Qunari, his arms crossed and disappointment in his face.

"Asala." He said in a monotone. Now that he was closer, and no longer obscured by Rashad's large frame, it was clear that the elf was close to the same age as his partner.

"Rhys..." She replied, rather embarrassed by his terse tone.

"You caught us woefully unprepared," He said glancing down at the blood on his leathers. When his gaze returned to her, he stared for a moment more before the thin lipped frown he wore broke into a wide smile. "It's really good to see you again."

"It's good to see you both too," she added, laughing despite herself.

There was a semi-polite pause there, after which someone behind Asala cleared their throat.

“I'm gonna go ahead and say these are friends of yours, though I caught maybe four words of that, and three of them were names." Khari didn't seem upset with this, really; even her professed confusion was hardly in evidence on her face. On the contrary, she was grinning, arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow arched. Romulus was a little more straight faced beside her, and seemed to be following the conversation better. He glanced sideways at Asala.

"Introduce us to your friends, Asala?"

With that, Asala remembered she had brought her friends with her. Both Rashad and Rhys noticed too, considering that they both looked past her toward her entourage. "Oh! Yes, um. Heh, sorry," she said with a blush and apologetic bow. She then gestured toward the Qunari first "Well, this is Rashad. He arrived a few years after I had. He was Ashaad under the Qun," she said, glancing at the man, "A scout," she explained. "He... doesn't like to talk about it though, she said, shooting him an apologetic smile. He only raised an eyebrow and tilted his head quizzically.

"Still doesn't speak much of the Common Tongue, unfortunately," the elf added with a shot to his ribs. "They don't train the military for that," he added with a mischievous smile. "I am Rhys," he said with a deep, but playful bow. "I was Ashaad as well, his partner, when I followed the big oaf out." He nodded to Asala for her to continue.

"Yes, well. Um," she stuttered for a moment before slipping back into Qunlat, "Rashad, Rhys, these are my friends. This is Khari," she said, pointing to the woman in question. "The man with the beard is Romulus, the woman over there is Captain Zahra, and the tall one back there is Leon." she introduced.

The two men nodded along as Asala called them out, at least until she got to Leon. Rhys chuckled to himself while Rashad seemed taken aback by his size. It was unlikely that he'd seen a human that could match him in size. That was sure to be a running theme, Asala noted to herself. Personally, Asala had gotten used to it, and only noticed it when someone else did. "What are they feeding them?" he asked, "And where is Meraad? Honestly, I thought he would be the one leading." With the name of her brother, Asala's mood visibly shifted, and her eyes fell.

"He's... not coming."

The tone of the answer was all that they seemingly needed. Even for those who could not understand Qunlat, Meraad's name and the way she answered it should have been enough. Rashad's smile fell into a deep frown and Rhys only covered his mouth. "Oh... I am... sorry Asala. I didn't know..."

A moment of silence passed before Rhys clapped, ripping everyone from their melancholy. "Right. Well. We should be getting back to the village then, yes? I'm sure Tammy wants to see you," he said, wearing the largest smile he could manage, considering the news. He then pointed to Leon and spoke again, "Hey you, big man. Leon was it? If could do me a favor and help Rashad carry the hog back to the village, I would be fiercely appreciative. Sometimes he forgets that he's worth two of me," he added, his arms crossed.

Leon’s face hadn’t changed much over the duration of the conversation, making it difficult to tell if he’d followed anything but the obvious. Then again, he had spoken Qunlat the first time he met Meraad, so maybe he had. He furrowed his brows slightly when Rhys addressed him, glancing back towards the hunters’ quarry. He spared a glance at Asala, then shrugged.

“Very well.” He moved over to the back end of the pole, his boots sinking slightly in the sand every time he took a step. “Ready when you are, Rashad,” he said politely.

Zahra did little to interject in the conversation. Though, her curiosity had blossomed. She stepped away from Leon’s side and closer to the hog-baring duo, bright eyes evaluating Rashad. Perhaps, too close for comfort. Her frown was inquisitive, if not one that could have belonged to a child prodding a new shiny thing. She clucked her tongue and laughed when he dropped his burden, leaving the poor elven lad to deal with it, and did her best to keep him from keeling over in the sand. She stepped aside when Leon was asked to relieve Rhys of his duty and joined Khari’s side.

She waved a hand ahead of them. “Let's?”

Asala smiled kindly and nodded. "Yes, let's," she said as the group began to move forward once again, this time with Rhys and Rashad.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
The rest of the trek to the village itself wasn't that exciting. Lots of sand, mostly. Hot sand. Khari really hoped it didn't end up in her boots; she had a feeling it'd never come out, and then there'd be permanent sand in her boots and blisters everywhere. That would be the worst. She'd nicked these from her mom's workbench way back when, though—they'd probably be okay. Unless she fell into one of those pits that only looked like normal sand. But then she'd have other problems, like trying not to die.

Okay, maybe a little sand wouldn't be the worst. But it would still be pretty shitty.

Toward the front of the procession, Asala spoke with both Rashad and Rhys. She spoke in a mix of the trade tongue and Qunlat. It was strange to see how easily she spoke to them, without a hitch in her voice or a stereotypical stammer. In fact, from the way Rhys chuckled at her a few times, and it seemed that they were able to get away a bit of teasing as well. During the majority of the trek, Asala seemed to hurriedly explain what had happened since she left, but no doubt chunks of information were left out. The word Inquisition was dropped several times, which raised the brow of Rhys, but seemed to do nothing for Rashad.

Khari didn't pay terribly close attention in any case, not until a change in the rhythm of the footsteps around her drew her out of her rather unimportant thoughts and back into the desert around her. Not so desert-ish in this spot, though; they'd clearly reached the village. From this far away, it looked mostly like a collection of hexagonal clusters, each built out of smaller hexagon shapes. It reminded her of nothing so much as a beehive, but she really doubted the Qunari were making honey in there.

Now she was hungry.

Each of the little modules was hut-sized, more or less. She was willing to bet most of them spent the majority of their time outdoors in one way or another, so that made sense. Instead of doors, most of them had cloth hung over the entrances; as they got closer, Khari could pick out the individual colors and patterns. They were bright, but the patterns had the same kind of precision to them as the architecture—everything was nice and geometric.

She wondered what they did if they made a mistake in the weaving. Did they unravel everything after the error and fix it? Shit, she'd never get anything done if she tried that. She'd never met anyone quite so detail oriented as that besides her mother, but it seemed like the norm around here. Everything was almost uncannily neat and precise. Not very discreetly, Khari glanced over Rashad and Rhys. She didn't see any rulers or protractor-things, but she bet they had them.

The whole settlement seemed to spiral outwards from a fixed center point, actually; they were approaching it now. Quite a few people were out and about—she guessed the ones near the center were kids, from the roundness of their faces and their comparative height. It was a little disconcerting to realize that some of them already cleared her by a good few inches. She was shorter than qunari twelve-year-olds. Great.

They looked like they were having fun, though, playing some sort of game that seemed to be a variant on tag or keep-away or something like that. She was almost tempted to join. But they were here for serious stuff, so she quelled the urge and glanced around, looking for anyone who seemed to be approaching them.

Though Asala didn't seem to notice, so engaged in the conversation with her two friends, Khari had a better sense that they were being watched. As they walked through the village, eyes turned toward them curiously, and lingered for a while before their owners eventually returned to their duties. Obviously, they were a curious sight, a group of their size making down what amounted to the village's main street. Asala obviously did not take into account the awkwardness their just showing up would entail. Not that Khari really cared. A good forty percent of her life was awkward. Being weird compared to what people expected when they looked at you would do that.

Eventually, Rhys beckoned their group to stop. "Hold up, this is where we'll have to part ways for the moment," he said as he approached Leon. "We have to take this guy to the butcher, else Rethari will give her our hides in its stead," he explained, gesturing that Leon let him take the pole again. Asala seemed saddened that they had to depart from their company, though Rhys noticed it as well. "Don't look at me like with those eyes, we'll find you when we're done."

Rashad, for his part, said something that Khari couldn't understand, but whatever it was it did manage to make Asala laugh and smile. The pair then bid their farewell before taking turning and taking their kill down one of the side paths. Asala paused for a moment and watched them until they took another turn and vanished from view. She then turned toward the rest of them and nodded apologetically, "Sorry. Tammy's schoolhouse isn't much further now,"" she added with an eager smile. With that, Asala resumed the lead, and true to her word it was only moments later that they arrived.

The building itself was constructed in much of the same way as those beside it, though noticeably larger and occupying a space all its own. A garden of flowering cacti lay, fenced off, far enough away from the entrance to avoid children accidently falling into them, but still gave the building a little exterior color. Asala led them to the double door before she asked them to wait for a moment. She quietly opened the door and stuck her head in for a peek, before withdrawing and turning toward them with a smile. "She's here," she explained before beckoning them to follow her.

As they entered the building, the first thing they noticed were the empty desks laid out in neat and orderly lines in the middle. It seemed that they had arrived after the children were let go. The walls held shelves of books, and blackboard with unreadable words written in chalk in it. On another wall, a map of Thedas laid out, and beside that was a number paintings drawn in small hands.

Khari had never been inside a schoolhouse before; she'd learned to write mostly on scrap bark because paper was hard to come by in the middle of bloody nowhere. She squinted at the chalk lines on the...slate? She was pretty sure that was slate. The idea of a room, much less a building, for no purpose other than instructing kids in stuff like this was completely foreign, but she supposed it made some kind of sense. Probably humans did this kind of thing too, but it wasn't like Khari knew that many upper-class people. Pierre learned from his mom and dad like everyone she knew.

In front of the room, sitting at a large desk with a quill in her hand and pondering over a number of papers, a middle aged Qunari sat. Her hair was tied up into a messy bun, but was still as white as Asala's. Though where Asala's skin was ashen, the woman's was a light bronze.

Upon hearing them enter, the woman's eyes rose above the papers in front of her and toward her guests. She was silent, though the surprise and confusion in her face was plain as day. She leaned forward in her chair, her brows scrunched up, and her mouth agape.

"Asala?" She asked.

"Hello Tammy," Asala said while she sweeped in between the desks and darted toward the woman. It wasn't long before Tammy was up out of her chair and enveloping her in a loving embrace of her own. What followed next was a lot of excited chattering in Qunlat from both parties, having seemingly forgot about the rest of them. Again.

Khari figured they had the right.

After enough time had passed to move them from polite silence into an awkward one, Leon softly cleared his throat to draw attention. “If you would prefer it, Miss Asala, the rest of us could allow the two of you some time to be reacquainted?" It was hard to tell if he was advancing that as an option he expected her to take or just as a very indirect way of reminding her that other people were present.

It was Zahra who trailed furthest from the group as they walked along. She lingered just outside the schoolhouse, eyes trained on the buildings. On the bluster of movements in the distance. Her mouth was drawn into
 something similar to a frown, although she didn’t appear at all unhappy. Just thoughtful. Her hand rested on her hip as she followed behind Khari and stood behind them. It appeared as if there was too much here to take in. Without so much as plucking things up in her grubby hands, she absorbed her surroundings by leaning much too close. Rapt. While she did smile at Tammy and Asala’s reunion, she made a noise when Leon suggested that they should give them time to speak properly, even if it’d merely been a means of letting their presence be known.

Asala didn't acknowledge them, seeing as she was buried too deep within the crook of Tammy's neck to notice. It was the other woman who addressed them, by gently smiling at them and holding up a finger for them to wait. She petted the girl's hair and said something that Khari couldn't understand and pulled away. However, they did not get too far apart, as Asala held Tammy's hand in her own and leaned heavily against her, as if she thought that if she let go, she'd lose her again.

Now that there was room enough between them to get a good look at her, Tammy was an older woman, appearing to be somewhere in her middle ages. Freckles dusted her face however, giving her a youthful appearance over the wrinkles that were just beginning to fold onto her forehead. Her hair was a dark silvery gray and tied up into a messy bun and a strip of calico cloth wrapping around the base of her horns. Another pair of horns were present too, just behind her ears, barely more than nubs. Standing beside Asala, it was clear that the woman also stood a few inches taller than Asala.

"Asala?" she asked, giving the girl a motherly smile. Asala looked at her confused, with a face that just screamed, what? Tammy laughed and pointed toward the rest of the group. "You are going to introduce us, yes?"

"Oh! Yes, I'm sorry, these are, uh," she said, stumbling over her words again, "my friends. This is Romulus, Khari, Zahra, and that is Leon," she said, pointing at them as she named them out. Then she smiled brightly and pointed toward the woman herself, "And this is Tammy. She was the one who raised us."

Tammy bowed deeply, which was impressively considering how tightly Asala held on to her, and said something in Qunlat before rising and addressing them more directly. "It is a pleasure to meet you all. Officially, I am Tamassran, but..." she said, giving Asala a loving glance, "Everyone just tends to use Tammy instead."

Khari waved casually. She wasn't really sure if the bowing was a thing all the Qunari did or not, but it wasn't anything she usually did. Since no one else seemed to be rushing to bow back, she figured it was okay.

"They are, uh..." Asala began, before apparently thinking about her words more carefully, "Well, I mean, we are a part of the Inquisition. I suppose," Asala added. This managed to elicit a surprised look from Tammy, directed more toward Asala than the rest. Of which, the girl only shrugged at.

"We have heard news of the Inquisition from our traders in Dairsmuid, but... I did not expect you to be a part of it, imekari," Tammy explained, the surprise still lingering in her face.

“A very valuable part, it should be said." Leon inclined his head graciously to Tammy. He'd situated himself politely near, but not leaning against, a wall, and folded his hands neatly behind his back. He didn't look comfortable, exactly, but he didn't seem quite as wary as before, either.

“Miss Asala has proven herself more than capable as a healer and a shield, as well as an alchemist. There is much to be proud of." Because it was Leon, he delivered the praise in an even, mild tone, like it was just any old collection of facts he'd picked up somewhere. But then, it was his job to assess those things and be able to make decisions based on them. So maybe that was only to be expected.

"Most of us here would've died at one point or another without her," Romulus added from near the door. Despite being back in a more familiar climate, he too looked a little out of his element, but not in a negative way. He scratched at his beard, regarding Asala. "She's our friend, not just our healer."

Khari grinned, crossing her arms comfortably over her chest. “Even if she doesn't get our jokes."

Zahra laughed and nodded in agreement. Her hands had found themselves back on her hips, eyes trailing down from Tammy’s face back onto Asala’s. She seemed pleased by the swing of conversation as she included, “She’s been sweet to us. We’re lucky to have her.”

The pride welling up in Tammy's face was unmistakable. "That is why she is beres-taar, a shield. She has always possessed a certain strength of character, even if she does not often acknowledge it," Red blossomed in Asala's cheeks as she turned away and blushed, pretending not to hear, but everyone could see the slight tug in the corners of her lips. "And of Meraad? Does he remain with your Inquisition?"

It felt as if some of the warmth within the room drained with the question, and the slight smile Asala wore faded away into a deep frown. The sudden shift in mood was not lost on Tammy as she immediately seemed to catch on. She turned and laid a gentle gaze upon the girl beside her. "Asala?"

She could not bear to meet her eyes. "He, uh. He is not... did not..." she stammered just barely above a whisper.

It was all the answer Tammy needed, and she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She rubbed her face and leaned into her hand, slipping into thought for a moment before speaking again. "I see," she answered. There was a sag in her shoulders that hadn't been there before, and now the woman seemed older than she had initially appeared as she news weighed heavily on her shoulder. "I... I apologize, but I would like to speak with Asala alone for a bit. There is much we need to speak about. I hope you all will forgive my selfishness," she said, this time to the others.

Asala nodded in agreement and added, "I am sorry as well. I will... find you, afterward. I promise."

“Not a problem." Khari said it quickly, feeling the unease in the room getting a little thicker. She might be oblivious most of the time, but death at least was something she had a bit of experience with, and she definitely didn't want to make this any more uncomfortable than it already was. “We'll go find Rhys and Rashad or something; don't worry about us."

She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, almost as if to bat away the unnecessary apologies or something, then turned and led the way out, holding the door open with her foot for the others. Before she closed it behind her, she turned over her shoulder for a second and offered a lopsided smile. Too thin to read as genuine, probably. “Seriously. Take your time. We can wait."

She let the door—this building actually had one—fall closed softly before returning her attention to the outside. It was still damn hot, but at least it was dry. The sun hadn't stopped beating down overhead, but looking at the angle, she estimated they had only a few more hours before dark.

“If you actually meant to find the other two, I suspect the butcher would be on the outskirts of the settlement,” Leon said after a moment. “They usually are in planned towns, and this is about as planned as I’ve ever seen one.” He glanced back outwards towards the center gathering area. Even from this far, the voices of children filtered over the space, mostly Qunlat. Leon seemed to understand at least some of it; there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth after one particularly-enthusiastic shout.

He shook his head slightly and returned his attention to Khari and the others a moment later. “In any case, I’m sure I don’t have to tell any of you to be polite, so I won’t. I don’t know what we’re meant to do for the moment, exactly, but it might be for the best if no one wandered too far.”

Khari almost laughed at him. He sounded like a parent trying to instruct a bunch of kids or something, though admittedly with considerably more respect for their intelligence than most parents she knew. He had a point, really; they'd kind of been left without a guide for the moment, and it was obviously better not to offend the locals.

“I'm gonna go back to the middle of town. Those kids looked like they were having fun; maybe they won't mind teaching me how to play that game." She shrugged. Might as well get to know people a bit; there was no telling how long they'd be here, after all.

Zahra gave Khari a playful swat on the shoulder and grinned wide, still brimming with excitement, “Don’t go too hard on ‘em, Khari. Might join you later, so save me a spot on your team.” If there was at all teams. Qunari sports looked awfully complicated. A far cry from bobbing for apples, and rigging in fish as quick as possible. She straightened her own shoulders and looked back towards the direction they’d been walking. It appeared as if she was just barely holding herself back from wandering off on her own, though it was evident she wasn’t sure which place to explore first.

She, too, seemed to strain her ears at the distance shouts. Pausing and turning towards the center of the village. Although it wasn’t clear whether it was with brief understanding or simple curiosity. She cleared her throat and arched an eyebrow, leveling Leon with an unabashed stare. She had to stare up at him, even though she didn’t act like it. “Care to join me in finding this butcher’s house?” Zahra knuckled her nose, and tempered her smile a little, “I’d like to see more of the village on the way.”

Leon blinked at her almost skeptically, but nodded. “Very well." He shifted his attention to Khari and Rom. “Until later, then."

“Try not to have too much fun without me."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Once they'd parted from Romulus and Khari, Leon and Zahra started down one of the flat, well-edged paths that ran through the settlement. Like spokes on a wheel, all of them met in the center, and all of them reached the outer boundaries. Admittedly, it was a bit of a guess which was the one they wanted, but he recalled the direction Rhys and Rashad had gone in and decided to follow that one. Presumably, it would get them somewhere worth going; the Qunari did not seem particularly inclined to building roads to nowhere, not even the ones that had departed the Qun.

He kept his gait rolling, trying not to move too swiftly or in an excessively businesslike manner, in part because his companion was a great deal smaller than he was and also in part because he didn't really have business to be attending to. It was a foreign feeling, for there to be no task for him to accomplish, and it left him somewhat off-balance. He was almost looking for work to do, scanning the housing units on the side of the road as though something would present itself to him in the form of heavy things to carry or missing things to find or... anything at all really.

But they passed unhindered along the road, drawing eyes on occasion but no voices. Stifling his vague uneasiness, Leon glanced around again, letting his eyes linger on the buildings this time. He'd seen drawings of typical Qunari architecture before. This wasn't even the first Tal-Vashoth encampment he'd visited. But the other had simply been an encampment, tents and all. Not a proper village like this one. He recognized that the geometry was a holdover from the previous lives of the occupants. Even the more personal touches seemed unable to escape it; the Qunari had art just as surely as anyone else did, and he suspected much of it looked like the weaves serving as entrance covers here. Geometrical. Controlled. Clean and precise.

For all of Leon’s efforts to suit her small-statured pace, Zahra seemed to bounce along the straight pathway. She did seem to notice though. A small smirk quirked at the corner of her lips, eyes flitting from his shoulder and back towards sea of identical buildings. She did, however, seem to walk in a half-hazard fashion and allowed her hands to trail across pretty much everything they passed. Smooth canvas with intricate designs woven into the material covering the windows they passed. Everything appeared refined. Clear-cut, symmetrical. As if there was no room for error. She paused a few times, pressing her palms across the bricks. Thumbing the lip of a vase, holding an unusual bundle of plant-life. Unusual flowers. Even they appeared explicitly picked and arranged.

Everything had its place and everyone seemed to move as if driven by committed duties. Shortage of work seemed to be an impossibility in this settlement. No one lingered too long doing nothing and she hadn’t seen anyone lounging in the sun, even if there was a lot of that in these parts. It bared down on them without mercy. The wafting smell of freshly baked bread greeted them as they walked. And the sound of clattering hammers struck a rhythmic tune to their right. A steady thunking, never once missing its beat. She appeared somewhat confused by the things they passed. Almost as if the expectations in her head weren’t quite adding up. Zahra inhaled deeply and glanced again at her towering companion walking at her side, mouth lightly curling.

“I think this is the first time we’ve actually been together,” she broke the silence, “I’d think you were avoiding me, if I didn’t know you were a busy man always doing
 busy stuff.” From the barely tempered expression on her face, it was evident that she was teasing him. Perhaps, trying to illicit a response. Or at least a smile. She inclined her head towards the artistic door-covering he’d been looking at and walked backwards, still facing him as she moved towards it.

Leon supposed she was right about that. Both Rilien and Marceline had more reason to make use of her ship than he did, and in what little free time he had, he just didn’t tread the same Skyhold pathways as she did. “Aside from when we were introduced, yes,” he agreed easily. The expression on her face indicated that the last part was meant to be a joke, or at least light-hearted as far as hypotheses went, so he didn’t take it too seriously.

Certainly, he elected not to say that the “busy stuff” felt like all that kept him sane, some days.

“But I hardly think I’m the only busy one,” he pointed out, watching with slight apprehension as she approached yet another one of the artworks. She seemed very fond of
 touching things, apparently unconcerned about whether they belonged to her or not. Perhaps he should have guessed that a raider didn’t go in much for notions like private property. He wasn’t sure that was even always a bad thing.

“Surely you’re busy enough, running lyrium for Rilien, or ferrying the Inquisition to grand quests of religious revelation?” He said the last part very dryly, perhaps the only hint he’d yet given anyone as to what he thought of the whole thing. It was in his nature to be skeptical, however much it clashed with the way the Chantry appeared to those outside of it, or on the edges.

Zahra threw her head back in an easy laugh. What he said hadn’t been all that funny, especially if anyone had overhead them, but she appeared amused either way. She swung on her heels and nearly pressed her nose up to the tapestry as she brushed her fingers across the patterns, eyes reflecting the impeccable circles, the absolute spirals, and mirrored emblems. “There’s a difference between being busy and looking busy, I suppose. I’m especially good at the latter,” her smile was wistful as she straightened her shoulders, “Besides, any work aboard the Riptide is done in my absence. Nixium’s rather talented at bossing people around.”

She paused for a moment and glanced back at Leon, thick eyebrow raised. Hand still poised on the door. If anyone was watching them in the nearby yards, she certainly hadn’t noticed. “Oh. This? A favor. An excuse to sail. Maybe, more of a selfish personal call. Though Anais can be awfully irritating with all that stuff.” If the way she spoke about it was anything to by, she wasn’t all that concerned about it. It might not have been a stretch to assume that most raiders, and pirates, had far different inclinations towards religion. Perhaps, they only worshiped the sea. Zahra inclined her head in a curious fashion and wrinkled her nose, “Here I thought that most people in the Inquisition would cheer for grand quests like this. Y’know, Chantry hand-holding. But you don’t seem to care much. Haven’t seen you blubbering about it anyway.”

Leon shrugged. “I suppose many people who believe would see it like that, but my position has... changed the way I think about these things. Most people seldom, if ever, see the Chantry at its worst. I often do. Being as jaded as I am makes it difficult to be optimistic the way they can. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse." Which way his reservations would lead him this time was as yet undecided.

Zahra simply listened. Eyes peeling away from the tapestry she had pinched between her fingers. She appeared to be considering his words, or trying to read his expression. Whichever it was, she hadn’t interrupted him. From what little she’d said on the matter, she didn’t look particularly appalled by his confession
 if it was at all one. There were stories there, to be sure, but she’d taken the hint well enough and allowed him to shift the conversation elsewhere. There were two Qunari women nearby shucking corn into a woven basket. Occasionally, their eyes rose from their work to observe the strangers in the next yard, though never for too long.

The topic was one he'd prefer not to linger with, presently, so he shifted the focus of discussion from himself to her. He was, if he could be permitted to think so, rather effective at that. “Forgive me if I'm off-base, but it seems as though you had expected something in particular of the settlement. Perhaps something you have not found?" He canted his head to one side. “It is not quite like I was thinking, either, I must admit."

The smile she wore slipped. She pressed her lips together and hummed a low tune, as if to conjure up an acceptable reason as to why her expectations hadn’t been met. At least one that might make sense. She let the fabric sift through her fingers and watched it flap back into place, symmetrical and deliberate. Inflexible and planned. She was silent for a moment before she raised her arms into a cat-like stretch, allowing her arms to fall back to her sides, “You’ve a good eye, Leon.” Zahra regarded him with another leveled stare, “I thought
 it would be different. This place. The people. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting.”

There was a brief moment where her forehead scrunched up and she looked out across the yards. She pressed a hand to her mouth, and laughed against her palm. While she didn’t look particularly upset, she appeared embarrassed. It was difficult to conclude why, exactly. “I thought I’d find Aslan here. Not like that. I thought that I could imagine him here, working. Maybe carrying boars around. But I can’t picture it at all.” As if remembering herself, she glanced at Leon and shrugged her shoulders, burying her words behind another toothy grin, “He knew everything about me, and I didn’t know a thing about him.”

“I know someone like that," Leon offered, not really sure what to say. He half-smiled in a way that wasn't entirely happy, and shook his head. “So much so that I honestly can't even tell what side of this whole mess she's on. For... for what it's worth, I think you must have known one important thing about him. He was on your side. Whichever one that turned out to be."

That was the wonderful thing about a true friend, wasn't it? People spoke about family, how close that was, but family could also be deeply divided and still family. There was something about being a friend that didn't work quite the same way. But maybe he was overthinking it. That was a persistent shortcoming of his. He was far too in his own head, even when it was a miserable place to be.

“I'm sorry," he added softly. Pushing a sigh out through his nose, he glanced briefly down the road. “For your loss. I should have said so sooner."

There was a twitch of Zahra’s lips at Leon’s honesty. Whatever unshed tears might’ve swam there, certainly hadn’t fallen. A sharp intake of breath was quickly followed by the ruffling of hands against fabric, as if Zahra was sweeping off dust and dirt from her pants that wasn’t actually there. She straightened her shoulders, and sniffed. She appeared to be staring past the buildings, into the distance, though her eyes gradually found their way back to Leon’s. “Thank you.” It was barely audible, a whisper, but the sentiment was clear enough.

He’d said something that had reached her. In any case, it seemed to have an effect. She’d lost the tension in her shoulders, and her eyes seemed clearer. No longer seeking solace from what might’ve been an uncomfortable conversation she’d willingly dredged up. His response, however, appeared appreciated. She cleared her throat and tapped his elbow, inclining her head towards the road they’d been previously walking down in a let’s go fashion. A small smile tipped the corner’s of her lips, a small reminder that she was paying attention to his words, “You should ask her. Anything. Everything, maybe.”

She did not ask who he’d been talking about, but it was clear enough that she’d listen if he so chose to express himself. If her pace was anything to go by, she’d recovered rather quickly from her momentary bout of weakness, already walking in the direction they’d initially been trekking down. She waited for Leon to join at her side before continuing on. “It sounds like you’ve seen a lot. Other Qunari settlements? When we were speaking to Tammy, you looked like you understood what they were saying.” Clearly, she didn’t. At least not enough to know the gist of it. It was an open-ended question, though she appeared fixated on what he might say.

“Some," he agreed, inclining his head and retaking to the road alongside her. A bit of his earlier discomfort had faded; the words came more freely to him, now. Perhaps because this wasn't a topic he felt the need to be too circumspect about. “I'm much better at understanding Qunlat than speaking it, I must say. It's a difficult language."

He tipped his head back a little, glancing up at the cloudless sky over their heads. His chest and shoulders expanded with the volume of a large, steady breath. “Seekers often end up in strange places, tracking fugitives or looking for information. I'm sure it won't surprise you that the Chantry is very concerned about the Qunari. They themselves are notoriously difficult to interrogate, which means that most of what we know about them comes from those who are willing to part with the information. Usually, that is the Tal-Vashoth." Zahra nodded as he spoke, content to just listen. She hardly looked where she was walking. Fortunately, Qunari roads were composed of straight, linear lines, so there was no concern of bumbling into anything.

Leon half-smiled. “I am fortunate; my interactions with them have been mostly positive. I helped relocate a few dozen informants away from risk of discovery. They're in The Anderfels now. Learning bits of the language was a good way to pass the time as we rode. Though they speak much better trade tongue than I do Qunlat, now." The smile broadened a bit, though remained close-lipped. They were approaching their destination; it looked as though Rhys and Rashad were already done. They were speaking to a woman who was probably the butcher, from the apron and gloves she wore.

As they approached, it seemed that they were finishing up relaying the details of the hunt to the butcher from what Leon could glean from the conversation. Rashad was the first to notice their approach, and tapped Rhys on the shoulder. The elf turned first toward the Qunari and then toward the direction that he pointed. "Oh, they're the guests Asala brought," Rhys said to the butcher before waving toward them.

"Interesting guests," The butcher replied, mostly due to Leon's appearance, considering how she lingered on him. Eventually, she shook her head. "The Rethari will probably want to meet them," she said, nodding a greeting at them. Eventually, she shrugged and turned to to go back into the building. "Welcome them to Ash-Rethsaam for me, I have work to do. You two put me behind schedule."

Rhys frowned, but Rashad had to cover his mouth, though the hitches in his shoulders revealed the chuckling. Rhys rolled his eyes and hooked a thumb toward the departed butcher, "Qaal says hi."

“Seems she says a bit more than that," Leon replied, allowing himself a small smile. “But thank you. We've had the chance to walk around a little; it's a lovely town." It wasn't merely the diplomatic thing to say—he did genuinely find the aesthetic interesting, though perhaps a bit strict even for his military sensibilities. For the most part, Zahra remained quiet. Squinting her eyes at the departing butcher, as if she could decipher their words by listening hard enough. Besides, she appeared somewhat distracted by the various carcasses hanging by neat hooks, swinging in various states of preparation to be too put off by not understand what they were saying.

“Please don't let us keep you from anything; if there is somewhere else you need to be, we can entertain ourselves, I think." He'd been undeniably a little concerned about that before, but perhaps their conversation thus far had been enough to convince him that Zahra had much of interest to say... and was willing to share those thoughts with someone like himself.

Rhys shook his head "We just hit our quota, so we're free for the rest of the day," he said, sounding rather happy with himself. "Although..." Rhys added, looking upward to Rashad.

The larger Qunari shrugged in apparent agreement, "Qaal was right, you know. The Rethari will want to meet them.[i]"

"Right. Well, if you two would like, we could take you to the Rethari. He runs a tight ship, I'm sure he'd like to meet you all, though... Where's Asala and the other two?" Rhys asked.

“Asala was speaking with Tammy, when we left," Leon supplied. He trusted they could infer what that was about. “I believe Khari and Romulus were headed towards the center of town; she'd expressed some interest in the game the children were playing." He paused a moment, then shook his head. “It seems polite at least, to meet this Rethari. If you don't mind that it's only the two of us doing so."

"It'll be fine, as long as [i]someone tells him what's going on," Rhys said with a laugh, "Come, it's back near the middle of the village. Heh, by the time you leave, you'll have this village memorized," he chuckled to himself.

“Well, you've made it fairly easy, being so organized." Leon fell in beside him, pausing to allow Zahra to do the same before they continued. He wasn't exactly worried about getting lost on what was essentially a grid, certainly.

“If I may ask, what exactly does the Rethari do here? It doesn't seem that you have much need for additional structure." If they kept schedules and quotas by themselves, and they weren't military, he supposed all that was left was to adjudicate disputes and the like.

"Hah, he is our structure," Rhys answered, "You don't think we keep our schedules and quotas on our own do you? The Rethari and his assistants plan out the needs of the village and then send out requests to see that they get done. Everyone does something to help the village as a whole. To do nothing is... frowned upon, but it will not get you sent to the Ben-Hassrath." Rashad shuddered at the word, leading Rhys to pat him on the arm. "Fun story, Qaal was Ben-Hassrath. Took about a year for us to trust her."

Zahra had fallen in step at Leon’s side, glancing behind him whenever Rhys spoke. Her gaze absently dragged back towards Rashad, though it appeared as if she thought better than to direct any questions his way. Her mouth formed a line, curious in nature. “What’s a Ben-Hassrath do, then?” She had no trouble rolling the word in her mouth, even if she didn’t quite know what it meant, or understand the implications of the position.

“They're not so different from Seekers, actually," Leon said, shaking his head a little. Before they'd learned the trade tongue word for what he was, the Tal-Vashoth he'd known had used the Qunlat one, and that was what they'd chosen. Some time had passed before they'd been able to put any finer a point on it. “They act almost like a military police, of sorts. Covert operations abroad, and... reeducation, in Qunari communities." He glanced at the other two for confirmation.

"You know, exactly the kind of people you'd want handling the village meat supplies," he confirmed with a wry grin. Zahra laughed at that, even if it wasn’t clear if she’d understood the jibe. Perhaps, she laughed for the sake of laughter, or not knowing what else to say. From the expression on her face, it was clear she wanted to ask more questions, though she’d chosen not to.

They had clearly reached their destination, however; the building looked a lot like the rest of them, but a small placard over the doorway read office in Qunlat. Asala's tendency to take everything literally was hardly surprising, all things considered.

Not usually one for treading carefully, Zahra still inclined her head and glanced back at Rhys, “Should we know anything before meeting this, uh
 Rethari?” Her question was frank enough. It was clear that she didn’t want to step on any toes, or say anything that might come off as offensive. Both of which were unusual in her case. She turned her attention back towards the building and its placard, squinting.

Rhys thought about the question for a moment, before shooting her a mischievous smile. "He's big."

Rhys was the one to open the door for them, gesturing that they be the first to enter. Inside was a brightly lit room, with a large desk situated in the middle of the space. The desk held a number of papers and writing utensils, but all of it was neatly organized and apparently properly bookmarked, as a number of parcels held thin slivers of paper marking a specific point in them. However, no one currently sat at the desk, instead a trio of individuals stood at the far end of the building inspecting the wall in front of them. The wall held a board with a number of papers tacked onto it. The individuals, an elven woman, a younger Qunari man, and another, larger Qunari who eclipsed even Leon's height, were in the midst of speaking about repairs when they entered.

"Rethari? These are the guests that Asala brought home with her," Rhys said, slipping in behind them. The larger Qunari, no doubt the Rethari turned toward them and nodded. The other two also nodded and waved warmly before returning to speak amongst themselves about the repairs.

"I had heard that Beres-taar had returned with friends," he began, his voice a deep baritone, but holding elements of warmth within his words. He was a large, powerful man, with stark white hair pulled neatly behind long, twisting horns. The wrinkles in his cheeks belied his eyes, though his eyes remained a crystal blue, and a goatee helped to make him seem younger. He would not have been out of place as a soldier in a previous life. "Welcome, I hope that Ash-Rethsaam has treated you well since your arrival," he said. "I am Rethari and these," he gestured to the pair behind him, "Are my assistants."

Leon considered leaving off his titles in the return introduction, but to do so in a formal situation like this felt like a sort of dishonesty, and he didn't want to end up offending because of it. So he inclined his head respectfully. “Shanedan, Rethari. I am High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, Commander of the Inquisition. This is Captain Zahra Tavish, of The Riptide." He gestured to her with a hand. “It is an honor to meet you, and to be welcomed to Ash-Rethsaam."

Zahra’s eyes had widened considerably as soon as she’d spotted the aforementioned Rethari. Big might’ve been an understatement. There was a brief moment where she hesitated in the doorway. A wry smile tugged at the corner’s of her lips, as her gaze slipped back towards Leon. She mouthed something about duties being decided by height—though the mutter was one of awe, and probably a rhetorical slip of the tongue. Finally stepping through the threshold, she stood in front of the desk. Looking a little like she’d been pulled in for a tongue-lashing. She pushed her hair out of her face, and inclined her head too, with a softer than usual, “Pleasure to meet you all.”

"Maraas shokra," The Rethari said in response, slipping into a formal bow himself. His two assistants, however, seemed rather surprised at the sudden formality and seemed confused as to what the should do. In the end however, they simply mimicked the Rethari

She glanced back over at Leon and back to Rethari. Clearly waiting for some sort of continuation to their introduction. It was obvious that formal situations put her off. One of her hands settled on her hip. Something she seemed to often do to anchor herself. She cleared her throat and added with a gesture of her hand, “I suppose you’d like to know why we’re here.”

"I would," he said, nodding. However, there was no suspicion or malice in his body language, and the smile he wore was genuine, "Out of curiosity, if nothing else. I understand that you arrived with Asala, and she would not bring anyone she did not trust home. That alone speaks volumes."

Leon elected to give him the short version of events. In part, that was for the sake of brevity and the Rethari's time. But the reason they were here was also quite personal to Asala, and he didn't feel that it would be right to spell everything out in its entirety.

“We will depart as soon as Asala believes herself ready to do so. Until that time, I'm afraid we must impose upon your hospitality."

The Rethari frowned with the news. "It is unfortunate that is what brings her home, though we are nonetheless happy to see her again," He said, managing to smile once again. He then waved him off, "Nonsense, if you are friends of Asala, then you are friends of Ash-Rethsaam. However..." The Rethari said, turning to toward his assistants as he spoke. The two of them exchanged glances before turning back to the Rethari and nodded. "We would ask that you do what you can to help the village in your time here."

Rhys chuckled to himself beside Zahra before shooting her a glance, "Everyone does something to help, remember?" he echoed from earlier.

"In the meantime, we have temporary lodgings for you to make use of," the Rethari revealed, "Rhys, if you could show them?"

The elf nodded, "Of course, whenever you're ready," he told them.

“Our thanks," Leon replied.

He could use some work to do, anyway.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
It had been two days since they arrived to Ash-Rethsaam. Asala knew the importance of time, but she couldn't help but selfishly wish she could spend more time home. She'd spent the last few days meeting and catching up with everyone she had left those few years ago, as well as preparing for this moment. Despite being gone for so long, it felt as if she could easily just slip back into routine. The day before she had attended to a few sick individuals and one man who had sprained his wrist while fishing. Everyone helped in Ash-Rethsaam and she was no different. It felt nice, to be able to fall back into a routine so easily, almost as if she had never left. But she had, and though she had left with Meraad, she had returned without him.

A number of Qunari were gathered on the nearby shore, each wearing a solemn look on their face. It was a celebration, yes, but this particular one was bittersweet. Tammy stood beside her and the children who remembered Meraad gathered around them. Others had come as well, and among the faces she could count Rhys, Rashad, and even the Rethari. A number of them had spent the day gathering the drift wood that washed up on shore and collected in a pile, creating a makeshift sort of pyre. It had been her idea, after all, and the others were more than happy to help remember a fallen friend.

It was nearing sunset, the coastal sky lighting up with ambers and crimsons, with only the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach to fill the air. This was her last day home, as they'd planned to set out early next morning. Asala had explained to Tammy why they had to leave so quickly, repeating the story of their recent venture into Llomerryn, and what they had found out. While it was perhaps not her story to tell, Tammy was kadan and the closest thing she had to a mother. There would be no secrets between them.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder and she turned to see Tammy nod. Together, they strode forward toward the pyre. The knelt where they had piled most of the kindling and Tammy placed a hand on top of her own. With a little flash of magic, the kindling began to burn, and not long after it began to spread to the rest of the wood. With the pyre lit, they returned and began to watch it burn.

“Melava inan enansal, ir su araval tu elvaral u na emma abelas. In elgar sa vir mana, in tu setheneran din emma na." Khari pushed out what was almost a sigh, glancing up at Asala from where she stood near her elbow and offering a sympathetic half-smile. Reaching up, she laid a hand on Asala's shoulder blade for a moment, then dropped it again.

“The Dalish plant trees, but I think this suits him better than something like that." Her eyes seemed to soften. “I'm sorry, Asala." Having said her condolences, she dipped her head briefly to Tammy and slipped away.

Some distance away, Leon and Romulus stood with Rhys and Rashad. It looked like they were talking about something, though their voices were respectfully quiet, so she couldn't pick out the exact topic, only that it was complex enough that they were mixing languages to understand each other. Or rather, Leon spoke with them while Romulus listened and watched over the burning pyre ahead of them.

Flickering firelight cast shadows across Zahra’s face as she looked on at the pyre they’d all built together. She’d found herself a little spot away from the others, plopped down on the sand. Her forearms were draped across her knees, tucked close to her chest. There was an unreadable expression on her face, framed as it was with thick curls she hadn’t bothered pushing out of her face. She held a smaller stick in her hands, and absently turned it over in her fingers. Since meeting the others on the beach, she hadn’t said much of anything. She swung her gaze towards Asala and Tammy. Scanned the other faces, and sighed softly through her nose, before finally rocking back to her feet and scuffing off the sand from her pants.

She’d made her own after all. For Aslan. As soon as Asala explained the preparations she would need to make, and what she, too, planned to do, she’d scurried off to the beach on her own and collected drift wood. It was much smaller. She wasn’t as strong as the Qunari there, so lugging large pieces was out of the question. She’d done a well enough job. It looked relatively the same shape. On a smaller scale. Resting at least ten feet away from Meraad’s crackling pyre. From the looks of it, she’d butchered her hands dragging the things together. Small cuts, and red splotches painted her upturned palms. In passing Zahra patted Asala’s forearm, and lingered a moment before parting ways and standing alongside the second pyre.

“Nada rápido, Big Man. Te amo,” whether anyone had heard it, it’d been the first time she’d actually spoken Rivaini around the others. The words slipped effortlessly from her lips, a statement of sorts. Or a farewell. Whisper as it was. Zahra rested a hand across the smooth side of a slab of wood she’d found and settled the small stick across it.

Asala turned her attention back to Meraad's pyre, staring deep into the glowing embers. For a moment, she was lost to the world as she looked into the fire, only minutely aware of Tammy's presence next to her. He'd probably find all of this funny, Meraad would. He never was one to stand on ceremony, instead always wanting to be doing something. Reflection did not suit him either, not that he was not thoughtful. He always had others in his mind. He'd asked Asala to leave the village and go see world with him, and she had suspicions that if she had said no, that he would've remained as well. But... She couldn't have said no to him. Her glance slowly slipped toward Leon and Rom, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was worth it.

Of course it was she could imagine him saying. He found his adventure and saw the world outside of their tiny village. He seemed so content while they traveled and while they remained in Haven, to be doing something, and though neither of them truly knew how important, they knew that it was important regardless. She sighed through her nose and gazed back into the flames. While he was not the reflective type, she was, and he'd understand their little ceremony.

Something other than the flame finally caught her attention then. The children walked forward past her and the pyre, each carrying something in their hands. She couldn't make out what it was they held until they reached the water. When the water reached their ankles, they bent over and placed a boat made from palm leaves. The waves threatened to push the fleet of ships back into the coast, but the tide drew them deeper into the ocean.

A little hand tugged at her wrist, and she looked down to see a little Qunari child hold a boat out for her to take. "Meravas," she told the child as she took the boat in hand. She then leaned over and kissed her forehead. She stood and looked toward the ocean, before Zahra's flame caught her eye. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should say something or just allow her to mourn in her own way. She sighed. No. She was not the only one who had lost family, they shared in that. She crossed the distance between them and gently leaned over and put a hand on Zahra's shoulder. She then held the leaf boat out in a palm.

"Let us see them off... Together."

Zahra seemed startled by the touch. Though she recovered quickly when she turned to look over her shoulder. Her expression softened and the tension from her shoulders seemed to melt away. Her smile was genuine, if not a little somber. Through the crackling of flames, and the smell of burning wood, she appeared far more at peace then she’d been as of recent. A weight had been lifted. She inhaled through her nose, before accepting the leaf boat in her palms. She held it close to her chest for a moment. Gently. Pursing her lips, Zahra nodded with a resoluteness that spoke volumes, “Together.”

"Come." Asala said quietly, offering a hand for her to take. With it, she led her toward sea's rolling waves. She led them until the water reached their calves, at which point she turned, with a bittersweet smile still on her lips. She knelt close to the water and beckoned for Zahra to do the same so that they may set the little leaf boat off on its journey.

Even when Asala led them down into the waters, wading past the gentle lull of the shoreline, Zahra kept hold of her hand. The sight might’ve been strange, seeing how much smaller she was in comparison
 but the act in itself seemed to anchor her in place. The water reached her knees, though she didn’t seem bothered as she knelt alongside the Qunari woman. She took a deep breath through her nose, and settled the small leaf-boat in the water, floating in the nook of her palm. For someone so meek, Asala appeared larger in essence then the rowdy captain at her side. She swung her gaze sideways, seeking guidance. Direction for letting go.

"Do you know what Meraad's name meant?" Asala asked. She watched as the boat bobbled in her hand as the tide jostled it. "He... chose it himself. Meraad Kaaras. We were children then, but... It had always fit him." As she spoke, she could feel the burning behind her eyes once more. She had long thought she had cried all she could for his loss but... Maybe it wasn't her loss she felt so keenly now.

"Navigator of the tides. No matter where life took him, he always seemed like he knew where he was going," she said, feeling the tears gently roll down her cheeks. That's what she had always thought, that he just knew where he was going. Maybe he always did.

“I wish I’d known him too,” Zahra squeezed her hand and finally released it, drawing up a wet thumb across Asala’s cheek. She dropped her hand back into the water and dug it into the sand. Turning over a small shell she’d found it the muck. There was a wistful look on her face, a pull to her lips. She’d tied up her wild hair, so there was nothing to hide behind. Her gaze was trained on the shell pinched between her fingers, before dragged her gaze away and faced Asala once more.

“Seeing how you all live here, like a real family
 I’d like to think Aslan grew up in the same kind of place,” her chin quivered for a moment before her mouth settled into a smile. She cupped the palm leaf in front of her and inclined her head. There was a short pause, as if she was readying herself for something. She stared off into the distance, across the ripple of seemingly endless sea. “Meraad Kaaras. Navigator of tides. He was never alone.” She nodded her head, “He’ll be leading the way.”

Asala was quiet for a moment afterward, her own gaze pointed toward the setting sun. The ambers in the sky were beginning to darken as the dusk began to encroach. She wasn't sure if the others remained on the shore waiting for them, or if they had left. For the moment, it did not matter, only Zahra and her, and their memories. She then turned toward Zahra and offered her a tiny smile.

She cupped Zahra's hands with her own and took one last look out over the rolling waves. "Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit. Rethadim kadan parshaara..." she said mournfully, not only for herself, but for Zahra as well. With that, she gently pulled her hands away from the little boat with Zahra's, letting it flutter in the water freely before the tide took hold. "... Panahedan," she said, barely above a whisper. "Goodbye."

Zahra stared after the two leaf-boats and finally drew herself up, clutching Asala’s hand so that she, too, could stand. She whispered something softly under her breath. Her own goodbye, it seemed. The sea still licked at their clothes, as the tide drew the boats farther and farther away until they looked like small, bobbing silhouettes. She gave Asala’s hand a small tug and led them towards the shoreline, where their friends waited. Only then did she release her grip.

When the two of them left the water, they found Leon, Rhys, and Rashad waiting a respectful distance away. Upon eye contact, Leon nodded slightly, making a small gesture to beckon them over. “Your friends have something to tell you, Asala." He shifted his eyes to the two of them.

"Well. Rashad and I have been talking about it with the Rethari and..." The elf began, before turning to look at his much larger companion. The Qunari nodded and placed a solid hand on Rhys's shoulder. "It's not much, but we decided that we weren't going to let you go back alone," he said with a toothy smile. "We'll be going back to the Inquisition with you. We've arranged to have our wages sent back to the village, along with any letters you may have." Zahra had already slipped in beside Rhys. She slapped him across the shoulder blade, smile blooming into a mischievous grin. It appeared as if her steps were lighter, even if her eyes were puffy. She turned back towards Asala and arched an eyebrow.

Asala smiled and nodded, before uttering a small, "Thank you." Her mind was occupied elsewhere before a gentle hand fell on her shoulders, comforting her. "You did fine," Tammy said quietly. Her own cheeks were damp as well, and her eyes were red. "He would have liked anything you would have done," she added, drawing her in close for a hug.

"Come, you all have an early morning tomorrow," Tammy beckoned, but before they all departed, Asala threw one long glance back toward the sea as the leaf boats slipped from view and into the fading horizon.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The library was relatively warm, even in the dead of winter. Estella thought that might have something to do with all the books as well as the large hearth against one of the walls, its logs stacked carefully to keep the fire in the back of the space, well away from delicate paper.

None of that kept her from layering her clothes against the chill, and Leon in the chair next to her did the same. Turning a page, she absently stroked Gil, smiling slightly at the soft rumble of his purring. She had no complaints about the warmth of her lap, anyway.

Carefully tracing the newest rune onto a loose sheet of parchment, she repeated the process until her strokes were sure and she was confident she could reproduce the shape from memory without error. She didn't want to copy anything into her blank book without knowing what she was doing.

The soft roll of glass over wood drew her attention to the Commander. He smiled mildly, setting the vessel back down on the table next to his elbow.

“How is it?"

Leon nodded. “I like it; is it a family recipe?"

“Of a sort." She half-smiled and went back to her work. The shuffling of paper told her Leon did the same. It was... nice. Quiet, but companionable.

But of course, Estella knew that they merely sat in the eye of a storm, so to speak; everything outside still moved swiftly. To say nothing of the sheer tumult of it. She'd like to be optimistic and say that things would settle once Romulus completed the ritual to prove his heritage, but... most likely it would only mean different difficulties.

A knock on the open door brought the man himself to their attention. Romulus had entered the library quietly. He'd been outside in the cold for a little while, judging by the overall redness of his face, and the light dusting of snowfall still clinging to his cloak and hair. He was alone, and looked somewhat relieved to have found them both in the same spot.

"Commander, Estella," he greeted, nodding to both in turn. "Um... I wanted to apologize. This has all been very sudden, and I didn't consult either of you. I'm sorry."

Estella stood automatically, dislodging Gil, who hopped off her legs with a dissatisfied noise. He jumped onto the back of Leon's chair instead. She smiled at Romulus and gestured to one of the remaining armchairs in their corner of the library. It, like the rest of them, was a bit squashy, but comfortable enough.

“Would you like to sit?" From the end table between herself and Leon, she took up an empty cup, hooking the handle of a heavy glass bottle with the first two fingers of her other hand. “Cider?" It was cold out there, after all.

"Ah, yes. Thank you." Romulus had seemed a little caught off guard by the response, as though expecting to jump right to the heart of the matter. Somewhat awkwardly he shuffled and sank into the chair she gestured to, accepting the cup once she'd poured him some of the cider. After testing it, he drank deeply, exhaling in satisfaction. "I'm not intruding, am I?"

Estella shook her head, retaking her seat. “I was just working on... well, it's not important." Certainly nothing official. She glanced at Leon, who shrugged slightly.

“I was only here to enjoy a bit of quiet. It still seems intact to me." He smiled mildly, setting his book to the side and lacing his hands over his abdomen. He slouched quite a lot in the seat; Estella found it surprising for someone who was usually so upright.

“I do admit the news was quite sudden. And perhaps a bit of forewarning would have been appreciated. But I'm not your jailer, Romulus. And the only thing I command is the army. While I think all of us make the best decisions when we make them together, this is a personal matter."

“With maybe some not-personal consequences," Estella added wryly.

Leon snorted softly. “Just so." He tilted his head slightly, straightening a little. “Of course... the consequences it has for the Inquisition are a matter for all of us to decide, as much as possible. There will undoubtedly be some people who push us to place you in charge, if you are successful in your trial, perhaps as a condition on their support. There will be others who push for the opposite, seeing someone in your position as a viable political threat who should absolutely not be given a personal military."

He paused very intentionally there; Estella supposed he wanted to feel out what Romulus was thinking before contributing any of his own thoughts.

It was obviously something that troubled Romulus as well, for he did not immediately respond. "I..." he trailed off momentarily, reconsidering his words. He then half-smiled. "I wish the personal consequences weren't bound up with the political ones. It was never my intent to disrupt the balance we have." He took another long drink, briefly touching the end of his sleeve against the beard around his lips. "Assuming this works, and I'm alive this time tomorrow, I'd prefer for nothing to change. I don't have the experience or training to lead an army, but you do." He looked to Leon.

"And regardless of whether they believe in me or not, they trust you. Both of you. I don't think I can say the same for me. As you said, I might be seen as a threat. I want to use this to help the Inquisition, not usurp it."

Estella furrowed her brows. There surely had to be some way to actually do that. She was by no means a political expert, but she'd been around enough people with more subtlety than she had to know that there was surely an opportunity to be found here somewhere to help the Inquisition.

“I'm sure we'll figure something out," Leon said. “Some bridges just have to be crossed when we get to them, and not any sooner."

Romulus nodded in agreement, then fell silent, seemingly contemplating the remains of the cider in his cup. When he did look up again, it was at Estella. "Are you alright with all of this?" he asked, voicing the question carefully. "Between almost dying, to meeting my father, to finding out about my ancestors and trying to track down some proof... it occurred to me that I haven't thought enough about how it might affect you. We've always been in this mess together." He paused again, shifting his weight slightly in his seat.

"Anais, for whatever reason, doesn't care for you and makes no secret of it. Throws the word fraud around far too liberally. I just... I want you to know that I don't share her opinion, and that I never meant to undermine you."

“I know." Estella offered a small smile. It was true that all of this was quite... well, momentous. And she likely looked even smaller than usual trying to stand where she did because of it. But that wasn't Romulus's fault. “But there's no reason this has to undermine anything. We're not on opposite sides of a power struggle here. We're two people in the same strange situation, trying to navigate it."

She didn't have any desire to make this about anyone's legitimacy or right to be here. “It's... a little more difficult, since some people are going to construe it the wrong way, either on accident or on purpose. But you're not to blame for that. And I'm not upset." They were still in it together.

He was visibly relieved at that. "Good. I'm glad." He finished the cider in his cup, and stood with rather more energy than he'd entered with. "Will you come with us tomorrow? It's not a long journey, just to an island off the coast. Shouldn't take more than a day or two."

Estella glanced at Leon. Having all three of them away at the same time should be fine, but he would know better than she did.

He considered it a moment, then inclined his head. “We can do that, certainly."

“I'd be honored," Estella added.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Their next journey at sea was mercifully far shorter than the first. Unfortunately the weather seemed to be trying to make up for the lack of distance, and the waters were choppy and rough, causing the Riptide to sway up and down with the waves. The winds were up and the rain came down steadily. No downpour, but enough to dampen all who showed their faces above deck with a constant spray. Rom had placed himself firmly at the bow of the ship for the past few hours, Anais refusing to leave his side. She always seemed to have something she needed to say to him.

The rough weather no doubt kept Zee on deck, near the helm with Nixium the navigator. Leon was there too, though he kept out of the way of the wheel itself. Whatever they were saying wasn't loud enough to make out over everything else, but none of them appeared that concerned with the state of the waters.

Their road had taken them north and just into the Orlesian border, where they boarded their ships at Jader and headed east for a nearby island. This time the Riptide was accompanied by the larger warship belonging to the Herald's father, the Northern Sword. Borja had made some scant attempts at small talk with his son on the one-day journey, but the man seemed always to be more awkward and uncomfortable when speaking of anything personal, and with all of the Herald's Disciples around, they never had a moment to themselves. Now they were a ship apart, with Rom choosing to remain with the other prominent members of the Inquisition, and Borja choosing to captain his own ship.

The Riptide was far more crowded than it had been before, with a large contingent of zealots under the command of Anais crammed aboard to witness the historic event. They were practically bubbling with excitement. Anais's own enthusiasm was tempered compared with the night before, but perhaps that was just because she was in the presence of her followers. Air of authority to maintain, and all that.

Khari had never had authority over anyone but herself. With no appearances to maintain, she had one less worry about planting herself at the ship's rail, crossing her legs around it and leaning her forehead against the smoothly-worn wood. The choppiness of the ocean had only made her stomach churn along with it, and staying below had been no help at all. At least the air was fresh out here.

So Khari concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths, not too bothered one way or another about the rain. Turning her head, she rested her cheek against the rail and distracted herself by counting the number of ropes in the rigging.

"Few know of this place," Anais said, mostly to Rom, though no small number of disciples stood about close by, to listen in. "A place of quiet reflection and worship for Andraste, after her release from slavery at the hands of Tevinter. The journal states quite clearly that the ritual must be done here. I suspect this place to be where the Maker first spoke to her." Rom did not react visibly to most of what she said. The disciples seemed to regard the pair with the utmost reverence, as though they were concerned that the breaths they took might disturb them if they exhaled too loudly.

"And there's a temple here?" Rom asked. Anais looked out into the mists ahead of them.

"The remains of one, yes. My scouts found ruins, and dated them back beyond the Second Blight by our best estimates. It was likely destroyed then, but the power of the place should remain intact. The Maker will recognize you, Your Worship, and make it known. So long as you are willing to recognize yourself." Rom did not respond, and the Riptide moved forward into a cloud of fog. The daylight was fading now, making their way forward somewhat treacherous, and they slowed to be safer.

With the retreat of the sunlight and the constant rain, it was also getting cold. Even if they weren't in the mountains anymore, winter in this part of the world could be pretty brutal. Khari tugged her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders, wrapping her arms around her middle and hugging herself. The steady flow of her breath, chill enough to sting the lungs on the deep inhalations, produced little clouds when she pushed the air back out again.

She was glad she wasn't superstitious. All the fog and the cold and the uncomfortable feeling in her guts could have been foreboding if she were. Fortunately, it was just fog and cold and seasickness. Well... she was pretty sure that was all, anyway.

Quiet footsteps heralded an approach; a moment later, a slight weight settled over Khari's shoulders. A blanket, it seemed, pulled from down below deck. Stel settled next to her, mimicking Khari's posture on the next rail over, and offered a slight smile. “I know you said it's better for your stomach up here, but I thought you might be cold."

Khari blinked stupidly for a second. Huffing a staccato breath, she returned the smile, shrugging the blanket up further around her shoulders. “You're a lifesaver, Stel. Thanks." Shuffling around a little bit, she scooted the blanket around so that all of the excess was on the left side where Stel was, then held it out towards her. “You want some?" Truthfully, she could use the company. Misery loved it, or something.

Stel contemplated that for about a second before she accepted, scooting slightly closer so that their shoulders and hips were firmly in contact. “This isn't bad at all," she remarked. “The cold, I mean. Are you still feeling sick?"

Khari's pride said no, but her guts could only contribute an emphatic yes. She groaned slightly by way of reply and leaned her head forward against the rail again. “I can sit a horse all damn day, but a few hours on a boat and I'm a useless puddle." It was actually pretty humiliating, but she supposed the upside was that she was too busy feeling ill to really wallow in the embarrassment.

Seeking to distract herself, she asked the first question that came to mind. “Are you religious, Stel? What's your take on all this?" Maybe that was a bit too complicated a question for simple distraction. Hopefully she'd actually be able to follow the answer.

One of Stel's arms shifted until it was between Khari's back and the blanket, and she smoothed her hand up and down a few times, a clear attempt to mitigate the discomfort. “Well..." she murmured, shifting slightly and throwing an unreadable look towards the prow of the ship. “I'm honestly not really sure. I used to be religious; I was raised in the Chantry, after all. I thought my whole life would be there. And it's a matter of historical record that Andraste existed and had children, so none of it's impossible."

She sighed. “I'd have protested if I thought it too unlikely that Romulus was indeed part of that family, considering the consequences of being wrong. I'm still... worried, but that's just in my nature, I suppose."

“'S'not in my nature. But I'm still kind of worried." Khari pressed her brow harder into the rail, closing her eyes. She hadn't really planned on admitting that, but there it was. Still, it wasn't like Stel was going to go around repeating that to people. She had way too much integrity for that kind of petty thing. “...mostly about what comes after this." The big fire with the magic and stuff was... well, she didn't really know what to think about that except to hope it worked. But all appearances to the contrary, Khari wasn't stupid. She could guess how the news would go over with the rest of the world. And it wasn't always pretty.

“Yeah, I know what you mean." Stel said nothing further. Maybe she didn't have any better answer for that concern than Khari did. Maybe their answers were the same: maybe just being here was answer enough.

"How did this place remain hidden so long, if it's this significant?" Rom asked Anais, narrowing his eyes and trying to search through the mist for their destination. Behind them, the Northern Sword kept close, just remaining in sight in the reduced visibility.

"It would hardly be the first time something significant to Andraste has vanished for ages," Anais replied. "And unlike certain valuable artifacts, few had cause to search for this place, or knew it existed to begin with. It has no name, nor representation on any maps. On top of that, these mists are a common sight here, and the Frostbacks south of us conceal the island from those inland." She paused, leaning forward slightly. She then quietly gasped, and pointed ahead. "And here we are. The Prophet's Refuge."

It emerged slowly ahead of them, and the two ships were brought to a halt near the shore, at a safe distance to drop anchors. It was a very small island indeed, with a shore that was rocky instead of sandy, with any real vegetation having died off from the winter's cold. There wasn't much of the temple left to find, just the remains of a stone pillar here, the crumbling base of a wall there. It plainly wasn't some simple house, though, judging by the stonework. It had taken many years and probably darkspawn, as Anais suggested, to tear it to the ground.

One thing that did remain intact was a flat and square stone slab in what looked to be the center of the temple. If any statue or artifact had been placed upon it at some point was unclear, but now there was an impressive pyre. A contingent of the Herald's Disciples had traveled ahead of the rest, it seemed, and these had prepared a tall group of wooden pillars, with a single post at its center with footing for Rom to stand upon and presumably burn. The waiting disciples stood in a neat line with their hoods drawn against the rain.

The large shore party loaded into several boats and rowed to shore, with the lead boat carrying the Herald, the Speaker, Khari, Zee, Stel, Leon, and Marceline, who had chosen to observe the event along with the others. When all were ashore, Rom waited somewhat impatiently for instruction from Anais. The redheaded woman drew back her hood and smiled, her expression betraying a bit of nerves despite her obvious excitement.

"We can begin when you are ready, Your Worship. I will prepare the ritual. In the meantime, if you would like to say anything to your companions... I am confident this is not the end, but of course there are dangers involved." She turned to begin her work, and then abruptly stopped. "Oh, and you will want to remove any clothes that you wish to keep."

A single laugh, quiet and uneasy, escaped Rom, and he watched Anais stroll over to the pyre to begin her work. Judging by her concentration as she circled the assembled wood, it was not a simple task, but subtle and complex magic. Rom turned to those that had come along for the ride, but was obviously unsure what to say.

Marceline, wrapped in a thick black cloak, had her arms crossed and glanced at the rest of those assembled. "Tis a poor moment to be at a loss for words," she chided gently before shrugging.

“Sometimes, there aren't any," Leon said, moving his eyes to Rom and nodding solemnly. “Best of luck to you."

“We believe in you," Stel added warmly. Even Marceline nodded in agreement.

Zahra’s expression tempered itself between a grin and a soft smile. She didn’t appear all that concerned of what the outcome might be, but it might’ve been a result of the adamant, sea-roving approach she had to nearly everything: including her companions. She sniffed against her knuckles as she strode up to Rom and paused for a moment before clapping both hands on his shoulders, wild eyes alight.

Her breath still puffed out in white plumes, rising between them. She’d donned a wolf-headed jacket over her shoulders, probably scrapped up from the Riptide’s hold. “Drinks on me after this is all done,” she offered a wayward wink and released his shoulders, stepping back to allow the others to reach him as well, “That’s a promise.”

Khari's own confidence warred with her concern, and as usually seemed to happen to her when she couldn't quite sort out her feelings about something, she reacted physically. In this case, she took a couple steps forward and bear-hugged Rom, squeezing tightly.

“You're gonna be fine." She wasn't entirely sure which of the two of them she was trying to convince, but it probably didn't matter. “A little fire's got nothing on you. So don't go making me a liar."

He smiled and hugged her back, momentarily burying his face in her mass of red hair. As Leon had said, there weren't any words, at least not for her specifically. But certainly something was said with how strongly he embraced her. When he finally broke free of the hug, he looked to be a little choked up, but managed to maintain his composure.

"Thank you," he said, nodding. "All of you." His eyes wandered to the water. All of the boats from the Riptide had come in and were beached on the shore. None had come from the Northern Sword. In the distance, the outline of the bulky Captain Borja could be seen at the bow of his ship, seemingly content to watch his son from afar. Rom's expression was hard to read, but any pain or confusion there was quickly pushed beneath the surface.

He removed his cloak and boots, handing both to a disciple that was perhaps overly eager to receive them. Without looking back, he made his way to the pyre. Anais met him at the base of it, having finished her work. The base of the pyre seemed to be glowing, a barely perceptible white that may not have been noticeable at all if not for the relative darkness around them. The rain was lightening somewhat, but judging by the clouds on the horizon, it was only a pause in the storm, and not the end of it.

Anais pulled a small vial from a pouch on her belt, containing a pale golden liquid. "The last piece, Your Worship, prepared exactly as the journal specified. Have faith, and the Maker will protect you. His Bride will protect you." She handed the vial to him. Rom studied it momentarily, before he pulled the cork and downed it. He seemed to have a lack of reaction to it, not even a shudder at any foul taste. He dropped it once it was done. Anais placed a hand on his arm. "Now, let us begin."

Khari found it difficult to stand still, shuffling her feet slightly in place and drumming her fingers against her thigh, but she didn't get much closer to the pyre. It was like an invisible line had been drawn in the ground, whether for the sake of reverence or just more mundane safety. She didn't cross it, toeing the edge instead. She was good at not thinking about all the ways something risky could go wrong. It was a talent she chose to employ now. Zahra idled just close enough to her side to let her know that she was there. Arms folded neatly over her chest. While her expression has dampened a bit, and the grin had lost its humor, she appeared fairly composed.

One of the disciples aided his ascent onto the platform of the pyre, climbing up after him with a length of rope, which he used to bind Rom's hands around the central pole. The Herald's eyes remained down, almost purposely not seeking out anyone in particular, while the other disciples put some distance between themselves and the pyre, ending up near the assembled group from the Inquisition. Once Rom was properly secured to the pyre, the last disciple scampered away from the site, leaving only Anais behind. She tilted her head back towards the sky.

"The first son in the line of daughters has stepped forward to claim his mantle!" she called, to the Maker or to no one in particular. "He offers up his life as a show of faith in you! Receive him and protect him, Maker!"

With that, she called fire to her hands, and thrust the magic down at the base of the pyre. The white glow brightened and then immediately turned an intense orange as the natural fire seemed to consume it. Anais quickly retreated away from the pyre and came to join the others at a safe distance, a half smile of wonder etched on her face. "I would advise not approaching the pyre until it is done, for your own safety," she warned them.

The fire lingered at the base momentarily while the wood caught it, and for a moment it was only smoke that rose and surrounded Rom. The moment did not last long, though, and soon enough the blaze rose in height, and then with an unnatural speed it reached higher. The tongues of flame licked at his feet and legs, setting his clothes alight, and for a brief moment there was a look of confusion and alarm on Rom's face. Then the fire grew until it was monstrous in size, and the flames swallowed him entirely such that he could no longer even be seen by those witnessing. But he did not cry out in pain. Not a sound came from the blaze save for the roaring of the fire itself.

Khari pulled in a breath and held it. No sound was good, right? She doubted there were many people if any who'd be able to not make a peep if they were actually burning alive. Except the story said Andraste had done that, right? Shit. She crossed her arms in a self-conscious attempt to stop her own fidgeting, grinding the teeth in the back of her mouth and staring into the fire. Beside her, Stel pulled in a deep breath and seemed to hold it. A slender hand came to rest upon Khari's shoulder, though Marceline said nothing of it and only kept her eyes forward on the pyre. Zahra’s arms had dropped to her sides, and she appeared to be leaning slightly forward. Hands bunched into fists, eyes searching through the smog of black smoke licking through the air above and around the pyre. She did not move, though it looked as if she wanted to.

Still the fire grew more and more fierce, the heat of it blasting even those that stood as far away from it as they could, perhaps even reaching those that remained behind on the ships. It swirled in the wind, and even the mist shrouding the island seemed to be giving way, forced back and clearing the air, unable to withstand the intensity. When it finally stopped growing, it held and spun and roared for thirty seconds, a minute, more... any man inside without some kind of protection would have been burnt to their blackened bones by now.

Suddenly, a wave of energy radiated outwards from the pyre, akin to a strong gust of wind, continuing outwards until it had passed beyond the shores of the tiny island and over the pair of ships watching. From the ground up the fire was extinguished, the flames swirling up into the sky above where they eventually vanished. With the sound of the blaze gone, only the continuous pattering of the rain remained.

Romulus remained on the pyre, blackened with ash and soot and entirely naked, but seemingly alive and unhurt. His head lolled forward, but he looked to be barely hanging on to consciousness. The rope restraining his hands had burned away, and soon he toppled over forward towards the ground. The entire pyre collapsed with him in a crash of charred wood, into the rocky surface below. Anais, her face awash with delight, rushed forward with his cloak in hand.

“Dammit." Unable to keep her spot with her best friend on the ground like that, Khari ran forward, too. The Maker better have remembered to insulate against smoke inhalation, because that could knock a person just as dead. Anais had the cloak thing handled, so Khari busied herself pushing aside ash and debris from the pyre, clearing the area a little in hopes of making it a bit easier to breathe.

The rain began to come down harder now, sizzling as it hit the wood pieces and even against Rom's skin. Behind the Speaker and Khari others quickly moved to help as well, some at the orders of Marceline, whether she had command of them or not. Anais was quick to throw the cloak over the Herald's naked body, and together with Leon they were able to pull Rom free from the smoking remains of the pyre. Under the ash his skin was reddened and extremely warm to the touch, but he appeared to be cooling quickly, and there were no visible burns or signs of damage on him. Once he was clear of the smoke he was set down to rest upon his knees. He was still conscious and trying to stay upright, but needed support on either side. For a moment, he seemed delirious.

"Your Worship," Anais said, holding tightly onto his arm. "You've done it. The Maker has safeguarded you. You have proven your status, Blood of Andraste." The disciples around them heard the declaration, many falling to their knees and lowering their heads to the ground. A few openly shed tears. Romulus blinked rapidly, struggling to focus. With a hand he seemed to shove at Anais. She grabbed the hand and squeezed. "It's over, Your Worship. It's over."

"No," he managed, the word barely escaping him. "No." His eyes sought those around him, and found Leon. His other hand latched onto Leon's collar, and he tried to maintain eye contact with him. "Stop her. Stop... no. False... no..." Anais frowned, reaching to place a hand on the side of Rom's face, trying to get him to look at her.

"Your Worship? It's alright, you're safe now, the ritual is complete. You passed the trial, your faith has been rewarded!"

Leon's expression hardened slightly; his eyes narrowed a bit and his lips thinned. “Everyone step away for a moment, please." Though it was phrased politely, it was hard to mistake the fact that it was the High Seeker speaking, and not Leon. He was more than capable of supporting Rom on his own, and he moved to do so, putting a hand on either of his shoulders.

He ducked his head to keep eye contact, speaking quietly, deliberately and clearly—probably in hopes that Rom would be able to understand the words. “Stop whom?"

"He's just been through a great ordeal, High Seeker," Anais said, remaining firmly at Rom's side. "This is hardly the time for questioning him. He needs rest."

Khari frowned. “Whatever he's talking about, it's important enough to him that he's trying to say it now, so we should hear it now." She crossed her arms and took a single step closer. “Surely whatever the Blood of Andraste has to say is important enough to listen to?"

Reluctantly, the Speaker took a single step back away from Rom, who tugged the cloak tighter around his shoulders. He took several deep breaths, each one seeming to bring his strength back bit by bit. Anais's frown grew. Finally, Rom looked at Leon again.

"Anais," he said, as clearly as he could. "The vial... the ritual. Never... any danger." Suddenly he looked as though he was quite sick, and lurched forward, heaving and coughing in a fit that racked his body. He shuddered when it was through, and began shivering from the cold. Anais began to look offended.

"He's not in his right mind, High Seeker. Of course there was never any danger, the Maker protected him! He was chosen by a power greater than any of you to lead us!"

“Then surely you will not mind sharing the journal and the recipe for that concoction with our alchemist when we return to Skyhold," Leon replied evenly. A look of trepidation crossed his face, and he shook his head a little. “Estella? Is there anything you can do for him before we head back?" He must have been talking about healing magic.

“Perhaps," she replied softly. “But I do think it would be best to get him somewhere warm and comfortable first."

Khari shrugged out of her own cloak and added it to Rom's for warmth. “No reason to stay here in any case, is there?"

Suddenly Rom shoved himself up to his feet, with a groan of effort. He nearly fell again, but managed to remain upright and facing Anais. If anything the bout of sickness seemed to have purged him of some of the ill effects, and he was looking significantly more focused now. Anais's eyes widened, and she even took a step back in surprise.

"Your Worship, how... how can you even stand?"

"I could've..." he wiped at his mouth, eyes locked on the Speaker. "I could've made that potion myself. Couldn't... cast the spell, but I know there was nothing divine in that fire, nor in that vial. You build up a... tolerance, with enough use." Her mouth hung open, struggling for a moment to find something to say, but she still seemed stunned to see Rom coherent, let alone on his feet.

"I prepared the ritual exactly as the journal specified, Your Worship. As your ancestors wished, for one of their own to claim their rightful mantle as Blood of Andraste."

"The journal..." he practically scoffed at the mention of it. "The journal you translated. I'm such a fool..." He staggered a step closer to her, and this time she remained firmly rooted to the spot. The disciples around them seemed confused, alarmed, some even distraught at the argument. "What am I, Anais? What am I really?"

"Your Worship—"

"Don't call me that. What am I?"

She seemed threatened, half recoiling away from Rom, though she kept her eyes firmly rooted to his, and spoke slowly and deliberately. "You are the Blood of Andraste, Romulus. You have been given a great opportunity here, to seize the power that your birthright grants you. You must take it."

He held her gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Must I? No. I'm done listening to you. You brought my father to me, and for that I'm thankful, but I won't pretend that any of this was real." He turned to the others. "There's no one holy here. Only frauds."

Marceline strode forward, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. "Ser Leonhardt," she began before opening her eyes, "If you would kindly keep an eye on Anais on the way back to Skyhold, I would very much appreciate it." Shaking her head, she looked up and took a protective step next to Romulus. "And if you would, send a runner to inform Borja as well?" With that, Marceline gently encouraged Romulus that it was time to leave.

"Come... We have a long day of traveling ahead of us."

Leon nodded, pointing to one of the few Inquisition soldiers on the shore. “Run that message for me, Legrand. Everyone else, get back to the boats."

Boom. A powerful blast echoed in the distance, from the ships. Rom immediately turned towards the sound, to see a heavy projectile whistling away from the Northern Sword amidst a cloud of smoke. It smashed into the side of the Riptide, punching straight through and sending a spray of wood splinters into the air. By the looks of it, the shot had been aimed for the ship's main mast, but it remained upright, only slightly damaged, having avoided the worst of it. Shouting erupted from the two ships, and the Northern Sword began to turn, having already hauled up her anchor.

"No!" Anais cried, distraught. "You idiot!" Some of the disciples searched for cover, though there seemed to be no threat to the shore party. Borja's ship was turning to flee, the winds catching her sails and taking her east, towards the storm. The captain could be seen at the helm, not looking back.

Rom stared in utter confusion at the attack, the hurt written plainly across his face. He did not seem to understand what Anais was furious about. But after a few more seconds of disbelief, he seemed to have his mind made up.

"We need to catch him." He looked around at all of his companions, searching for support. "I need to catch him."

“Then let's go!" Khari didn't see any point in arguing about it. Even Marceline should be okay with chasing down someone who'd just fired on the Inquisition's borrowed boat. She was mostly just pissed at Borja though. That slimy little—there had better be a damn good explanation for this.

But of course, there was one person whose permission actually mattered. “Zee?"

Whatever confusion had happened at the pyre had wept from Zahra’s face like the ash and dust sifting from Rom’s flesh. Now, her eyes were trained on the horizon and on Borja’s fleeing vessel. There was a fury twisting her features, drawing her lips back from her teeth, as if she were bristling to throttle someone. In this case, it would’ve been Borja. She exhaled sharply and stomped forward, “Back to the ship. Now.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
It was all Zahra could do to contain the tawdry shudder of anger riddling through her bones as she ground out commands through clenched teeth. Why had Borja done this? What kind of fucking rouse had Anais pulled back at the pyre? The connections weren’t lost on her. Nothing made sense anymore. She doubted she’d get any answers until they had Borja here. On his knees, begging for forgiveness. She’d see it. Even if he was Rom’s father. They’d hightailed it back to the ship far quicker than she’d thought possible given Rom’s state, but she figured Leon could’ve practically carried him back without much effort. Her crew was already scrambling across the decks and the anchor had been hauled up as soon as they’d set their feet aboard. Nixium’s face was grimmer than it usually was, though she’d already turned the rudder’s hard to port and without being needed to be told where they needed to be, cut the Riptide towards the Northern Sword.

The Riptide’s sails flapped down like falling curtains and billowed out at the gust of wind as if it were a lover blowing them true. They sliced through the waters at a quickening speed. Fortunately, their ship was much smaller than Borja’s and crafted specifically for this: catching fleeing vessels. However, the damage that had been done to the ship was
 concerning. The Northern Sword could be frighteningly destructive if it’s intentions were to send said ship to the bottom of the sea. How many had she seen suffer that fate? Too many. If it hadn’t been for dumb luck, they might not have had any way to leave. He’d missed the mast. Garland had already vaulted down the steps leading into Riptide’s belly, armed with hammer, nails, and boards tucked under his armpits. If his expression was anything to go by
 the damage wasn’t good.

But they were afloat. For now.

Seeing as Anais was the only one that might know what was going on here, Zahra stalked up to her with all of her small-sized, pent-up rage. She hadn’t allowed them to lock her in the holds, nor move her out of the cold. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed, drawing into mean slits. Whatever remnant of calm had already sizzled out like the flames of the pyre. Her hands, drawn into fists, bloomed opened and closed before she finally reached the woman in question. One hand shot out and grappled onto the scruff of her collar, which she used as leverage to draw her down closer to her face, and her withering stare. She hadn’t reached for blade or arrows, but her posturing was anything but feigned. It spoke of consequences.

“I’ll give you one chance to explain what’s happening here,” she breathed out sharply.

"And if I pass on that chance?" To her credit, Anais did not seem cowed by the captain's display of ferocity and justified anger. She did little to shield herself from the driving rain, which grew ever fiercer the closer they came to the storm's heart. "What will you do? Kill me? I very much doubt it. I could provide some answers for the Herald, but I won't do that here."

Zahra tossed her head back and laughed. She hadn’t released her hold on the back of her neck either, only forced her to reel back with her. There was a glint in her eyes, like two pieces of flint. “Kill you? No. That’d be easy. But I can make you wish for it, little bird.”

Romulus carefully positioned himself partway between them. He was clothed again with a spare change under his armor, which he'd left behind on the ship. It was obvious that he wasn't at full strength and wouldn't be for some time, but he at least seemed alert. "I need her alive," he warned Zahra. "I think there's too much to explain for it to be done here."

Even as Rom repositioned himself so that he stood nearly between them, Zahra’s countenance hadn’t changed. She demanded blood be paid. It was the raider way, even if she’d become less and less of one. For one who’d lived their lives on land instead of the sea, it was difficult to explain just how much a ship meant to its crew. This was no different. It accounted for a life.

"He's right," Anais agreed. "For the moment, I should inform you that Adan Borja will not hesitate to sink this ship if threatened, nor will he think twice about killing every soul aboard. This must be done carefully." That was clear enough. The waves ahead were growing ever larger, and the Northern Sword was showing no signs of changing her course. Romulus glowered at the sight, taking his shield in hand.

"Just get me on that ship."

Zahra’s fingers slowly released their death-grip on her collar and she allowed the fabric to slip away from her hand. Her eyes, however, raked away from Anais’s face, and onto Rom’s. “When this is done, and she sings her last useful words...” her eyes shifted sidelong and her mouth settled into a hard line, “I won’t move on this matter.” For now, as he said, they’d need to catch up to the Northern Sword and board it before he tried to turn around and face them. Being punched with more cannon balls wasn’t an option. She pushed the sopping wet hair from her face and grinned grimly, “Now, that I can do. Make sure everyone’s ready.”

She turned away from them and cried out quick commands over the sound of the storm. Nixium bellowed back from the helm, though her words were muffled from the rain that’d decided to start pelting down from all angles, chilling them to the bone. Riptide quickened its pace, and the Northern Sword began showing discernible details. People shuffling along the decks. If she squinted hard enough she thought she could see Borja leaning over the railings, hands planted
 though she couldn’t be sure, and chalked it up to her eager imagination.

On The Riptide's own deck, those few who were neither crew nor cultist prepared for battle. Khari, still with wan and waxy complexion from all the rocking, was nevertheless arranging the straps that held her graceless cleaver to her back. She forewent the metal mask—perhaps air was more important—but pulled her dark hood up around her head, her facial features disappearing from view. Across the deck, Marceline stood with the point of her rapier resting gently in the wood by her feet, flanked by a pair of sturdy Inquisition soldiers and their shields. Meanwhile Estella appeared from below, sword now at her hip, and tossed what looked like a pair of heavy gauntlets to Leon, who caught them in midair. They stayed out of the way of the crew, but their eyes were fixed forward on the retreating boat.

A porthole opened up in the rear of the Northern Sword as the Riptide steadily gained on her. A flash of fire followed, and a boom like thunder rippled through the air. A cannonball from the stolen Qunari weapon hurtled through the air at them, the shot sailing high and splashing down into the tumultuous seas behind them. With the way the waves lifted and dropped the two racing vessels, aiming would be very difficult. But soon there were more projectiles added into the mix.

"Find cover!" Romulus called, as the first arrows whistled down onto the deck, some clattering off into the sea, others thudding into the wood. They were almost impossible to see in the darkened sky, with the driving rain added into the mix. Another shot from the cannon sent a giant plume of water up in front of the ship, the attack falling short this time. Their aim was unreliable at best in the storm, but it wouldn't be long before something found its mark.

Khari didn't need to be told twice. She half-lunged, half-toppled forward, snatching Estella's arm and dragging them both behind a couple of the barrels that had been lashed down to the deck in preparation for the inclement weather. One lucky arrow thudded right into the barrel in front, vibrating for several seconds before it stilled. A semitransparent barrier, more purple than blue, flickered into life over their heads. It was neither very large nor sturdy-looking, but at least one arrow bounced off of it harmlessly.

Taking cover wasn't exactly simple for a man of Leon's proportions; he wound up putting the foremast between himself and the oncoming arrows, occasionally risking a glance out from behind it. At this point, though, their job was pretty much to stay alive until they were close enough to retaliate.

Marceline huddled behind the shield-wall erected by her guard, adding her own weight to theirs to help keep them steady. Slowly they picked their way to a rise in the railing, in an effort to add it to their protection as arrows thumped harmlessly into their shields. Once they reached it, there was nothing more they could do but patiently wait.

While most wouldn’t have counted themselves lucky facing such an unforgiving storm, Zahra was. If only for the fact that Borja couldn’t pelt them with flaming arrows—it was a tactic she was keen to employ whenever she pulled up to other ships. Setting a ship’s sails aflame was a good way to render them useless, and still. She’d donned her own bow in hand and bounded up towards the upper decks as quickly as she could manage, arrows whistling through the air. If they could reach the ship in time, she could sink his hooks into his, and he’d be daft to fire anymore cannonballs.

In any case, they were gaining on him.

Nixium kept her post at the helm. Though she’d conjured some sort of shield to protect herself. A rippling force-field. One of her palms was held up in the air as she grappled with the wheel using her upper body. From the looks of it, the wild waves crashing into the ship’s bow wasn’t being easily managed. Several arrows crashed and splintered against her ward, while some buffered off into the hail. Once Zahra reached her, breathless and sopping wet, she grappled onto the other side of the jerking wheel while Nixium adjusted herself on the opposite end.

“Hooks are ready. Close as we can, now.”

The last attempt from the Qunari cannon was a hit on the Riptide, a ricochet off the starboard side railing that sent splinters raining down on their heads before it careened over the back and into the sea. A lucky result, considering how easily it could've taken a head clean off. They were close enough now to accurately exchange fire, the two crews loosing arrows back and forth in between dives for cover. Romulus pegged a pirate in the chest with his crossbow before he ducked back down to load another bolt. They were numerous, this crew of Borja's, but they had never faced an enemy like this one before.

"We're in range!" Romulus shouted, through the crack of lightning. "Hook them!" The grappling hooks were heaved at the Northern Sword, entangling its masts and railings, binding the ships together and steadily drawing them into each other. "Brace!" A wave pushed the larger ship the rest of the way into the Riptide, scraping the sides of both hulls and inflicting some light damage on the smaller of the two. It was negligible in the grand scheme of things; they had their way across.

They were close enough to make a jump, and Romulus was the first to throw himself across, landing near the Northern Sword's bow. The first pirate to get in his way found a knife digging into his ribs, and he was discarded overboard into the sea. If the effects of being drugged were still wearing on him, he was hiding it quite well. Borja roared at his men from the rear of his ship, compelling them into action, and the melee began in earnest.

Khari, too, leaped from cover, bounding over the deck with surprising surefootedness for someone with such a bad stomach for the ocean. She made the jump further down the ships, landing closer to the mizzenmast than the fore, sword swinging wildly. She looked to be aiming mostly for center mass, and moved on as soon as a foe dropped, rather than pausing to finish any of them off. Jamming an elbow into one pirate's jaw, she pulled him over her hip with one hand, whacking him hard in the head with the flat side of her cleaver. He stilled, and she stepped forward into another.

Estella and Leon took a little longer to board, mostly because Leon paused to boost her across the gap before following himself. The Seeker went to work immediately in that brutal way he had. Grabbing one man by the head, he threw him sideways into the mainmast and kicked hard enough to break ribs, snatching up the pirate's weapons and throwing them into the churning ocean below. The next got his legs swept out from underneath him; his kneecaps broke under Leon's stomping boots.

The hatchet he'd been carrying flew end-over-end, lodging itself in the back of a woman who'd been after Estella. The Inquisitor herself pulled it free, toppling her foe with a hamstring slash and slamming the hatchet down with all her might, pinning the pirate to the deck by the back of her shirt. A few seconds later, the axe was frozen to the wood, and Estella was standing, bringing her saber up to block another assailant.

Marceline was among the last to board the ship with her entourage, probably in an effort to let their main force at least thin the resistance a little. Both soldiers aided her in crossing the gap between the ships. Once their feet were dug into the Northern Sword's deck, they formed into a tight unit, with shields flanking both sides of Marceline. A pirate who perhaps believed that felling the Orlesian ambassador might hurt morale, drove straight for her before he was intercepted by a shield. In the moment that he turned his attention away from her was the moment she chose to strike, the tip of her rapier burying deep into his chest. They'd find the ambassador to be a far more difficult target than that.

Zahra had left Nixium’s side with little more than a nod. As soon as ships kissed sides, there was not much else a navigator could do until the time came to unhook themselves. She, too, jumped onto the railing and used her momentum to leap onto the Northern Sword’s busy decks. She ducked an incoming blade, heard the sweep of air as it sliced above her. As she was coming back up, she swung the sharp end of her bow underneath his chin. There was a spray of blood and a sickly gurgle. A thud sounded behind her, but she was already springing away towards the next foe.

“Borja!” She screamed into the hail. Whether he’d heard him or not didn’t seem to matter. Her eyes trained the decks, absorbing the carnage that was unfurling on both the Riptide, and the Northern Sword. Numb fingers notched an arrow in place and pinned a man’s hand against the wood of the mainmast. Struck clear through the knuckles. His sword, mid-swing, clattered at his feet. His screams couldn’t be heard either, though she did not doubt they’d end soon enough.

Romulus was giving as little thought to the well-being of his enemies as Zahra was, it seemed. Lightly armored pirates dropped in heaps, leaking blood to mix with the rain washing over the ships. He pushed through the melee towards the rear of the ship, towards where the captain was supposed to be fighting alongside his crew, though in the thick of the fighting it was difficult to discern where anyone was. His efforts to search for Borja were continuously interrupted by sword-armed criminals trying to end his life. Frustrated, he bashed one in the throat with the rim of his shield, before reaching forward to violently snap the man's neck, dropping him to the ground.

Before him, a hatch opened leading to the lower decks of the Northern Sword. Romulus had been about to plunge his dagger down into the neck of the first person to appear there, but he managed to stop himself short, recognizing the figure. The lanky and aging smuggler Conrado had his hands free, one of them grasping a long, thin sword which he carried with practiced ease. His head swiveled about, searching for threats, eyeing up the pirates around him as well as those they'd been boarded by.

"Conrado!" Romulus called, demanding the man's attention. "Fight with us!" How he'd gotten free was unclear, but his treatment at Borja's hands had been none too kind. Conrado nodded briefly, then gestured with his head behind Romulus, warning him of an attacker to his rear.

Romulus half-turned his head to react, before a sharp pain immediately bloomed in his torso. He looked down to see Conrado's sword stabbed into his side. Before he could so much as react the thin blade was withdrawn and slashed deep across his lower left thigh. He staggered and nearly fell, but Conrado was quick to complete the move, pulling him forward and throwing him down the hole he'd emerged from, where Romulus crashed against the ladder and disappeared out of sight. The smuggler kicked the hatch closed behind him.

On the upper deck, Borja was nowhere to be seen.

Khari must have either seen or inferred what happened, because she hastily kicked her off-balance opponent over the railing of the ship and threw herself at Conrado, barreling through a couple of occupied pirates on the way. He stepped neatly out of the way of her first blow; the sound of the blade hitting the deck was inaudible over the din, but from the way it jerked through her whole frame, it must have been quite the impact.

Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl, and she wrenched the cleaver out of the floorboards, twisting away from a fencing lunge but unable to completely avoid the follow-up, which caught her in the side. It was hard to tell if she so much as felt it. She attempted to close one gauntlet-protected hand over the blade of the rapier, but Conrado was too fast to allow it. So she followed his retreat instead, clearly trying to pin him down in a corner.

Leon was swiftly clearing out the mid-ship area, but his progress was nowhere near fast enough to get to Romulus's aid anytime soon. Estella branched off in the aft direction, but was immediately waylaid by a trio of Borja's men. Grimly, she leveled her saber and got to work.

With a solid solid foothold behind them, Marceline ventured away from her guard, the rapier flashing in one hand, and the main-gauche in the other. She pressed as hard as she could along with the others, but she was careful that her pace did not leave her vulnerable. Unfortunately, that pace was not quite quick enough.

Zahra battled her way down from the upper decks. Somewhat disgruntled at the fact that she hadn’t found her mark. No sight of Borja anywhere—the damned coward. She did, however, spot Khari grappling with a familiar face on the ground
 Conrado. Someone she hadn’t expected to see here. Alive, in any case. She tensed her shoulders and twisted around an incoming man’s fist, leveling her elbow into his nose. It crunched under the blow and she finished it with a dagger pulled from her hip, dipping it between his ribs. She was trying to bully her way through the crowd, but every inch she drew closer was interrupted by another of Borja’s snarling crewmembers.

Over the shoulder of the current layer of pirates blocking her way, she could see Khari still struggling with Conrado. The elf looked the worse for wear; her hood had fallen and she bore a deep cut across her forehead, freely bleeding into one of her eyes. Conrado's agility and skill with that dueling sword was clearly formidable.

Khari's main advantage, however, was sheer dauntlessness. It didn't seem to matter how many times he stuck her with the thing, how many little goading jabs pricked her skin: she just kept going, relentless and aggressive. She didn't try to be a better duelist than he was—instead, she took some of the blows, turned aside the rest, and kept advancing.

She left an opening on her right side; Conrado darted in to take advantage. But her reaction was quicker than it should have been, like she'd bluffed the vulnerability in the first place, and a powerful blow disarmed Conrado, sending the rapier spinning across the deck. Her lips moved, but there was no way to hear what she said. The pommel of her sword smashed into his temple, and Conrado crumpled.

Wiping the blood out of her eye with her cloak, Khari hustled for the hatch, yanking it open and barging in without so much as pausing to assess the landing.

She left a darkened wet streak behind her on the deck.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon stared at the map in front of him with a furrowed brow. Rilien was seeding his agents at a remarkable pace; in truth, the rest of the Inquisition needed to shape up to match the spread of their information networks. He turned a wooden shield token over and over between his bare fingers, the smooth varnish slick against his mangled skin. Beside him, Estella sighed softly; he could hear the slight rustle of her fidgeting with her sleeves. Marceline and Rilien were quieter, more accustomed to this sort of waiting.

Leon had sent a message summoning Romulus to the war room, but he expected it to be a few minutes yet before he arrived. There was quite a lot of business to take care of today, but it all had to happen in a certain order.

Shaking his head faintly, Leon dropped the token onto the side. They just didn't have the ability yet to move their soldiers any deeper into either Orlais or Ferelden. The support Romulus would have gained had he been proven blood of Andraste would have likely made the difference, but Leon had never counted on that. He didn't make a habit of relying on miracles, which was usually to his benefit.

When Romulus did arrive, a few minutes late as expected, it was with an uneven and uncomfortable gait, still limping slightly from the damaging wound he'd suffered to his leg. His right arm was still in a sling, cradled near his chest, and he was still plainly fragile from head to toe, but the movement was a good sign that with proper healing from Asala he could eventually make a full recovery.

He hadn't made a habit of being in the war room, despite being a Herald of Andraste. In fact he'd only been inside a few times before, the most notable being the first when he spoke of the enemy encountered at Haven, and Corypheus. He might've entered a bit more confidently now had the events off the coast gone differently, but instead he looked smaller than usual, dwarfed by the scale of the room. "Is this about Anais?" he asked quietly. He'd hardly once raised his voice to normal speaking levels since the return to Skyhold.

“In part." Rilien, as ever, did not spend time on pleasantries. He stood slightly further back from the table, almost in Estella's shadow. It wasn't clear if he'd chosen to do so deliberately or just naturally gravitated there. He unfolded his hands from his sleeves, taking a step forward so as to be more clearly visible. “But first we wish to ask you if you would accept the rank we've granted Estella."

Lady Marceline smiled, most likely from the terseness of the tranquil. Her head tilted slightly to one side and she clarified. "We have discussed the matter at length amongst ourselves and we have decided that you have proven yourself a most valuable part of the Inquisition. We have unanimously determined that you should be offered the rank of Inquisitor in spite of the recent events that have transpired," she said. "Provided that you accept it, of course."

A frown settled onto Romulus's face as soon as Rilien put the offer on the table. His eyes followed from the Tranquil to Marceline, but his confusion only seemed to grow. Silence filled the room for a long moment, while he struggled to think of a response. "You... want to make me an Inquisitor," he repeated, as though the words might make more sense after they left his own mouth. "After everything that happened. Everyone who was hurt because of me." Clearly he didn't think the same way about the idea as they did, but his eyes sought Leon, and then Estella.

"You would trust me with that?"

Leon elected to let Estella speak first. She understood the reasoning, but more importantly, she understood how to say things, for the most part. It would come across better from her than him or one of the others.

She didn't fail to take the opportunity, inclining her head a bit. “Really, we should have done it before," she said. “Maybe as soon as you got back from Haven. But everything was... unclear, then. Too much of—too much of what Anais and the others were saying was muddying the water. But you were right all along: there was no wedge between us, and you never tried to put one there. We're... for better or worse, we're in this together. I'm not above you. I don't want to be."

“You're not the first person ever to be swindled by a clever ploy, Romulus," Leon added. “You won't be the last. It doesn't disqualify you from your place here. You've earned our trust as you are." The emphasis he placed on the last words was delicate, but certain. “We want everyone to know it, but the choice is yours."

"We believe that even the willingness to pursue the chance of your own divinity was done out of service to the Inquisition. Know that everyone here understands your loyalty and the lengths you would go for the cause," Marceline paused a moment a looked at the others, "We wish to recognize that loyalty with our own. Officially."

He visibly wrestled with the words in his mind. "I don't know that it was," he answered Marceline. "In part, maybe, but... I did it because I thought it was what my mother would have wanted. I thought my ancestors had been preparing for that moment, for me to seize it. I would try to use the power for the good of the Inquisition... but what I wanted most was to have a family, or be closer to one. Connection to a history that wasn't in chains." He seemed almost surprised that he'd said so much, and fell silent for a moment.

"I don't know what to say, though. Thank you, I'll—I'll try to earn this. Maybe you all think I already have but I'll try anyway." He paused, before he looked back to the Tranquil. "You said in part. What's to be done with her?"

“That is for you to decide." Rilien blinked in that owlish way of his, folding his arms back into his wide sleeves. “As Inquisitor, it is your right to sit in judgement of our prisoners. Given that it is you who best understands the extent of their crimes, it is only prudent that this round of judgements fall to you." He tilted his head slightly to the side.

“They wait just outside the main hall now."

“We will of course be present to advise, if you are inclined to seek counsel," Leon added. “And to keep the records even if you are not." Marceline picked up a clipboard from the table, as if to confirm.

"Oh... right." He seemed to have forgotten that particular responsibility of the Inquisitor. After mulling it over some more, he nodded, more resolved than he'd appeared since returning. "Good. Let's not delay, then."

Leon nodded, gesturing to the open doorway. The small group proceeded to the main hall, where Reed along with Zahra already waited. The throne stood empty on the dais; the Seeker took up his customary spot to the right, slightly in front and below. Estella elected to stand on the other side, with Rilien, and Marceline took up the officiator's position just to the side of the carpet runner leading up. Romulus looked unsure about taking a seat in the throne itself, as well as uncomfortable once he had, perhaps due to his injuries.

“Reed. We'll take the first, please." His aide nodded and headed down the hall at a swift clip to admit the first prisoner.

Eventually, the clanging of chains echoed throughout the hall as Reed escorted the first prisoner. "Lord Inquisitor," Marceline began, her voice taking in an air of authority as she stated Romulus's new title. "I present to you the accused, Speaker Anais, the leader of the cult known as The Herald's Disciples."

Anais had been stripped of the light armor pieces she wore, perhaps the one article of clothing that wholly separated her from those that had followed her lead. The past few days had obviously not been comfortable for her; her hair and skin was unwashed and dirty from both the journey and then her time in the dungeons, and her robes were in need of a change. All that said, she still appeared to be keeping herself together. Once escorted to the appointed position, the Speaker chose to kneel before the Inquisitor, rather than stand.

"The formal charges levied against her are as follows," Marceline said, looking down to the clipboard in hand. "Fraud, heresy, collusion with the pirate formerly known as Adan Borja, and attempted sedition."

"Lord Inquisitor," Anais greeted, lowering her head in deference. "It seems you don't need me to rise up in rank after all. Though I fear this is as high as you'll ever go." Romulus chose not to answer her opening statement, instead studying her in silence. Looking down at her from his seat, he almost seemed to relax.

"Do you deny any of your charges?" he asked.

"No, Lord Inquisitor," she responded, ready for the question. "Had I succeeded, it would only have strengthened the Inquisition. I acted in service of our shared cause."

"Not all of us would have benefited."

"No, of course not, but few things in the world benefit everyone. I believe a joint leadership, as you have just established, will prove a thorn in the Inquisition's side before long. You may share the same goals as your fellow Inquisitor, as the leaders of your armies and your spies and your diplomats, but all of you have different minds. Our enemy has one mind, one body, and one goal. I sought to give the Inquisition the strongest leadership it could have, to counter that."

Romulus let that sit for a moment, the two just staring at each other unwavering. He shifted in the throne, failing to conceal a wince. "Explain your plan to me. From the beginning. I want to know what you did each step of the way." He paused, watching her think over how to begin. "You don't want to lie to me again, Anais."

His tone was dark, angry, dangerous even. Anais clearly caught wind of it, and for the briefest moment it seemed to strike some fear into her. She swallowed, finally breaking eye contact with him. "I began to make some connections soon after we first met, and you closed that rift with your mark, but the idea didn't truly come to me until my agents reported that Adan Borja had taken an interest in you personally." Her eyes flitted up to him before they fell back down. "He clearly never forgot you, despite only meeting you before when you were very young. I approached him personally, and learned of the history between you two."

"And after learning what he'd done to my parents... you offered him a part to play?" Romulus was unable to hide his disgust. Anais nodded uneasily.

"I did. He was uncertain at first, but I was able to sell the potential of it quite well. I researched how your own history might connect with what I'd learned from the Augustan Order, but it wasn't until Haven fell that the opportunity truly felt within reach. When my scouts reported that the Venatori were hunting for some survivors in the area, I was confident that it was you. That the elf was with you was even more fortunate."

"Khari," Romulus interrupted.

"Yes, of course, forgive me. I had Borja brought in, and we agreed to present the story to you together should you be found alive. You were, and you seemed to believe us, so we were willing to move forward. While you returned to the Inquisition at Skyhold, we had ample time to prepare for a way to see you fully ascend. This gave Borja time to make contact with Conrado, and allowed me to prepare the journal."

"The journal..." Romulus nearly whispered the words, stewing in his seat. "My mother wrote none of it, I'm assuming?"

"Correct," she answered, as though she were now tiptoeing across shards of glass. "I wrote every word. It required... a great deal of time and research. I built a fictional family tree for you. Recorded in every language I'm familiar with, and had several of my trusted agents pen some of the pages, to have messages in different hands." She paused, carefully watching for his reaction. "I can give you their names, if you like. Most of my servants were kept in the dark regarding the plan, and were fed the same story as you, but a few were aware."

Leon glanced at Marceline. She would no doubt be able to take the names down; that was good. He hadn't been looking forward to sorting through which cultists were gullible but innocent and which were complicit. It would have been several days of interrogations, at least.

"I don't care about their names. Later." Romulus waved his hand in dismissal. He was beginning to look quite uncomfortable, perhaps a result of revealing the full extent of the deception against him. "The action in Llomerryn. It was staged?"

"The Qunari were quite real, and unaware. I didn't dream of trying to persuade any of them. But the journal couldn't simply be handed to you for it to be believed. Acquired from someone who knew your mother, though, I believed that would work. And Conrado did know Rosamara Abeita. The Qunari, as it turns out, are easy enough to offend, and they prefer to bring their prisoners back to Par Vollen in most cases. With some well-timed sabotage on the part of my agents and Borja's men, we were able to keep them where we wanted them, and secure Conrado before any real harm could be done to him."

It occurred to Leon that Khari had left Conrado alive; he was actually due in next for judgement. He doubted any answers the man could give would be much in the way of the connection Romulus wanted, but they might be something more than he'd get if the man had been killed. Shifting his weight slightly, Leon clasped his hands at the small of his back, allowing the story to proceed uninhibited. On the other hand, Zahra appeared to be teething at the bit. Mouth pinned into a hard line. Eyes, bereft of sympathy, glued on the kneeling figure in front of Romulus.

Romulus nodded, clearly having come to expect this level of dedication to the lie at this point. "And the rest I think I know well enough. You translated your own journal in front of me, read the details of your own false ritual, and prepared a powerful potion to protect me from even the fiercest flame."

"Yes. We were very close, I think. You will not hear me claim that morally any of this was right, but you must believe that I did this to bring more power to the Inquisition, to help us fight the threat we now face. What is a legend on the level of Andraste born from? Entirely truth? Only a fool would believe so. I'm sure it's heresy to speak this way, but I do not believe this was the first time such a story was attempted. Nor will it be the last."

"You would have had me believe for the rest of my life that the man who brutally murdered my parents was, in fact, my father?" Romulus leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at her.

"To serve the Inquisition, yes. He was not a good man, and likely deserved his fate, but we are in conflict with far greater monsters than he."

The Lord Inquisitor rubbed at his forehead, exhaling a long breath. "What are we to do with you, then?"

"I have no delusions about continuing my plan, or developing a new one," she replied, inching forward slightly on her knees. "The ruse has been sniffed out for good. But I have a great many talents, and a desire to serve the Inquisition. Let me study our enemy, and his forces, and I will prove my worth to you. I will do it in chains, if you like, until some glimmer of trust can be built." Romulus raised his eyebrows at her idea, but did not immediately respond, instead looking to his counsel, to see what they thought.

“She successfully led a cult. That ability is as dangerous inside an organization of this kind as outside. Perhaps moreso. Do not give her anyone else to influence." Rilien spoke first, perhaps already having anticipated some kind of bid to this effect. “Certainly do not trust her. But she is a resource like any other. I could find a use for the talents she claims to have."

Leon frowned. He had a fair point about Anais's potential usefulness to the Inquisition. That said... “We must also consider, however, what message doing that would send. Anais was never quiet in her declarations of your holiness, which is now a lie that is, rightfully or not, likely to be attributed to us as an organization. Nor was she hesitant in her condemnation of our other Inquisitor. It will eventually get out that she swindled us. Allowing her to continue in any capacity will look the height of foolishness—may in fact be the height of foolishness. We have plenty of talented people with ample competency in these matters."

His brow furrowed deeply over his eyes. “She is also responsible, directly or indirectly, for quite a bit of harm. She killed a Qunari sailor who had done us no wrong in her ruse, orchestrated a borderline-heretical scheme that has undoubtedly damaged our reputation already, and brought to our doorstep the man responsible for extensive damage to our allied naval forces, both material and personal." He dipped his head to acknowledge Zahra, but she would likely have much more to say on that matter than he did. “To say nothing of what nearly happened to you and Khari. It would be unfair to blame her for all of Borja's actions. But she is nevertheless the reason any of it occurred in the first place."

Zahra finally broke her silence, incited by Leon’s assessment. It appeared as if hers would not be so repressed. Nor kind. As if she’d made her decision ages ago, or at least before she’d even stepped foot in the large chamber, with its high ceilings and looming windows. Her face was cast in shadows since she’d been standing off to the side, though they melted away when she stepped forward. There was a twitch to her fingers, as if she couldn’t stand to hear anymore warbling. “An execution.”

Clad in leathers and a loose, thick cotton shirt and a variety of bandages, she paused for a moment as she regarded Anais’ crumpled form. Whatever vexation or indecision Romulus felt at appropriating judgment was entirely lacking in her. Conviction read clearly in her movements. Hand planted on her hip. Her mouth was tipped up in disgust. If she was at all swayed by Anais's declaration of betraying them all for the greater good of the Inquisition, she was hiding it well. Or she didn't care. From the looks of it, it didn’t matter what Anais said or what she could offer. It was an obvious decision. To her, at least.

Her tone had taken an iciness that belied no room for leniency, “Imprisonment is too kind for the lives she’s affected. For those who’ve been lost. For those she’s maimed. Borja paid his price. Hers should be just as steep.” Spoken as if she wasn't there at all. There was a short pause before a muscle bunched at her temple, and her voice grew terse, almost desperate, “She hurt my family.”

Anais grimly listened to the advice given regarding her fate. When she looked back up to Romulus, her expression was showing signs of pleading. "I would urge you to remember that I did not choose to attack your ship. You said the words yourself, there was never any danger to you. You cannot treat the captain's actions as my own."

The Lord Inquisitor was not moved. "There was never any danger? You put a murderer at my side, within these walls, endangering all of us. Your scheme threatened everything we've built." He paused, his eyes cold and devoid of any remorse. "No. You'll die for this." He glanced sideways at Rilien and Leon, perhaps to ensure that the judgement was indeed acceptable. "At first light tomorrow. I'll swing the sword myself."

Rilien remained impassive, giving no sign of his thoughts save a tiny nod.

“Very well," Leon said neutrally. He didn't think it was an entirely-unwarranted decision at all. People had been executed for less, and as a matter of practicality, housing and feeding a prisoner was an expensive matter. That said... he was in general not fond of death sentences, and he did wonder if Romulus had insisted upon one in this case for personal reasons, rather than an impartial assessment of the situation. There was a reason the philosophers believed justice should be blind.

But in this case, it served no purpose to argue the point. Far be it from him to undermine the new Inquisitor's authority as soon as he'd exercised it. Equally far to insist on saving the life of someone who had so wronged them all.

It sat more wrongly with Estella than it did with him; that much he could detect. From the corner of his eye, he watched her frown, only for the expression to disappear without a trace a moment later. She did not speak against it, however. That was unsurprising.

"You're making a mistake, Romulus," Anais said urgently, as Reed and another guard hauled her back up to her feet. She offered minimal resistance, only enough to turn her head and shout. "You can't afford to throw away allies! I can help you!" It was the last she was able to get out before she was ushered from the hall.

After a suitable amount of silence had passed, Lady Marceline cleared her throat to bring their attentions back to the matter at hand, and began to read the next item on the agenda. "Lord Inquisitor, I present one Conrado Ruis," she began, as the sound of another set of chains began to fill the air. "The formal charges levied against the accused include: assault on Inquisition forces, collusion, conspiracy, and theft against the Qunari."

Conrado was battered, the result of losing an altercation with Khari, though some of his injuries looked a little fresher than the battle would have suggested. Possibly the other prisoners taken from Borja's ship did not look fondly on him. He remained standing before the Lord Inquisitor, his hands and feet chained, all in all not nearly as steadfast as Anais had been upon her arrival.

"I want to know about my mother, Conrado," Romulus said bluntly. A dark look had fallen across his face since Anais had been escorted from the hall, and it remained in place now. "My father, too, if you can. Tell me something true about them."

Conrado did not appear to have expected such a beginning, but he adapted to it quickly enough. His posture was tense, perhaps afraid of the men standing behind him, or intimidated by the sight of Romulus and the others leaders of the Inquisition above him. "Of-of course. We... well, we didn't carry on together, like I implied. We were friends, I think, but she never really had an interest in me that way. Your father, his name was... Remero. Remero Abeita. I didn't know him very well."

"Borja said they were thieves. Is that true?"

"A-Aye," Conrado nodded. "That was how we crossed paths. We did business together. They were quite good at what they did, and I moved a large amount of goods for them. It's the kind of work that creates enemies, however. They were trying to escape from it once they had you, I think, but that life isn't easy to get away from."

"I understand." Romulus fell silent for a moment, resting his chin against the closed fist of his marked hand. "Tell me what she was like. As a person."

"She was..." His mind worked visibly in front of them, possibly trying to come up with an answer that would please him. "Spirited? Perhaps that's not the right word. They both were. Anything but cautious. Loud, aggressive people. I think they enjoyed their lives quite fully, while they had time."

"Time which you helped cut short." The Lord Inquisitor exhaled slowly, his face largely unreadable. "You'll die with Anais tomorrow, for aiding in her plot."

"What?" Disbelieving, Conrado began to lunge forward as though to rush closer, but he was immediately restrained by the guards, and fell to his knees. "No, you can't, you must understand, I lived in fear of Adan Borja! He was not the kind of man I had the power to betray, to refuse! I had no choice. Not now, and certainly not then." He found no sign of change on the Inquisitor's face, so he immediately sought it out in the others. "Please, spare me! I will not dream of troubling the Inquisition again, I swear it! My part in the plot was not my choice. I was a prisoner of Borja's!"

“Romulus." The interjection was quiet, but there was a sort of firmness to it, one Estella was still learning to wield. “Is this truly necessary? If what he says is true, he was acting under coercion. If his actions were not fully his own, does he truly deserve to suffer the full brunt of their consequences? Borja would have been an easy man to fear, surely." There was a slight change in the cast of her eyes, just enough that Leon caught it.

He suspected she was trying to make Romulus empathize. See a similarity of a certain sort. His eyes moved back to the other Inquisitor, but Estella continued.

“Much is unclear, but is that not reason for caution? Who does it benefit, to kill him?"

"And if he's lying?" Romulus asked. His emotionless mask was beginning to crack. It was impossible to fail to see that extremely personal feelings were motivating his decision. "As he's lied so many times before? Who could it hurt, to let him live?" He glanced down at the cowering smuggler, his disdain for the man plainly apparent. "I can't just let him go. I won't let him avoid this."

“It need not be death or freedom." Rilien's monotone was a stark contrast to the emotion seething just under the surface of the scene. “Punish him for what we know he has certainly done: collusion, assault, theft. Hard labor and prison time are both common for such offenses. The labor, at least, we could use. Alternatively, he is most certainly wanted in Antiva or Rivain. The Inquisition could keep him until such time as a court system with more evidence of his crimes could arrange a transfer."

"We can have the message en route to both nations before the evening is over, Lord Inquisitor," Marceline added.

Romulus was clearly deep in thought on the issue, and most likely not feeling satisfied by any possible outcome. Conrado looked like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut, probably doubting it would help his situation at all. At last, an idea seemed to occur to the Lord Inquisitor.

"Do you deny stealing from the Qunari?"

At once Conrado shook his head. "No, Lord Inquisitor, I admit to it."

Romulus nodded. "Then you'll be delivered back to them, for the theft of their artifact. No one will come for you this time. What they do with you is their concern." Quite clearly he was hoping it would not be pleasant. He looked to his advisors. "If that can be arranged?"

"We do not have very much contact with the Qunari, so it will take some time, but it can be arranged, yes," Marceline stated.

"Good." Romulus seemed to deflate while Conrado was escorted away, the smuggler rather blank faced and struggling with the reality of what was happening to him. The ordeal seemed to have taken quite a bit out of Romulus, who rubbed at a spot on his chest that was clearly paining him. "Are we finished?" he asked Leon.

“We are, for today at least." It was quite the task to undertake on one's first day at the job, to be sure, but both of them had done it now. Their footing was even—that was significant. Allowing his expression to take on a bit of the sympathy he'd been concealing up until that point, Leon nodded towards the door that led out of the main hall and towards the undercroft. “Please, do get some rest. We can handle the rest, for the moment."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
It was snowing again. Skyhold had become a beautiful, still, serene place, ill fit for an execution.

That there was need for one, Romulus was certain. At least, as certain as he could be about anything these days. Estella didn't seem to think so, from what he could tell, but most of the others seemed to be in agreement: Anais was too dangerous to be allowed to operate in any capacity, within or beyond the walls of Skyhold. He supposed there were other people that could carry out the sentence better than he, but Romulus felt that he had no right to condemn her if he was not willing to make an end of it himself.

The sword that Reed handed him was heavier and longer than he was used to, no doubt compounded by the fact that his arm was very much still healing, as was the rest of his body. He'd downed a strong potion just before emerging to dull the pain, and let him move well enough to swing the blade. It dulled his senses enough that he didn't really notice the small crowd of people gathering to witness as he ascended the newly constructed platform. The Inquisition hadn't made a habit of executing people, and so such a location hadn't been required until now. Romulus didn't doubt it would be taken down soon enough, so they didn't develop a reputation for it.

A pair of Inquisition soldiers watched over the Speaker, who knelt with her hands bound behind her, feet tied as well, a solid stone block placed in front of her. She contemplated it calmly, having had a full night to prepare for her death, save for the brief time it took for her to give up the names of a few of her cultists, those that were complicit in her plan. Romulus knew not what would be done with them. Labor probably, to lighten the load on the army.

Romulus paused for a moment atop the platform, briefly surveying those that had chosen to witness the execution. Leon stood among the crowd, most likely in attendance as a matter of formality. He took no official place on the platform, perhaps feeling that the few necessary functions for such an event had already been taken care of by others. Khari stood next to Leon, much less noticeable in the tall man's shadow. Beside Reed, Rilien remained unmoving on the platform, to all appearances still as stone.

On the other side of them, Marceline stood with a scroll in hand. She took one last glance at Romulus before she pulled open the parchment and began to read the sentence. "Speaker Anais, for the crimes of fraud, heresy, collusion, and attempted sedition, which put not only the Inquisition, but her Inquisitors and their people in peril as well, you have been sentenced to death. May the Maker have mercy on your soul." With the grim sentence read aloud, Marceline took a step back and turned to witness the execution.

Romulus approached Anais, the two soldiers placing their hands upon her shoulders. He studied her and she him for a moment, and Romulus could not deny he was disappointed not to see any fear. Some darker part of his past was calling to him, making him keenly aware of all the ways he could drag this out and make her suffer. But this would have to do, this clean death. "Do you have any last words?"

"None capable of staying your blade," she said honestly, though her eyes wandered away from Romulus and over the crowd. "I placed a murderer within your walls. You've now placed a murderer on your throne." She leaned forward without any assistance from the guards, exposing the back of her neck to Romulus. He found himself wishing he hadn't asked her to speak. It was what she'd done throughout her entire life.

He raised the sword in both hands and brought it down with focus. The Speaker's head fell away from her body.

Romulus walked away seething, handing the bloody sword back to Reed and not wanting to look at the mess any longer. Silence fell over the courtyard save for a few quiet murmurs, and the crowd began to disperse. He stopped, a few steps from the stairs to the Keep, realizing that his marked hand was shaking. He grabbed it with his other, ignoring the dull pain in that arm, and forced it to stop.

“You don't look like you feel any better." The words came from just behind him; the voice was easily-recognizable as Khari's. She stopped next to him, her eyes falling to his hand for a moment before they lifted back up towards his face. Her expression was unusually grim, her words factual and without the inflection good humor so often gave them. Then again, most everything had been like that lately.

She heaved a sigh. “Want to take a walk? No one will bother us if we go up the battlements."

He exhaled shakily, and nodded. He didn't feel any better, that was certain. If anything he felt worse. He told himself that the point of ending Anais was not, in fact, to make himself feel better, but rather to end the threat she posed to the Inquisition, and to bring about some kind of justice for what she'd done. He wanted so much to feel better after removing her head. He wondered if he would had he cut off Conrado's as well. Probably not, but he would never get the chance to find out now. He'd had the chance to bring everyone that had brought about his parents' death to justice, and he'd let it go. If it was for the best, it sure didn't feel like it.

They headed down the slope from the courtyard before the Keep to the stairs leading up to the outer walls, silent all the way. He wasn't used to any kind of silence lingering for long when he was with Khari, but then again he wasn't used to any of this. The view from atop the walls was breathtaking as ever, with the army camp below constantly smoking and glowing from the lit flames, and the cold peaks of the snow-covered mountains stretching endlessly in the distance.

"I'm not used to things being personal," he admitted, finally, grimacing from the cold, his injuries, and the uncomfortable acknowledgement. "I didn't handle this well. Any of it. I'm..." His hand curled into a tight fist. "I feel so bloodthirsty. I wanted to hurt her. Make her suffer. I wanted to kill Conrado too, and would have if the others hadn't talked me out of it."

“I've never felt like that." There wasn't any judgement in Khari's tone; if anything, her expression suggested that she was trying her best to understand. This kind of thing didn't often seem to come easily to her—perhaps it was because they were so different from each other, in terms of where they'd come from and how they'd ended up here, with the Inquisition. “But then... I've always known who my parents are, and they're still alive. I think." She shrugged. “And I've definitely never had anyone try to tell me I was the world-changing kind of important and fuck with my head like that."

For a second, her mouth dropped into a scowl, but it eased a few seconds later. “So maybe I've got no room to talk, but I think nobody would have handled it fantastically. You handled it well enough that we're still here. I'm not dead, the Riptide's not sunk, Anais isn't still deluding everyone here and Borja's never gonna murder anyone else's parents. That's all on you as much as the rest of it is." She crossed her arms, shrugging her mottled brown cloak a little further forward against the chill.

"None of it would have happened at all if I wasn't such a fool." He heard what she was saying. Every step of the way he had tried to do what he thought was right, for him, for the Inquisition, for the future, but every step of the way he fell right into their trap, right up until it was almost shut for good, too late to escape. And Borja... just thinking about the time they spent together made him feel ill. Thinking about the way he felt when the man first revealed himself and his supposed relation in the Hinterlands. "I thought he was my father. I was really willing to believe it. It wasn't so hard, in the end. I turned out to be just as much a killer as he was."

It had been so selfish. All of it. He'd allowed himself to have a tiny bit of pride in himself just for a moment, and Anais and Borja together caused it to swell until they could tell him anything, show him anything, and he would believe it. Even if what they told him was ludicrously improbable, to the point of impossibility. "If you had died..." He let the thought trail off, fighting the tightness in his throat. "I don't think I could do this. As is, I don't know if I should. I've never been anything more than someone's tool. Even when I've thought I was in control."

He leaned forward against the wall for support, suddenly feeling the pain in his body more keenly as the potion wore off. "I don't know what I am. Who I am."

“You know I actually went to him and encouraged him to talk to you?" Khari snorted softly, shaking her head vigorously enough that her hood fell to her shoulders. She didn't make any effort to put it back, though. “I thought... I thought he was just being awkward because he didn't know how to approach you. I actually tried to make it easier for him." Taking a couple more steps, she uncrossed her arms and used them to brace herself on the wall next to him, fixing her eyes out on the landscape. “Shoulda been harder for him to fool me. He wasn't giving me any answers I'd been looking for, and I still fell for it."

Her brows furrowed, forming a little line above her nose. “It's awful. You'll never get me to believe otherwise. But... here's what I think: if what's in the past is shitty, focusing on it won't ever make anything better. Maybe you haven't ever been anything else, but that doesn't mean you never will be. The future's wide open, if you're willing to kick the door down. You can decide who you are." She shrugged. “And you know... from where I'm standing, the present's not so bad either. It was a painful hurdle, but you cleared it. And you're here, Lord Inquisitor and everything, and we're gonna save the whole damn world. You're gonna save it. I'd like to see anyone try and call you their puppet then."

Kick the door down. That was her way, wasn't it? Chryseis would've told him to use the window, and then open the door for her from the inside. And Romulus... he didn't know what he'd do, because even still he didn't feel he was making his own decisions. Being a Herald was never his choice, fighting Corypheus wasn't his choice, and his appearance had even made staying with the Inquisition not his choice, not really. He suppose he chose to be Inquisitor, but what was the first thing he did with his power, his freedom to choose? He chose to lop off a woman's head for vengeance, and to try to do the same to a cowardly man who didn't have much more choice than he did.

"I'm going to keep making these mistakes," he said. A moment passed, until he actually laughed darkly. "This must be how Estella felt when they pushed the title on her." But unlike her, he was worried he wouldn't make the mistakes with the best of intentions. She was taught differently than him, she thought differently than him. Romulus was taught to kill, to destroy the enemies of his mistress, and he eagerly did so because he knew it would please her. He was taught to please. Khari didn't know half of the horrible things he'd done, and he didn't know if he would ever have the heart to tell her. Maybe he never would, and maybe that was for the best.

If she was right, it didn't matter. All those years of conditioning didn't matter, if he could just focus on being something else going forward. "You're a good friend, you know that?" He smiled to himself. "Who am I kidding, of course you know. What I mean to say is..." He struggled to find the right words. "You know what I mean. You're... brilliant. One of a kind. Better than I deserve."

Khari laughed at that—not uproariously, just a quiet ha, more expelled air than sound. Gently, probably mindful of his injuries, she knocked her elbow into his arm. “Well, that's the thing, right? It's not like you've suddenly got to figure everything out by yourself. I'm here for you, if you need me. The others, too. You've got friends. And we'll definitely tell you if we think you're doing something dumb."

She flashed a grin, one of her more ragged ones. “And hey, you're a pretty great friend too. Really. You know you're the first person who ever didn't laugh at me when I told you what I was trying to do with my life? Even my teacher thought I was crazy to start with." She paused. “Well, I am, I guess. But you believed me. That means a lot. So don't be too down on yourself. And—ask me to remind you, sometimes, about the good things. I'd be happy to." It was an inverse of the request another version of Khari had once made of him, in a future that would never be.

He wasn't very good at asking. Never had been, likely as part of his conditioning. Figuring things out on his own was also not one of his skills, when he had always been told what to think and feel, and more importantly what to do. He scratched at his beard, still smiling despite the weight still on his shoulders. He really ought to get rid of the beard, once it was a bit warmer. He was done with every thought of being some religious figure, Herald of Andraste or no, and somehow it seemed to be included in that.

"I think you're the perfect kind of crazy, to help someone like me." He really did believe that. He also believed she was quite beautiful, when she grinned like that, when she laughed at the things he said.

Maybe someday he'd find a way to tell her that, too.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus was healing quite quickly.

It was in large part due to Asala that he was recovering from the physical damage so well. His right arm had received the worst of it, and was the last thing remaining to truly trouble him, but it no longer required a sling, only avoidance of overly straining it. As for the mental damage, he had Khari and the rest of his support to thank for his progress there. It would be some time, he expected, before he could really move on from it, but the worst of it, he hoped, was in the past. He was an Inquisitor now. Not a slave and not the heir to Andraste. Somewhere in between.

The stairs up from his quarters no longer troubled his leg, which was good. He regretted not being able to travel with some of the others to the coast to help repair Zahra's ship, but that was a bit much of a trip, and he had no desire to the look upon the sea again so soon. He would have to find another way to thank her later, for the risks she was willing to take on his behalf. It hadn't been entirely for him, of course, but he was the reason any of them had been in danger.

The main hall was largely empty save for a few soldiers and staff taking a late lunch at the long tables. Romulus had not sat in the throne since judging Anais and Conrado, nor did he have any particular wish to. In hindsight the power he'd been suddenly given frightened him. More specifically, the way he'd allowed his judgement to be clouded by his personal desire for revenge. It was something his advisors would continue to temper, he was sure. A runner had come delivering a message requesting him in Lady Marceline's office, for what he did not know.

When he entered, he found the Ambassador along with Leon and Rilien waiting for him. He frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Rilien blinked, tilting his head and speaking first. As usual, he was extremely direct. “That has yet to be determined. We have received a missive bearing the seal of House Viridius. As one of its two members in in our dungeon, it stands to reason that Magister Chryseis wrote the message." His eyes fell pointedly to a letter on Marceline's desk, as yet unopened, which did in fact bear the characteristic seal in green wax.

"We believed it best that since it was addressed to you, that you be the one to open it," Lady Marceline said, "However, considering your new status, we felt it best that we were present as well in case the contents pertained to the matters of the Inquisition as a whole."

Romulus wasn't sure what he'd expected, but communication from Chryseis had not been it. The mere mention of her name sent little pangs of anxiety through him. It was not something he expected he would ever be able to avoid, such was their relationship. Despite having been separated from her for so long, and having been through so much since he had truly been her slave, the thought of her still commanded some sort of power over him. An insistent little voice in his mind that demanded he be meek and subservient. He could declare himself no longer her slave, but actually living that reality was not so easy.

"Thank you," he said, remembering himself and crossing the room to take up the letter. He carefully cracked the seal and withdrew the message inside, moving closer to the fireplace for more light. The handwriting was unmistakably hers. It was neat and delicate, but hearing her voice in his head seemed to change the way it looked. He did not read the message aloud.

To the Lord Inquisitor,

I cannot grant you your freedom. It would seem that such a thing is no longer mine to give. I am no fool. I know that your experiences in the south have changed you, and that you have found a greater purpose there. We accomplished some remarkable things together, but it is plain to me that your work with the Inquisition has taken you to a far greater elevation than I could have imagined or planned for. Nor will you return.

I have no intention of threatening you or harming you back into my service. Your newfound friends and allies have nothing to fear from me. The work of the Inquisition is too important, and you are vital to it. You must defeat the threat that the Venatori pose.

I ask only that you remember me. Know that you have a friend and ally in Minrathous should you ever need one. And know that I stand with you against the Tevinter that the Venatori would create.

-Chryseis Viridius.

Romulus read parts of it twice, to be sure he hadn't missed something. When he was sure he understood her correctly, he looked up from the letter to his advisors, a frown firmly in place. "She released me," he said evenly, setting the letter back down on the desk. "She renounced her ownership of me officially."

Leon arched his brows, folding his hands behind his back. “I confess to not really knowing the proper sentiment for that. Congratulations, perhaps?" A half-smile pulled at his mouth, but faded quickly, perhaps at the expression on Romulus's face. “...unless there is reason to react in some other way?"

There wasn't, not if the letter was taken at face value. It was an admission of defeat of sorts, acknowledging that she did not have the power to truly wrestle him away from the Inquisition anymore, not since he had become so tied to it. But Romulus could not think of her as a friend and ally, not ever, not after what she'd made him into, and she knew that full well. She had to. She didn't need to ask him to remember her. How could he ever forget? It left only one explanation in his mind.

"She thinks she can use me more easily as an ally than as her subject. She's..." He grimaced, not sure how exactly to put it. "Her goals are not evil, I don't think, but she's... twisted. A dark woman. Ruthless, and willing to do anything to get what she wants. She doesn't have friends. Now that her father's lost to her, now that I am as well, she must be feeling pressured." Her family and her blade were her first two lines of defense against those that disagreed with her, those that threatened her. Without them, she was vulnerable, and it wouldn't take the Magisterium all that long to figure that out.

"I think she will request something of us, before long," Romulus concluded. "Of me, most likely. I don't know, perhaps I'm overthinking all of this."

“Perhaps." Rilien sounded exactly as unconcerned as ever. “If she does, we can evaluate whether it is in our interest to meet the request. We are under no obligation. Nor are you." He glanced at the letter on the table for only a moment before lifting his eyes again. “In that sense it is no different from any other halfhearted offer of alliance. We receive requests from people attempting to use us to one end or another almost daily."

Marceline chuckled beside him, "He is certainly not wrong." Romulus couldn't have missed the glance she gave toward a rather intimidating stack of papers on her desk, before she shook her head and looked at him instead. "Regardless, it would serve us well to have information on her affairs. We have agents in Minrathous, yes?" She asked, tilting her head toward Rilien. He nodded tersely.

"They can listen for rumors that may involve any of her machinations."

Romulus had to remind himself just how powerful his allies were. He still wasn't certain they were affording Chryseis the respect he was, but he also wasn't certain she deserved it. Perhaps it was just his warped view from having too much experience of her. What worried him the most was the pull he felt that he should help her, if asked. He was almost more afraid of her being an ally than an enemy. But for the moment she was neither, and he could breathe easily.

"Thank you," he said. "For bringing this to me, and for the help. This is going to take some getting used to."

“That's only to be expected," Leon replied, smiling more fully this time. “This transition wouldn't be easy for anyone, let alone someone for whom the change is so radical. It's part of our jobs to make it a little easier. And I think I speak for all of us when I say we're personally glad to help, as well."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
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Great heroes beyond counting raised
Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men
And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore.
Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,
Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow,
Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill.
-Canticle of Andraste 1:2
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There was distinct spring in Khari's step as she entered the castle. Truthfully, she didn't spend much time in Skyhold's main building, other than to go to the undercroft. Stel and she trained together in the mornings, and that was outside; for the most part, the rest of the people she looked in on regularly were posted somewhere else. So maybe she still wasn't quite used to the grandiosity of the fully-decorated main hall, with the banners draped on the walls and the fancy carpet runner on the floor. Whatever she might be one day, she couldn't say she'd been born to things like castles and noble causes. She was just someone who'd decided she was going to end up with more than she started with.

Figuring her best bet was to start with Marcy's office, Khari hung a right midway down the hall, letting the door fall shut quietly behind her. The room was open enough that it wasn't really the kind of place where you knocked; probably Marcy had done that on purpose, or something. She seemed like the type to always be thinking about the little things. It was impressive, in a certain way.

As it turned out, luck was on her side, and Leon was already there, too. Two of the three was probably enough to make a decision, right? Well, she'd float the idea and see what came of it. Clearing her throat to alert the two of them to her presence, she stepped out of the doorway and into the open hallway that ran alongside the recessed office space. “Uh... you two have a few minutes? I had an idea I wanted to ask you about." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. They didn't exactly intimidate her, but... in this setting, they were definitely part of that world she'd only dipped her toes in yet. It wasn't quite like asking normal people for stuff.

Leon tilted his head a bit, gesturing for Khari to join them in the office proper. “Why don't you have a seat, Khari? If you've a suggestion of some kind, we're happy to hear it." He had stood when she entered, but was previously occupying one of the chairs in front of Marcy's desk, which the woman herself was at. Larissa was at the other end of the room, reading in front of the hearth. “Why don't you go ahead and lay it out for us first?"

Khari nodded, feeling a little of the discomfort leave her. She took the chair next to Leon's, crossing one leg over the other. She didn't sit back, though; she was a bit too on-edge for that. “Sure. Thanks. Er..." Her thoughts had been a lot more organized before this; she tried to pull them back into the right order.

“So basically... I was thinking about our personnel problem. I don't exactly have a bunch of friends hanging around anywhere, like the Lions or anyone. And I'm not going to be able to convince any Dalish to help us, if you were wondering." She grimaced at the mention, unable to quite stop herself from thinking of things she found unpleasant. “But, uh... there is one person I could ask. My teacher, Ser Durand. I might have mentioned him. He's a chevalier-errant. I know he's not the kind of person to get caught up in the civil war when there's more important things to do, so... he might be willing to help, if we can find him."

Marceline sat at her desk with her chin resting on her steepled fingers. She'd watched Khari as she spoke and when she finished, closed her eyes as if to think. Without opening them, she called to her assistant. "Larissa?"

The other woman leaned back on the couch she laid on, her neck arching past the padded armrest. Her eyes fell to the ground as she thought as well, though she eventually ended up shaking her head. "No ma'am, I do not think we know a Ser Durand." After she answered, she continued to watch them from her inverted position, finding them far more curious than whatever she was reading at the moment.

Marceline tsked, but opened her eyes, letting her hands finally rest on the desk. She returned to watching Khari as she spoke again. "Do you know where to begin the search, if we were to look for him?" She asked.

Khari wasn't surprised Marcy had never heard of him. She'd never known him to spend time in Court or near cities, even; the few times he'd spoken of his experiences with other nobles, he hadn't been especially complimentary. Then again, he wasn't especially complimentary in general. “Sure do. He's usually around the Dales. He doesn't actually go on Dalish land unless he has to, but it's not far from the Exalted Plains, either. More specifically, I dunno. He keeps on the move a lot."

It would probably be better for only a small group to go looking. He and the guys he kept with him were extremely mobile, and knew the land as well as anyone. Even if they found his trail, they wouldn't be able to catch up to him unless they were pretty quick themselves.

"I would like to know more of this Ser Durand," Marceline continued, "What type of person he is, and if he is a chevalier-errant, the type of men he leads." She leaned back in her chair and appeared genuinely curious as to his story. "What can you tell me about him?"

“Uh." Khari hadn't really expected the question, but she figured she could probably answer it, at least. Reaching up, she tugged on one of her ears, furrowing her brow and looking for the words she wanted. “Well... he's an older guy, I guess; might be near fifty these days, though I don't know for sure. Never bothered to ask." Even she had a sense for when a question was rude, and she'd been so damn eager to stay in his good graces that she hadn't risked much like that, at first. By the time they were really comfortable with each other, it had seemed too late, for something like that.

She pulled a breath in through her nose, leaning back a little in the chair. “His whole name is Jean-Robert Durand, and his family's from somewhere in Collines Verts." She pronounced the Orlesian words with an elvish lilt, still; it annoyed her, but the accents were more similar than elvish and the trade tongue, so she always backslid. “He graduated the Academie... I guess it must have been almost twenty-five years ago now? He went pretty much straight into being an errant after that; it was what he'd always wanted to do."

She'd listened to everything he told her with rapt attention; in retrospect it was almost a little embarrassing. But she definitely didn't regret it, and it meant the details were pretty easy to her recollection now, though he spoke only seldom of himself. “He's the youngest of like... four kids, so it's not like he has an inheritance to worry about, and he says he likes being on the road more than cooped up in a castle anyway. Uh... what else? Oh. The guys are pretty great; most of them are commoners, you know? People who wouldn't be eligible to be chevaliers themselves. It's him, and the eight of them, and I made ten, when I was there." She smiled fondly at the memory. Being the youngest and newest to the group had meant she was subjected to some pretty gentle hazing, of sorts. Go here, polish this, check the horses for stones, all that sort of thing. All of it turned out to be useful; she figured they'd known it would from the start.

“And you believe he is the sort of person who would aid the Inquisition, given the opportunity?" Leon rubbed absently at some of the stubble coming in on his chin, raising an eyebrow in Khari's direction. His tone didn't sound skeptical, exactly, only curious.

Khari nodded firmly. “I do. I mean, he's... really dedicated to looking after the part of the world he's in. Seemed like all we ever did was deal with bandits and train to deal with more bandits." She snorted; that was a joke, but there was a kernel of truth to it. She'd never met anyone who worked quite as hard as Ser Durand... well, until she met Stel, anyway.

“But I think once I explain to him what's really going on here, he'll help us. His group isn't big, but... he took me from stick-limbed fifteen-year-old barely knowing which end of a sword to hold to, well, me in the span of a few years. Think what someone like that could do if you gave him actual soldiers." She shrugged. Khari knew she wasn't the strongest fighter in the Inquisition or anything, but she also knew that she was pretty damn good. Better than the majority, for sure.

Marceline had resumed leaning forward in her chair again, this time her chin resting on one of her hands as she listened to Khari's explanation. Once she was done, she leveled a quiet stare into Khari's forehead, holding her in her gaze for a few moments before she finally spoke again. "He may prove useful, but..." there was a hard pause and she took the moment to glance at Leon before she continued. "I wish to know, is the reason you bring this name up now truly for the benefit of the Inquisition, or are your reasons of a more personal nature than that?" She asked with an arch to her brow. It was unclear if her tone was that of genuine curiosity, or if it hid a note of skepticism.

Khari frowned; suddenly the ease of the situation vanished, and she was left wishing it hadn't. “What, like... you think I'm just asking you to do this because I want to see him or something?" The frown deepened; her brows knit together. “Look, Lady Marceline, I dunno what kind of person you think I am, but I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to try wasting Inquisition resources on something that doesn't matter. I know how important this is—I'm not sure you got the memo, but my best friend just had to blow up the head of a guy pretending to be his dad." Her fists clenched on her knees.

“Will it be nice to see my teacher again? You're damn right it will. But I wouldn't have brought this up if I thought he had nothing to offer us. If you disagree, fine, but don't insult me."

Marceline frowned, but she did not budge from her position. She stared at Khari a little longer before calling for her assistant. "Larissa, if you would be so kind as to remind me to pen a letter to the Marquis of Collines Verts, I wish to see what information Lord Ambroise has on the Durand family," she said, though her eyes never left Khari.

"As for you, realize that I meant no insult, but regardless, I would have you understand," she said, clearly speaking to Khari this time, "That we did not set off with the intention of battling with the crew of the Northern Sword either. I apologize if you feel my caution is warrant for insult, but I only wish to avoid any future incidents if I am able.

With that, Marceline finally leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. Her lips were still set in an even line, and it was difficult to get a feel of her from her expressions. "It matters little," she said, with a slight sigh, "I feel that either Romulus or Estella, if not both, will accompany you while you undertake this task. That is... the type of person they are, as well as their relationship to you, so my opinions on the matter are moot. They are the Inquisitors, while we are their advisors."

She glanced at Leon before nodding, "Still, a chevalier-errant will be useful to the Inquisition as you said," she stated. "However, I feel the need to reiterate my apology, but understand that it is our duty to think of the Inquisition as a whole. No one person is bigger than what we stand for." she said, her eyes alighting on Khari once more.

Khari sighed. “Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to get mad at you, exactly. I get why you have to think about things this way. I've known Ser Durand since I was a girl, though. I know he's what he says he is." She was sure whoever Marcy was writing to would confirm it, anyway. “And uh... yeah. I would like to take them both, but if you think bringing both the Inquisitors is a bad idea, I could figure something else out. I was also thinking of asking Zee and maybe Asala to come along?" She glanced between them.

“They don't really have anything else in particular to do at the moment," Leon pointed out. “While it might not be ideal for both of them to accompany you, I think you should ask them, and decide based on what they think. We can adjust accordingly; it isn't as though we never planned for them both to be out in the field at the same time." He shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Though I do very much agree in taking Asala. Just in case," she added, a pleased look finally creeping into her once impassive face.

“Sure. I can do that. I'll ask them and get back to you guys soon then." Khari couldn't deny a bit of relief at the prospect. Doing things was invariably easier than talking about doing them, for her. She stood, nodding to the both of them. “And thanks. For letting me chase down the idea. You won't regret it."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus honestly hadn't planned on making any more judgements on the throne so soon. And yet here he sat.

To be fair, he didn't feel his opinion would matter all that much, just his words. For some reason he wanted to be the one to say them, and Estella had easily given up the responsibility. He had no intention of blindly sentencing Ser Durand to die, but whatever he'd done had deeply affected Khari, and thus he felt it keenly too. She was his closest, most important friend, and his deception had shaken the foundation of what she was, or what she'd thought she was. What she wanted to be. He wasn't sure what learning the truth of the matter would do. It might bring answers, but would those answers even help?

A good number of Skyhold's more important individuals were present for the judgement. Lady Marceline of course was present, and none too pleased as far as Romulus could tell. It was hard to blame her, after yet another supposed ally proved false. Estella was also beside him, for which Romulus was grateful. She would keep a level head in all of this, he knew. Leon stood beside the Ambassador, as did Rilien. He hoped their confidence in him was not shaken by his uninspiring performance on the throne the last time around. And of course Khari would hear Durand as well. Romulus would not dream of sentencing the man to anything without hearing her thoughts on everything, and there was nothing preventing her from speaking them.

He looked to Leon, nodding to signal that he was ready to begin.

At the Commander's signal, Reed and another guard led in Ser Durand. He wore his shackles quietly and without protest; at a full head taller than either of his minders, that was probably a good thing. He didn't seem to have borne imprisonment poorly—he was clean still, and about as groomed as he'd been on the road. But the lines around his eyes appeared deeper, and he hunched his shoulders forward, walking at a bit more of a shuffle than he had prior. When they drew him to a stop, he glanced once at Romulus on the throne before fixing his eyes on the carpet runner in front of him.

Next to Estella, Khari's hands clenched, but she didn't say anything. Not yet.

Marceline inhaled sharply, perhaps the only indication of the mood she was in, considering her face was still as impassive as ever. "Lord Inquisitor," she began in her business-like manner. "I present to you the accused, Ser Jean-Robert Durand, chevalier-errant of the House of Durand of Collines Verts." Apparently, Lady Marceline had recently received correspondence from the Marquis of Collines Verts reaffirming his title. "Though, this title is subject to change depending on today's ruling." she added.

She looked down at the clipboard in hand and began to read. "The formal charges levied against Ser Durand are as follows: aiding and abetting the criminal formerly known as Halfhand and her illicit organization, the Reapers; we also have evidence to support the kidnapping of a number of chevaliers and accessory to the murder of Ser Liliane Routhier." Behind both Estella and Khari, MichÀel loomed with his arms crossed and his face twisted into a scowl. At the mention of Liliane's name, he audibly grunted and his scowl grew worse. It seemed that they knew each other, once upon a time.

"Now would be the time to explain your actions," Romulus said, staring down at him. He felt he could cut the tension in the room with his knife, but acknowledged that whatever the man in front of him said could actually make it worse instead of better.

"It would be." Durand acknowledged that easily enough, sighing ponderously. "If there was anything to explain." His eyes remained where they were; he seemed quite resigned to the worst.

Khari, on the other hand, obviously was not. “What do you mean, if? B—" She stuttered over what was obviously the beginning of the familiar nickname, then corrected herself. “Ser Durand, how could you? How could you? How long were you working with those bandits? Why?" She seemed to have more questions than wherewithal to get them out; she'd made it halfway between where she'd been and where he was before she came to an awkward halt, obviously unsure what to do.

He turned his head slightly away from her. "Stop it, Little Bear." He didn't appear entirely free of conflicting emotions himself, from the slight tremor in his voice. He was otherwise quite stoic in his delivery. "You don't want to know the answers to those questions. It's enough that I've done what I'm accused of. I'm the villain here—let me be that."

“Ser Durand." The new voice was Estella's, clear and soft. “Please think about how this will look for your men. You seemed quite concerned for them before; you asked us to keep in mind that they only followed you. If we're to understand how much leeway that grants them, we must know what they followed you to, and why. Surely, it's in their interest for you to explain. Even if you are a villain, as you say, we have to understand why they are not." Strangely, the words didn't sound like a threat, though perhaps from another tongue, they could have. Rather, Estella's tone was one of genuine concern, almost cajoling rather than demanding.

"They are in our custody as well," Marceline noted.

That appeared to deal quite the blow to Durand's reticence. With an aside-glance at Khari, he finally lifted his head, making eye contact with Estella first, then Romulus. "Have it your way, then."

He shuffled in his spot, standing a little straighter. "I have been a chevalier-errant for twenty-five years, give or take. In all that time, I have patrolled the same region—a border area between the part of the Dales the elves still occupy and the human settlements on the plains. I've learned that piece of my country, and the people in it, better than anyone else knows them. Of that much I'm certain." He rolled his shoulders back, grimacing. "It's a popular area for bandits; many merchant caravans go through the region to and from other places, the ones that actually get names on the map. I've lost count of the number of different groups of highwaymen and bandits and fucking skinhawkers I've killed or run out in that amount of time." He spat the word for slavers like it tasted disgusting on his tongue.

"I wasn't given any men to command on my way out of the Academie. Wasn't important enough, or noble enough. Found my own guys. Just farmers and merchants' sons and whatever other scattered fools were crazy enough to want to do the work." His eyes flickered to Khari for just a moment, but he moved them away again hastily. "Trained them all myself. Learned to deal with losing them as best I could. In all the time I was on that piece of land, I sent requests for help to Val Royeaux exactly six times. You know how often I got any?"

He shook his head. "Never. Not one damn time. And I lost good people because of it. Because we were always doing more work than we should be."

“So what? You gave up?" That was Khari. Indignance rolled off her in waves.

"No. But I eventually realized that if I wanted to actually get anywhere, I had to be smarter about it. When Halfhand and her damn Reapers rolled in five years ago, fresh off some business in Kirkwall and fucking angry as brontos about it, I knew we weren't going to be able to take fifty people. Sent my last request to the capital. I suppose it's probably still sitting on some indifferent little diplomat's desk, if it hasn't been shredded. Helping me gains no one any prestige or status, and I doubt something so mundane would ever end up in the hands of anyone who gave a damn about anything else. Not in fucking Val Royeaux."

He shrugged, but something seemed off about his apparent nonchalance. He was far too tense. "So I went for the slow play: I didn't confront her, didn't try to stop her when she raided or when she kicked the last fuckers out of the fort. Seeded a few of my guys in her ranks, to give me intelligence. And I didn't try to stop her when she ambushed Lieutenant Routhier. I'm not proud of that fact, but it didn't surprise me when that finally got the Lord-General's attention. Some nobody like me sends a request for help, nothing. Noble like that goes missing, suddenly people care. Suddenly there's a damn captain and a whole other twenty-some chevaliers crawling over my landscape."

Ser Durand breathed a heavy sigh. "I knew Halfhand would hold them hostage, not kill them right off. She never shut up about how much she hated the Routhiers, or the Crown Prince, or the entire damn government, for that matter. Some days, I even felt like I could sympathize, a little. I didn't mean for the lieutenant to die, but it was a risk I was willing to take."

Romulus found himself slowly wishing he wasn't on the throne more and more as Durand continued. The chevalier was a proven liar, and a decent one given he'd fooled an entire troop of other chevaliers and the party from the Inquisition, but Romulus doubted very much that any of that was a deception. He also couldn't find much fault with it, as it was delivered. The slow play, as he put it, was the only effective way for him to bring down Halfhand with the resources he had, and there was no way for him to acquire more besides the capture of a more notable name. It was a massive risk, one that hadn't fully paid off, but what were the other options? He could not attack, and he could not call for help. He could not reveal himself to the help that did come, otherwise the capture of the others would have been for nothing. It was ruthless, probably wrong, but was there a better way? Romulus didn't see it yet.

Of course, he didn't know what to say about all of this either, nor could he properly gauge yet what Khari's feelings on the matter were. What anyone's feelings were. Of all the people deciding on this, surely the trained assassin was not the best candidate for judging the methods of removing a bandit horde from the region.

"So you used them as fucking bargaining chips?" MichÀel growled. The entirety of his large frame was tensed, and the grip he held on the plate on his arms were beginning to grind underneath his finger tips. A glance from Marceline seemed to rein his temper in, but he remained glaring at the man.

"I did." Ser Durand met the glare with a flat stare of his own. "And I would do it again. No one cares about the people out there. It wasn't as though the bandits were just wandering around the countryside killing each other. They were preying on merchants, on farmers, on elves, on all kinds of people who could not protect themselves. My job was to protect all of those lives. Was I willing to sacrifice a few to do that? You're damn right I was."

“And that's all?" Khari's hands were clenched so hard they shook. “It was just numbers in and numbers out for you? What the hell happened to honor? To telling the truth and treating everyone like they're valuable? To everything you taught me how to do? How to be? How can you think like that and still call yourself a chevalier?" She closed the rest of the distance and seized him by the collar, pulling him down so that their faces were on a level. “What the hell was that all about then, huh? This isn't you! I know it's not you!" She shook him, but she was shaking more than that. “It's not..."

She swallowed audibly. “Was any of it real, Big Bear? Did you ever really think...?"

The knight in chains didn't look far from tears, but if that were so, he held them in anyway. "The world is so simple for you, Little Bear. It's right and wrong and honor and dishonor. I wish it was that way for the rest of us. I wish you hadn't come looking for me. But it isn't, and you did. And now you know."

Khari released him slowly, hands falling numbly to her sides. “Death before dishonor, you taught me." The words were a strained whisper, but still easily-audible in the silence. “A chevalier would rather die than stain her honor. But you... but..." She backed up several paces, until her heels hit the first stair up to the dais.

She whirled, facing Romulus and the others. “I'm supposed... I'm supposed to say he deserves to die." Her expression was stricken, hurt scrawled across every line of her face. “But I can't. Even after..."

Her eyes met his; she took a deep breath. “Please, Rom. Please don't kill him."

"If I may," The tone with which Marceline spoke was even and her face remained an impassive mask, despite the charged atmosphere of the hall. "I fear that his sentence should not be a matter for the Inquisition to decide," she continued, looking toward Khari as she spoke the line. She then turned toward Romulus and spoke with a slight tilt to her head. "Ser Durand is an Orlesian chevalier, operating in Orlesian lands, and his crimes were committed against Orlesian forces. By all accounts, he should be summoned before the Orlesian court, judged and sentenced there."

She then turned to MichÀel for a moment, who seemed at a loss for any more words. "The Routhiers rode under the banner of Drakon, and served under his Imperial Highness, Lord Lucien. I believe it would serve us well to allow his house to decide."

MichÀel sighed and though he still rubbed the armor plates at his elbows, spoke with a resigned tone. "He will find a no fairer man in all of Orlais than Lucien."

"Captain Routhier left Ser Durand to us," Romulus reminded them. They hadn't been there, after all. The woman had just lost her sister right in front of her eyes, and it seemed obvious that Ser Durand was at least partially responsible. But the man had been left in Inquisition hands.

Romulus felt conflicted, in perhaps the strangest way possible. He hadn't expected it to turn out like this. This was supposed to be the part where the man's sentence was lessened because he did the only thing he could, but for these chevaliers, the only thing he could do carried the penalty of death. Was it so sacred to them, that all of the circumstances regarding their actions should be thrown out? Would Ser Durand prefer if it were that way? Had he known that punishment would await him, if knowledge of his actions came to light, and done it anyway? Would the Drakons give Ser Durand the sentence he felt he deserved? There were too many questions, and he couldn't begin to answer them.

He could at least ask Ser Durand another before making any kind of decision. "Do you deserve to die, Ser Durand? Do you hold to what you taught her? Death before dishonor?"

The chevalier let out a short breath. "I don't pretend to know who deserves what, Inquisitor. But that is what I was taught, and I do still hold to this: if I am to die, I would rather die having done what I believe was necessary. My duty was to those people, and I carried it out in the only way I saw. If that condemns me, I accept it. I am not ashamed."

He wasn't making it easy. Romulus didn't want to make any decision at all anymore, but he couldn't help but feel that he had a chance to do what was right by them. Both of them. If he let him go, it was out of his hands, and then perhaps it would be his fault if some judgement fell upon him that dissatisfied his honor, or Khari's.

"Khari." Her name escaped mostly as a whisper. "I want to do the right thing here. But I've never known any kind of honor. Not like the two of you." His eyes had a fair amount of pain in them, but not like hers. He hated to see it. "I don't know what to do. If you want me to leave this to someone else, say the word."

“I don't know, Rom." She sounded miserable. “I don't know what the right thing is. I thought I did, but... but I don't. He—I... I'm too close to this. I can't see it clearly. But I trust you. Whatever you decide... I'll understand." It seemed to take a lot of effort for her to say; it wasn't her own life she was placing in his hands this time, but the life of someone she clearly cared dearly for. And it was not lost on her that there was a very real possibility that person would die because she'd chosen to do so.

At that point, Leon interrupted, clearing his throat gently. “If I may," he said, clearly aware of the fragility of the moment and respectful of it. “I feel I should point out that if Ser Durand is telling the truth—which I believe he is—the crimes of which he is guilty are actually relatively minor." He let that sink in for a moment and explained. “Aiding and abetting tends to carry prison sentences with a duration of some number of years based on the activeness of the help and the nature of the crimes abetted. And the legal notion of kidnapping doesn't include not stepping in to stop one; certainly not when doing so would risk one's own life. Granted, the motives were more impure than mere self-preservation, and I would agree that he is not to be held up as a paragon of honor by any means, but his failures amount to not acting when perhaps he should have. As I understand the situation, he didn't kill anyone, and arguably he wouldn't have been able to prevent what deaths did occur." The Seeker lifted his shoulders. “Those are not offenses for which death is usually on the table, military defendant or otherwise."

Marceline nodded in agreement, "Ser Leonhardt is correct, his actions do not warrant a death penalty. However, I would ask that you consider allowing me to pen a letter to the Academie as well, to move that his title be stricken from him, as Ser Durand's conduct was not befitting that of a chevalier, no matter the circumstances. If that is what you decide, of course," she added.

It was too much to look beyond at this point. Maybe there was a chance death was necessary for staining his honor, but there was doubt, and with any amount of doubt Romulus found himself unwilling to do something so severe. Not with the knowledge of what it would do. He was already worried of what his consideration of killing Durand might have caused, even if he felt he explained his reasoning for it as best he could.

"Then it's for someone more knowledgeable to decide," he admitted, exhaling some of the tension from his chest. "He'll be given to House Drakon for judgement. They can attend to his titles as well."

It was hard to gauge Khari's reaction; she seemed somewhat relieved, but the tension didn't quite leave her. Then again, the decision had been moved rather than made outright, so perhaps that was understandable.

For his part, Ser Durand accepted that with equanimity. He inclined his head to Romulus and the others, then moved his eyes to Khari. "For whatever worth my words have for you, Khari, I truly hope you succeed. If I have ever met anyone who deserves to be called chevalier, it is you."

Her lips parted as if to answer, but none came before the guards shuffled him away, and none in the silent moments after.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
From the top of the keep's stairs, it was possible to see one of the practice yards. Presently, Leon was doing just that, MichÀel next to him. The yard in view currently had several people working drills or battering away at practice dummies, but one of its most frequent occupants was quite stuck on the sidelines.

Even from this distance, the red hair made Khari very easy to pick out in a crowd. As did the way she carried herself, though Leon doubted she recognized the latter. At the moment, however, the ease and uprightness of her typical posture had given way to something much less impressive. She leaned against the fence, for all he could tell silent in her survey of the others, either unwilling or unable to participate. He knew why, of course. He could understand it quite well. Estella was not the only one who knew how it felt to be paralyzed by self-doubt. If anything, Leon suspected his case and Khari's were actually more similar than either of theirs was to what the Inquisitor contended with.

“I'm not asking you to decide right out," he said, glancing at MichĂ€el from the corner of his eye. “It is quite a lot, should you choose to accept. But if you wouldn't mind at least observing for a while, I think you'll find she's a worthy candidate."

MichÀel nodded slightly, though he kept his eyes on the practice yard below. "Yes ser, there is promise in that one," he agreed absently. He stood at military rest, his hands clasped behind a straightened spine, beside the Commander. Ever since Lady Marceline had assumed the role of the Inquisition's ambassador and brought her husband with her, he had served as an advisor of sorts to the Inquisition's army, though that mostly included consulting with the Lions in coming up with training regiments for the regulars, as well as checking the quality of arms and armor. Leon had seen many reports written in MichÀel's impeccable handwriting.

“Then if you would not mind remaining here for a while, I will go... speak to her." Somehow, Leon doubted that was really what was going to happen as such, but he elected to leave it at that for now. MichĂ€el would be able to read between the lines of the statement well enough.

"Good luck Commander," MichÀel added with a wry grin.

His progress towards the training ring was broken by quite a lot of respectful nods and a few salutes; while he'd managed to convince the majority of the people he saw regularly that such things were not necessary with him, he of course was not often among the regulars unannounced, and he could not fault them for being polite by default. Still, it eventually became clear that he wasn't there for any sort of official inspection, and they went back to slightly-uneasily ignoring his presence after a while.

Leon approached Khari, electing to brace his hands on the fence next to where she stood and join her in her observation of the drilling and practice. “Seldom do I encounter you close to the practice but not participating," he remarked mildly, casting a glance down at her. It was quite a distance, admittedly. Normally, her spirit made her seem much larger than she was, but he was quite underwhelmed by comparison at the moment.

She seemed somewhat deflated, in all honesty, slumped a little too far over the fence. Even his presence didn't have the near-automatic energizing effect that it had on her when she was constantly badgering him to spar with her. She tilted her head up far enough to catch his eye for just a second before she sighed. “Yeah." She shrugged, the agreement falling a little flat. Khari braced her elbows on the fence, her expression pensive. Never really the type to conceal much, she was easy to read now as well. Especially for someone with as much practice as Leon had. The slouching curve of her posture, the vague listlessness of her eyes. It all pointed to the same thing.

“Guess you probably wanna demote me now, huh? Told you all this great stuff about my training when I applied and all." She scrunched her nose. “I won't make a big deal out of it, if I can stay at all." She flicked another glance up at him then, a bit more urgently. “I... I can stay, right? I'm honestly not totally sure how this works."

Leon felt his mouth twist down. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. By some understandings, Khari's own honor had been contaminated by the deeds of her teacher. He did not doubt she was questioning the legitimacy of her standing in more ways than one. In relation to more than just the Inquisition. He also wasn't sure that it was enough to tell her he couldn't give less of a damn about it. No doubt closer friends than he had already tried, and if she was still down like this, it was something she probably had to work through on her own.

What he could give her was a jump-start.

“You want to stay?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Then prove it." Turning back towards the ring, he took a deep breath and called out in his booming bass.

“Everyone clear the area!" He suppressed the natural urge to add a 'please.' It was, after all, not a request. While the regulars scrambled to get out of the way as fast as possible, resetting all the training equipment in the process, the commander returned his attention to Khari. “I placed you into the Irregulars with a test. I'll decide where you go now the same way. Arm yourself and get into the ring."

He'd shocked the dull grimness off her face, at any rate. “Wait, but... what? I can't fight you—I don't even have a sword!" Khari's eyes were wide; she gripped the fence with pale knuckles, hovering uncertainly between swinging under to enter the dirt ring and... well, something else. Perhaps even fleeing.

“Oh?" Leon hardened his tone deliberately. Catching Reed's eye, he gestured him over. “Reed's blade is about the size and heft of the one you usually use. I'm sure he would not object to you borrowing it." His aide shook his head to indicate that it was fine, drawing the sword from its place over his shoulder and holding it hilt-first towards Khari.

Leon pitched his voice at such a volume as to make himself easily audible to everyone now exiting the practice area. “Or am I to understand that you are refusing a challenge?" He kept his expression stern, but he truly hoped he was not miscalculating here. He hoped he understood what she was feeling well enough, understood her well enough, that he was making the right move.

For a moment, it was honestly impossible to say. Khari's expression closed off, losing its former easy readability. Her brows drew down, and she seemed to teeter on a thin edge between acceptance and refusal. And with the way he'd drawn the stakes, it was no trivial decision. Her hands dropped from the fence rail, balling into fists.

“I'm not refusing anything." She snarled the words as much as she said them, reaching for Reed's sword and snatching it from his grip, ducking under the fence and coming up on the other side. She walked backwards towards the center, tilting her chin up to keep eye contact with him the entire time. “Let's go, commander! I've never been patient, and I'm not about to start now!"

Leon went over the rail. Saying anything else was unnecessary at this point. They began with no formalities, no words of ritual or gentleman's bows or anything of the sort. For all their differences, they had one thing in common: they had learned to fight in only the most brutally-pragmatic of ways. To use whatever they had, however they could, to keep themselves alive. After that, the rest of it was only decoration.

Unarmored, Leon would be easy enough to cut, but that was only assuming she could land a hit on him in the first place. He didn't intend to make it a simple matter, but even so, he was not content to be merely defensive. It wasn't his way any more than it was hers, and he charged at her with all the speed his lack of encumbrance afforded him, perfectly willing to come within range of her borrowed weapon.

Khari didn't stand there and wait for him to come to her, either. Instead, she ran to meet him, collecting momentum as she churned up the ground under her feet, angling left and swinging for his legs. It was clear she meant to let the weight of their charges do most of the damage.

Leon saw it coming and jumped to avoid the low hit, twisting his body around and converting the torque into a heavy kick for her midsection. He pulled it to the extent he was able—he had no desire to cave in her ribcage, of course, only to put her flat on her back in the dirt.

It might not have broken anything, but there was no doubting that Khari felt it. She turned her body slightly into the blow just before it landed, reducing the impact, but not by nearly enough to match Leon's sheer power. The breath left her lungs in a whoosh; she flew back several feet and landed hard on the ground, rolling a few times. It took her a second to move again, but then she was back on her feet, spitting a glob of blood to one side from where she must have inadvertently bitten her tongue or the inside of her mouth.

“Fuck, you're strong." She flashed a red grin at him, and then charged again. Having realized that his legs were not what to aim for when he was so mobile, she swung for his chest the second time. It was a considerably larger target.

“From you, I will consider that a compliment." Unlike Khari's berserker talents, Leon did not need to be under the influence of rage to spar. It was a different matter entirely when he had to kill, but of course that was the furthest thing from his intention here. As a result, he found it rather enjoyable.

Her second attempt was much better; he sidestepped and caught the blade of the sword between his palms, twisting up and over in an attempt to disarm her.

Rather than simply letting go, Khari redoubled her grip on the hilt of the sword, twisting with him and letting her knees buckle, effectively becoming dead weight. It was additionally complicated, however, by the fact that she was making every effort to tangle her legs with his, as though she intended to bring him to the ground as well.

Grappling was not something most people ever attempted with Leon. His size alone tended to dissuade it, he supposed. The fact that he fought barehanded by choice was also perhaps a reliable indicator that he knew very well how to handle himself on the ground. The attempt was audacious in the extreme, but then, this was Khari. That should not be surprising.

Instead of letting it happen, he released her sword, dropping her to the floor with it, then anchored his balance on one foot and tore the other free of hers, stepping on her right arm hard enough to pin it to the ground.

Abandoning the effort to tangle up his legs, Khari kicked at the one within reach, closing her free fingers around a handful of sand and hurling it in the general direction of his face.

It had further to go than it went, but Leon stepped off her anyway, allowing her to regain her feet before he went on the offensive again.

There was never any question of which one of them was going to win, but Leon didn't expect there to be. He was genuinely impressed, however, by the way Khari seemed to learn even as the fight progressed. By a few minutes in, she'd already absorbed enough about how he moved to avoid the obvious mistakes, and there was no denying her swiftness and talent for improvising things as she went. Every time he so much as left her an opening, intentionally or otherwise, she was right there, having spotted it and acted quickly to take advantage. More than once, his defense was hastier than he would have liked, as he rushed to keep up with her attacks.

He jumped back, dropping once more into a defensive stance. He wanted to see what she planned to do next.

She didn't disappoint, surging forward to attack almost immediately. She feinted left first, then spun away from his block without ever actually touching it. The heavy hand-and-a-half in her grip rushed for his arm, leaving a shallow cut when he didn't move away quite fast enough to avoid it entirely. It was a trivial injury at best, especially considering the wounds she'd taken in the course of the fight. Leon might have turned his blows, and she'd gotten used to minimizing the impact when she took them, but she'd likely be a mess of bruises for quite some time after the match. But nevertheless, she'd landed a blow.

As soon as she'd done it, he raised his hand. “Enough." Leon straightened, rolling his shoulders out and lifting his uninjured arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. She'd certainly kept him on his toes. Letting his hand drop back down, he offered her a smile. “As I suspected. You're just as qualified to be here as you were the day you arrived. Moreso, in fact."

He moved his eyes over her shoulder. “You think so, too, don't you, MichĂ€el?"

"I do, ser," came the reply. During the spar, MichÀel had descended the keep's stairs and took up a spot nearest the fence line, the purple in his cloak standing out from the sea of russet the Inquisition's soldiers wore. He looked in with impish smirk across his lips as he absently stroked his beard, clearly invested the fight he'd just watched. "Granted," he added, allowing his hand to fall from his face and limply in front of him, "The girl has her rough edges to be sure, but it is nothing that I cannot grind away in time." His large frame swayed from an internal chuckle.

Khari, breath still sawing in and out of her lungs, lowered Reed's sword. She came slowly out of whatever battle-high seized her in the middle of a match. As she did, a look of confusion blossomed over her face. “Wait... what?" The point of the sword brushed slightly over the dirt before she realized that and lifted it again. “What's Ser MichĂ€el doing here, anyway?"

"Watching," he answered, which caused a few of the soldiers to chuckle at such a obvious response. "Gauging," he added, this time more honestly. "You have the practical experience to keep yourself alive, despite your best efforts. But what could you do with more I wonder?" he said, leaning forward and a fence post and steepling his fingers together "What you could do with a chevalier's training?"

“But—" Khari looked, perhaps understandably, a bit flabbergasted by the question. Handing Reed's sword back to him, she rubbed the back of her hand against her brow, scrubbing off some sweat. The contemplative look returned to her face. “Why?" Her tone was suspicious, and she moved her glance between Leon and MichĂ€el, settling on the latter. “Why would you want to do that for me? It's not like I can just enroll in the Academie and... and do things that way. It's not like you need more hands for your bandit problem. So why go to all the trouble?"

Her brows were furrowed now, forming a deep crease over her nose. Her lips had compressed into a thin line, and the muscles in her shoulders and neck were unmistakably tense.

"You have potential and we have no wish to see it squandered by bashing your head into every sword arm and shield wall you can find from here to Antiva," MichÀel answered sternly. He'd lost his grin and now frowned. "And I do not know if you have noticed, but the Inquisition faces more than just bandits. The Ventori, the red templars, both led by a magister turned darkspawn somewhere in Thedas. That qualifies a little more than a bandit problem, do you agree?" He'd risen from the post and now stood straight, his arms crossed beneath his cloak.

"You cannot enroll into the Academie, that much is true, but neither could Aveline," he said, referencing the old Orlesian tale. "I cannot make you a chevalier, but I can train you like one. What you do with that training is up to you."

“I don't know what the status of your ambitions is," Leon admitted gently. It was entirely possible that Khari didn't want to be a chevalier anymore, or was no longer certain what she wanted. “But you should know that regardless, the foundation of your abilities is still what it is. If we are to succeed in defeating Corypheus, each one of us needs to improve. We all need to keep training and honing our talents. I'm not an exception. Ser MichĂ€el is not. And I'm sure you know that you aren't either."

He sighed. “If that is all this is, training to build on your foundations, then it need not be more. But if you still want what you wanted two weeks ago, then this will help. I understand feeling like your foundation is giving way underneath you. But it isn't. Not in this respect. You're talented, Khari, and you deserve to be able to develop that talent. It does not matter to us who taught you—only what you do with what you've learned."

She swallowed thickly. A little of the tension left her posture, but not all of it, and she stared intently at the ground under their feet for several long, slow moments. “Okay." She nodded slightly, almost to herself, and raised her head. “I get it. And... and thank you. I'll learn whatever you want to teach me, however you think is best. But..." her expression hardened for a moment. “I want to know all of it. Everything any other chevalier learns. So that if something happens again, I know. I know what honor means and how to follow it."

"Good," MichÀel said, the smirk slowly returning to his face. "If I were you, I would enjoy the rest of the day. It will be your last easy one for a long while," he glanced at Leon, indicating that yes, that was even including their spar.

"See the quartermaster and get outfitted for full plate. You will need it for your morning runs."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
The war room in Griffon Wing Keep couldn't hold a candle to the one in Skyhold in terms of scale. The table upon which their maps were placed was a simple wooden one, and the relatively shorter windows looked out on the bleak expanse of the Western Approach's sands, not the windswept mountainsides of the Frostbacks. But Romulus didn't concern himself with such things, nor did he expect any of the others did, either. Lady Marceline, after all, had elected to stay behind, since the conflict with the Grey Wardens had gone well beyond matters of diplomacy. They faced battle now, on a scale the Inquisition hadn't seen since the fall of Haven.

Only this time they would be the attackers. He didn't expect it would be like any of their small scale incursions. No small stealthy force would be able to sneak through the Wardens, who had pulled back to the last man within their walls at Adamant. The fortress had eyes watching from the walls at all hours, and no mere bandits were they. Any attack on that ancient place would be bloody, for both sides.

Romulus wasn't sure yet how he felt about it all. It was too hard to make a judgement without have been there for what the others were able to discover. But honestly, he was glad that he did not yet have to. The right or wrong of the Wardens and their intentions was irrelevant for the moment. They needed to be stopped, and to create a plan to that end, the Inquisitors had gathered with their army's commander and spymaster, as well as the Wardens Nostariel and Stroud, and the Kirkwall Guard Captain Ashton Riviera.

Lia had been summoned to give her official report on the fortress and its defenses, though Romulus was certain Leon and Rilien had already heard it several times. "The Wardens pulling back gave us an easy opportunity to look over their defenses," she explained. "They never tried to drive us off, and we never came close enough to engage. The fortress is ancient, and the Wardens haven't had the time or resources to repair it properly. My scouts identified several weak points along the wall we can target with trebuchets."

She pointed to a few locations along the wall marked on the map, which was adorned with a drawing she'd provided of Adamant's layout. "A few good hits could give us some openings. But the quickest way to the heart of the place is through the main gate. It wouldn't be an easy fight. And we saw more lights from within the fortress. I think Pike is already at work on bolstering their numbers with demons."

“We have the siege weaponry and battering rams required to breach the gate." Rilien's suggestions, as usual, were delivered flatly, with no hint of what he really thought of things, if it were different from what he said. “But even if that is accomplished, the fight will be drawn out, and likely happen in stages. We should act as if we are under a time constraint—we very well might be."

“What do you suggest, then?" Nostariel, the female Warden, tilted her head slightly.

He blinked, shifting his eyes down to the map. “A smaller, more mobile group, aimed for the heart of the fortress. Anyone else who can get inside can focus on securing the line behind them, but given what Pike is doing, he should have as little time to do it as we can allow."

Leon did not seem particularly surprised by the suggestion. Perhaps they'd already spoken about this, or perhaps he'd been considering something similar. “The army would take a significant amount of time to clear the outer parts of the fortress. I don't think it will even be feasible if we have a constant stream of demons to worry about. We're going to want to stop that as soon as possible." He frowned down at the map.

“Though... we should be prepared for something else to go wrong. We have no idea what else Corypheus has given this Pike by way of resources. Sending one man and a handful of underlings to deal with the entire Grey Warden organization in Orlais seems ill-advised, and so we should assume there's something we don't know."

"I doubt the Venatori will be working alongside the Wardens," Romulus speculated. Pike was one thing, but the cult of Tevinter supremacists would surely put the Wardens, even in their distracted state of mind, on edge. Pike was not from Tevinter, and would make for a better agent working more or less on his own, with any help coming from the shadows and avoiding the notice of the Wardens. "But you're right. If Corypheus gave Pike a way to target our marks specifically, he could have other tricks up his sleeve."

"If we can get a foothold on the walls," Lia suggested, "we can cover the advance of the assault group from above for a little while, help them on their way forward. I don't know how long we'd hold out against Wardens and demons, though."

Estella raised her arms just enough to cross them at her diaphragm. “About that..." She trailed off, shaking her head faintly, then glanced to Nostariel and Stroud. “Do you think any might be swayed to fight with us, if they see another option? Or at least... not fight against us?"

“Some might." Nostariel's brow furrowed; the look on her face was anything but certain. “I doubt it could hurt to at least check, but..." She grimaced and glanced at Stroud.

"Those who control the demons are lost already. And the mages who performed the bindings are unlikely to reverse course now. The most likely candidates would be those on the outer walls and not in the inner sanctum of the fortress. Pike was already enforcing such hierarchy when we left."

“The ones he trusted close by and the rest of us much further." Nostariel confirmed it with a short nod.

“Very well," Leon said, with a bit of finality in his tone. He glanced to both Estella and Romulus, as if to make sure neither of them had anything to add. When they didn't, he continued. “I'll finalize plans for the siege weaponry with some of the others later. We'll march this afternoon and attack as the sun goes down."

That seemed to conclude the meeting to everyone's satisfaction, and the group began to disperse. The Wardens and the Guard Captain were first out, followed by Rilien and Leon, who probably left to gather the personnel for the other meeting. Lia departed with them. Estella offered Romulus a small smile before heading towards the exit herself.

"Estella," Romulus said, calling her to a halt. "Can you spare a minute? I wanted to ask you something."

She paused in her motion, turning back around to face him. Her smile had faded; her expression wasn't much more telling than Rilien's, but she did nod. “Of course I can. What is it?"

"About Pike." He'd actually been thinking a fair amount on their reports of what had transpired for Pike's test ritual that Estella and the others had interrupted. Though he'd never met the man before, this Pike seemed to have at least some sort of direct contact or connection with Corypheus, which made him more interesting than the vast majority of their enemies. "When he attacked your mark, what did he do? What was it like? And how did you fight it?" His reasons for asking were obviously practical, in case they encountered Pike during the battle. Romulus was only beginning to be able to control his mark and the things it could do, but sometimes instinct alone would not be enough.

“It felt like... being electrocuted," she admitted. “At first, it was hard to tell exactly what was happening because it just... hurt." The corners of her mouth twisted down, forming a slight grimace. “But as far as I can tell, he was trying to push some kind of disruptive force or energy into my body through the mark. Like... I don't know if you're familiar with the walking bomb spell, but like that."

Her eyes closed a moment, as though in recollection, but she blinked them open again a second later. “I only got him to stop by pushing back against it. I don't know if I have any better words for it than that. It was sort of like what it feels like to close a rift, but not at all automatic."

"Okay." Romulus nodded. He was actually familiar with the particular spell Estella spoke of. A very muted version of it, at least. Tonics could reduce the effects of nearly every type of spell that inflicted constant pain. He would be consuming a fair amount of them before the battle, he was sure, but he doubted they would have any effect against attempts to disrupt his mark. That was something else entirely, and something that he didn't know how to prepare for besides asking for Estella's help. With any luck, he wouldn't need it, but from how she described it sounded quite possible to replicate. He was almost at the point where he could create rifts automatically, but those just sort of closed themselves after an instant.

"If we can, we need to take Pike alive." He was relatively sure Estella was already of the same mindset, but it didn't hurt to ensure they were on the same page. "If Corypheus gave him some knowledge of how to fight us, he may know something about... what happened to us. How we came to be this." Despite everything that had happened, that memory still eluded them, always a smoky wisp incapable of being grasped when he reached for it in his mind. He didn't know what purpose it would serve, the knowledge of how he and Estella had survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes. If anything its absence had already been serving a purpose. But he knew that he wanted it, and he would much rather ask Pike than be forced to pull the knowledge from Corypheus himself.

She nodded. “It would be for the best, though... I'm not sure how possible it is. He has command of some kind of magic he can use for escapes, and I don't know what the range on it is. Or at least... I think that's how he managed to get away from us last time. In any case, if you do catch him, be careful of it. Being bound may not render him as helpless as others would be."

"Noted." He took a deep breath and exhaled, thinking of a few things he would need to take care of before they marched. "I should go prepare. Going to be a long night." If there was one thing that was certain, it was that.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Under the relentless assail of dust motes and cloudless sky
 the desert seemed to unravel. Its high dunes surrounding Adamant Fortress swept across them, wind-swept and merciless, heedless of the Inquisition’s efforts to slog through the sand in order to avoid being pinned by errant arrows whistling past their heads. The fortress itself was full of echoes—battle cries, shrieks and explosive blasts as fireballs crashed into the pillars and sent shards of rock raining down across their heads. Steel arrowheads and stomping footsteps accompanied the frequent whine of magic heard above the ramparts, as well as at their sides.

A lumbering contraption of metal bindings and thick wood was being laboriously shoved along the beginning of stonework leading up to the fortress’ reinforced gates. Several soldiers lied grunting and groaning as the wheels clattered and spun across chunks of stone, sweaty faces peeking out from beneath helms. The sand certainly hadn’t done the battering ram any favors. Its decreased mobility wasn’t aiding those who’d been tasked to push the damned thing either. Where arrows found their marks, injured men and women were pulled away behind the general safety of crooked, fallen pillars to be tended to. Others had stationed themselves at their sides, arrows notched and loosed at the ramparts, so that they could counter the arrows and shards of ice being hailed down.

The stone warren ahead of them tasted stale. Heavy with the grit of sand and the sear of flames licking at their sides; behind them and overhead. Everything so impossibly dry. Long hours had taken them towards the main gates, a slow and arduous trek. Even so, it felt as if everything was rushing quickly. Far too quick. Somewhere overhead, something thumped heavily against the walls and the ground beneath their feet trembled. All they needed to do was breach the walls. All they needed to do. Easier said than done when hell was raining down on them. Approaching a hornet’s nest with ladders, and a slow moving ram, was laughable. At least, Zahra thought so. She’d never been involved in such an assault before. Never had to fight alongside so many people before, either. So many faces. There were those she’d come to know personally
 and others who’d joined them along the way.

There was a cry heard above the din. Hit. Or fire. Zahra couldn’t tell. A large boulder sailed overhead and crashed into the side of the walls. Sending a line of armored men pinwheeling through the air. Stonework crumbled into shards of brick and trickled down the sides of the walls. Not quite enough to allow entrance, but definitely enough to crush those who’d been unfortunate to stand there. Another volley fired shy of its mark and crashed somewhere within the gates while the ladders approached the base of the walls. Archers continued covering them from the ground, firing up with bare arrows, and some doused in flames.

Battle raged around her. Less hectic than Haven, to be sure. Zahra had the good sense to ignore the pang in her heart, even if she knew this could have much of the same result. Her friends, companions. They were not invulnerable, and neither was she. However, they’d come out of hairier circumstances, and she had no doubts they’d fight tooth and nail to accomplish what they needed to. She notched an arrow and loosed it from behind the advancing battering ram. Glimpsed the arrow striking into the slip between a Warden’s helm, toppling forward off the walls. Only long enough to loose another.

Many of the Wardens on the walls had made note of the battering ram's ponderous approach, and turned their aim upon it. Flashes of fire lit up the darkening sky as spheres of orange flame careened down from the walls, aimed for the ram and the soldiers carrying it. Most of them crashed into barriers with heavy sounds, guttering out before reaching the soldiers and vital parts of the machinery itself. Both were protected by Asala and even Cyrus, who reinforced her work with some of his own, a slight variation in the shade of blue the only way to tell them apart. Each time a barrier shattered under the force of a blow, another bloomed over the empty space to replace it.

With his free arm, Cyrus hurled bolts of lightning, each precise enough to catch a figure on the walls above, and placed so as to ricochet between several more, breaking up the volleys and easing their slogging passage just a little. The Warden Nostariel's arrows were just as good—unlike Zahra's, they tended to explode on impact, which made up for the fact that she didn't aim quite as accurately. The next to fly in blew off a heavy chunk of the crenelations on the wall, cracking the stone and sending a massive chunk of it over the side, the man who'd been standing on it following it down screaming.

The fighters who specialized in closer quarters were harder-pressed to help much at this stage. Those with shields were generally at the front, round and kite-shaped metal faces turned up to protect vulnerable heads and necks from the bite of arrowheads and icicles. Others carried ladders to try and mount the walls themselves, but keeping them in place long enough to use was proving difficult. The Wardens clearly knew how to hold a fortress; the rate at which Inquisition soldiers were falling to their arrows and magic was far too quick to sustain much longer. They had to make it the rest of the way to the door. Only then would Zahra and her companions be able to push inside and make an effort at breaking the siege.

The ram wasn't more than ten feet from the gate when a lucky volley struck two of the soldiers pushing it on the left, slipping in during the small gap between one barrier's fall and the next materializing. The men collapsed to the sand, the ram itself teetering dangerously to the side as the others pushing it tried to compensate for the sudden loss and prevent it from becoming hopelessly mired in sand.

Leon ducked in, catching one of the vacant handles in his grip. It was hard to tell given his helmet, but the heavy scrape of his gauntlets on the wood suggested that even he struggled to keep it from rolling back down the incline, at least for the few seconds it took for the other men to get their feet back underneath them. His boots sank heavily into the sand as he pushed for traction, taking a hard step forward to plant his treads on stone instead.

More arrows and magic flew in overhead in those precious seconds; one of the trebuchets went up in flames, scattering its crew. The Wardens were making use of Tevinter fire on the battlements as well, heaving a cauldron of it over onto one of the ladders that had managed to stake out a position on the wall. The screams as it splashed over the arms and chests of the Inquisition soldiers holding it in place at the bottom were unholy things, harsh even over the rest of the noise.

“Forward!" The Commander rolled his shoulders back, adjusting to the weight of two-thirds of the ram's left side. At the command, it moved forward again, alighting on sand-covered stone. That proved to be the hardest part, and it rolled forward smoothly after that. Gesturing for another two soldiers to man the actual ram portion of the contraption, Leon stepped back and shook out his hands, flexing his fingers open and closed several times.

“Draw back." The soldiers shuffled to rock the ram back into the rearward position. As soon as they were steady, the Commander's voice boomed out again. “Heave!"

The sound of the hit echoed like thunder, reverberating through the banded wood of the gate. It held steady, though, and so the soldiers drew it back again. The second time, a harsher crack followed as part of the door splintered, and Leon gestured the advance team to cluster just behind and to the side of the siege weapon. There was no telling what the Wardens were assembling in there to meet them.

The third hit broke through a chunk of the wood, but it took several more before the opening was large enough for them to use. On the eighth, the right half of the door broke on its hinges and swung inwards, finally allowing them through.

"On me!" The elven knight among them was at the forefront of the attack, face hidden behind the mask of his helm, his spear lowered and shield ready to receive the first enemy. Vesryn charged forward, through the cloud of dust that had billowed up in the wreckage of the gate, temporarily disappearing from sight. The others followed close behind him, Inquisition soldiers at their backs supporting them. For the first few moments the going was slow as those in the front undoubtedly met a thick resistance, and Zahra wasn't able to see any of what was occurring inside. She could only hear the screams of the desperate and the dying, the roars of the attackers, and the wails of demons among their enemies.

But they pushed forward, heedless of any losses, and soon Zahra was able to make out the carnage inside the gate. The Wardens had mounted a fierce resistance, but they'd been cut down by the brutal attack of the Inquisition's assault party. The fallen bodies made the footing treacherous to those not paying attention. Dozens of arrows littered the ground where they'd harmlessly fallen after clattering off one of the barriers protecting the attackers from above. Still, some had made it through, and no few men and women of the Inquisition were on the ground and bleeding, or crawling for aid. Their attempts to secure the walls were going poorly.

Ahead, the bulk of the Warden warriors had been broken and driven back, and in their place the mages were commanding demons into the fray. Vesryn intercepted the first of the shades with his shield, bashing it quickly and leaving it on the ground so he could keep his shield facing forward and advance. Romulus swiftly took care of the fallen creature, his eyes slightly glazed from the effects of his tonics.

"Keep pushing forward!" Vesryn shouted, burying his spear in a Warden mage and toppling her as he redirected her stream of fire away with his shield.

Approximating hope from such carnage had never been Zahra’s style. As soon as the gates buckled and splintered inwards, she’d vaulted onto the now unoccupied barricade ram. She notched and loosed her arrows into the swelling forefront of Warden’s gawking overhead. Shouting commands, pointing fingers and firing arrows with less precision than they had been when their fortress had been shuttered close. Now that the Inquisition could spill into Adamant’s walls, utter chaos ensued. With the last of her arrows spent, she slung the bow around her shoulder and hopped down behind Vesryn and the others, pulling her rapier free from its scabbard.

She’d never be as good or quick as Marceline was, nor as graceful, if she was being honest
 but using her bow in close-quarters, elbows nearly touching with companions and enemies alike wasn’t efficient. She’d learned that long ago. Zahra breathed in, steadying herself as the dust settled around them. Silhouettes crashed together. The sound of metal scrapping against metal added to the crackle of thrown lightning bolts to their sides. There were still streaks of molten fire, casting light across their faces, before slamming into bodies. The smell
 was almost unbearable. Burnt flesh. Coppery blood. Sand grit in their teeth. She was already having trouble dancing between scorched corpses. Though she spotted one of her own well enough. An arrow jutted from one of his shoulders. She swept down and slipped a hand under his armpit, dragging him back to his feet. Wordless, breathless.

Through skeins of smoke, a shade burst out and raked its claws down towards Zahra’s face. She only barely had enough time to throw them both to the ground. Her head cracked against the stone, hard enough to blow stars in her vision. Fortunately, not hard enough to render her unconscious. The world spun beneath her as she pushed herself to her feet and tried to regain her balance. A warm wetness wept from her hairline. She didn’t need to touch it to know that it was hers. She smeared the blood away from her left eye in time to see the shade rear back towards her. This time, whether it was dumb luck or a bloom of anger swelling in her belly, Zahra hewed it with her blade and pushed past it. Further into the fortress.

They were more or less navigating through the fortress blind; what information the scouts had been able give them dealt with the fortifications rather than details of the layout, since those things would only be visible from the inside. Leon, up front near Vesryn, seemed to be choosing their course, though it was hard to know how he was doing it. Estella fell in next to Zahra, expression showing a flicker of concern before it smoothed out. Perhaps her tumble had been witnessed. “I’m alright,” Zahra offered with a toothy grin. She didn’t know the extent of the damage, but that was always best handled afterwards.

The resistance seemed to thin for a while. The group's pace accelerated until they were all clipping along at a smooth jog, but Leon pulled them up before they rounded the next blind corner, ducking around it for a moment and then reappearing to gesture them all forward.

It seemed the battle here was already taking place, and the Wardens were manning both sides themselves. This knot looked to be mages and demons versus everyone else, if the armor styles were anything to go by. In truth there wasn't much left to do by the time they arrived, aside from blocking a flanking maneuver by several rage demons, something the fighters at the front took care of in short order.

The stillness after, when the Inquisition faced down the winning half, was tense. Estella's voice cut through it first.

“Why were you fighting them?" Her tone was neutral, careful, modulated. Her face gave nothing away, yet, and the tension didn't quite abate.

Even so, one of the Wardens answered. His winged helmet seemed to be a mark of some rank distinction or another; the rest of them arrayed around him in a way that suggested he was the leader. "Because this is insanity, and they are no longer the people they once were." In contrast to Estella, he sounded haggard, tired, even through the metal of his helm.

“Then fight with us." Nostariel and Stroud moved into his line if sight. While the elf's expression was mild, her partner still wore a hard, disapproving scowl. At a look from her, though, it eased slightly.

"You could have realized this sooner, but it is good that you have now, at least." A few of those present, without helmets obscuring their faces, had the grace to look ashamed or at least properly chastened. Stroud glanced at Romulus and Estella. "Perhaps we should send them back, to help your army breach the wall. They would not be noticed as hostile until they attacked, I should think."

The man with the helm inclined his head. "We would be willing to do this... but you should be careful ahead. I know not what Clarel and that man are preparing for you, but they retreated to do it as soon as you were spotted."

"Then we should keep moving," Vesryn said, lifting his shield from where it had rested with its bottom rim against the ground. "Go on then, beat some sense into your brethren, and we'll put a stop to this insanity."

The Wardens went on their way, as did the assault party. The fortress proved difficult to navigate, not only due to their unfamiliarity. An unfortunate side effect of the siege engines was that several large stones had collapsed the quickest pathways, eventually forcing them up onto the battlements to seek an alternative route. It seemed that Inquisition forces had finally gotten something of a foothold, as they encountered small numbers of their own troops, battling for control of the high ground. They assisted where they could, but could not linger for long if they wanted to stop Clarel and Pike.

Up ahead they came upon a lookout point of sorts, a wider section of wall that overlooked a significant portion of the fortress. There they found a number of their troops engaged with a vicious contingent of demons. Upon closer inspection, they proved to be some of their scouts, with Lia at the helm of them. She dueled with a floating despair demon, the creature nimbly twirling away from one of her arrows and flinging itself through the air, launching an icy spike as it went. The projectile tore through the leather on Lia's left arm, leaving a bloody wound in its wake, and a lucky shade immediately tackled her from behind. The pair went down together, but Lia soon drove a knife into its head, rolling out from under its writhing mass as nimbly as she was able to.

Many of the others had gone in for close quarters, as well. Signy covered Rhys's back, driving one of her two hatchets into the single eye of another shade. Blood spattered liberally over her face and leather armor, but it went as unheeded in her case as in the rest. Rhys took a step away from her for a moment, swinging one of his sabers from below and slashing another shade up its body before coming across with the other. It hissed weakly as it bled out, and he returned back to Signy, slinging the lingering blood off of the edges of his blades.

The despair demon bore down on Lia, threatening to continue flinging ice spears at her until an arrow struck it in the side. From among their own group, Ashton broke off and fired another arrow at the demon, striking it once more before he became its new focus. Unlike Zahra, he had stuck with his bow even in close combat, pilfering ammunition from fallen Wardens on the wall. As he nocked the next arrow, the demon feinted again, attempting to bait Ashton's arrow, but he must have seen it coming because the next arrow struck true as well, felling the demon out of the air and dispersing when it struck the ground.

"Now's not the time to be laying around," Ashton said holding out a hand for Lia to take, his tone far more grim than his words.

"Thanks," Lia said, taking his hand and getting back to her feet. "And thank the gods you're all okay. Took us longer than we would've liked to get through on the walls, and I thought we'd fallen behind. Didn't expect we were actually ahead of you."

"We encountered a few complications of our own," Vesryn said, ensuring that the immediate area was clear of demons. "Any idea how far we've yet to go to reach Pike?"

"Not far, I don't think. Keep going that way," she pointed towards the center of the fortress. "You should hurry, we heard some strange noises before we were set upon. We'll cover your backs."

Zahra joined Vesryn at his side. Better off next to someone with a shield to batter a path open. She’d been dancing between shades, much more nimble now that she wasn’t being used as a crutch. Though she had stumbled a few times, shaking the drumming pangs from her head. Damned rumble. It was a poor excuse. One that might earn her another stripe, or a claw through the gut, if she wasn’t being careful.

“Let’s press on then,” her eyes followed Lia’s finger and nodded her head, signaling that Vesryn should take the lead. An ungraceful shadow, but one who could stab with the pointy end just as well.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The very heart of Adamant Fortress was protected by yet more walls, but fortunately, these were much easier to breach, relatively speaking. As soon as they'd fought their way free of one last knot of resistance outside, a metal door stood before them, and Leon pushed it open and stepped through, the rest of them on his heels.

The main bailey was tiered, with the level above leading directly inside the keep building, and that below arranged into a large yard. At present, the overlook was occupied by both Pike and a tall woman with a shaved head and the armor typical of Warden mages. Large braziers atop stone columns lit the area, but also produced this curls of greasy smoke—Estella was willing to bet that they were burning something other than normal wood. Large-scale rituals like this often required other components, she knew.

Immediately below those two, many more Wardens were clustered, both mages and otherwise, though none moved immediately to attack. Many of the mages manipulated some kind of greenish light; it was too bright to be exactly the same color as her mark, but something about it felt similar all the same. She was no expert, but she was willing to bet they intended to pull something very large through the fade itself.

As the Inquisition stepped in, the woman—presumably Warden-Commander Clarel—spoke. "Wardens! We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect!" Her words had the ponderous weight of some kind of ceremonial pronouncement. Pike didn't seem particularly happy about it.

"We need to, uh... we need to hurry this along, can you give them the annotated version? The Inquisition is literally right there," Pike said, chewing on his fingernail as he spoke. At the word Inquisition, he nodded toward their general direction and anxiously rocked on the balls of his feet.

"These men and women are giving their lives. That may mean little to you, but to the Wardens, it is a sacred duty." Behind her, another Warden approached, an older man, from the look of him, and Estella frowned.

They were much too far, but maybe if they kept talking, that wouldn't matter. She started for the stairs.

Unfortunately, that seemed to infuse some sense of urgency in the Warden-Commander. She exchanged some inaudible words with the man who'd approached, then moved behind him, dagger in-hand.

“Don't—"

Her voice was loud enough to reach, but it went unheeded. Clarel drew the knife across the other man's throat, and he fell to his knees, blood gushing thickly from his neck and staining the front of his uniform. He toppled forward.

The fresh blood spurred Pike forward. "Stop them!" He gestured toward the Inquisition, "We are too close, we must complete the ritual!" With the command, the collected Wardens turned around to face them, taking steps to block their path.

A wall of warriors stepped into their path. While it would have been possible to force their way through, the Inquisition's groups slowed, instead. With a frustrated sound, Nostariel raised her eyes to the upper part of the bailey. “Warden-Commander Clarel! You can't go through with this ritual! It will bring you nothing that you want, and make you responsible for more death than you already are. Please, see reason!" She raised an arm and thrust it out in Pike's direction. “This man thought that destroying an entire Chantry full of innocent people was the right way to protest a different injustice! Why would you trust him to advise the Wardens on fulfilling their duty?"

"Innocent?" Pike balked, "You have a funny notion of innocence. Those people did nothing while it was innocent mages that were slaughtered or tranquiled," he hissed, "Do you think that if I did nothing that it would've changed? That everything would've sorted itself out? No! They would've squeezed the life out of us."

He looked to Clarel, "Just as the blight will squeeze the life out of this land if nothing is done. The world does nothing while the Wardens risk their very lives to save it. As tragic as it is, change always requires blood. Loathe me for my actions," he continued, whipping his head back to the Inquisition with a snarl, "But do not judge the Wardens for theirs!"

“Warden-Commander, please." Estella's brow furrowed; how was she supposed to get someone this deep in the grip of desperation to see reason? To see that all this sacrifice was unnecessary? “Every sacrifice you make... those people aren't serving Thedas. They're serving Corypheus! He's making a mockery of the duty you've tried so hard to keep. You can sense it, can't you? That something isn't quite right. Why would the Calling happen now, of all times? Right when Pike is poised to show up, out of the blue, and offer you a solution steeped in Warden blood to a problem you didn't even have until then?"

"Corypheus?" For a moment, she could see Clarel hesitate, and she dared to hope that something one of them had said might have gotten through to her. Estella pulled in a breath, her fingers curling into her palms.

But then the Warden-Commander's expression hardened. "No. Corypheus is dead. Bring it through!"

The Wardens below, the ones with the green magic in their hands, stepped into a rough circle around some kind of central platform. The warriors remained between the Inquisition and the others, not yet attacking, but each with a weapon drawn.

The disturbance in the fade was palpable, probably even to those among them without magic. A low boom reverberated in the air, a brand new rift opening in the center of the circle of mages.

“This is ridiculous." Nostariel moved to the front of the group, tilting her head up to look one of the warriors in the eye. The occasional gout of cool air cascading off her person and the perceptible but slight chill around her were a fair indication that she was nearing the end of her patience. “You are being used." She said it slowly, then glanced at another. “They're telling you that this is the Wardens against everyone else, but I've been a Warden much longer than most of you, and I have not stopped. Warden-Commander Stroud has not stopped. We are Wardens still, and we feel the Calling in our bones just as you do. Yet here we are."

Stroud's brow was heavy over his eyes. "I commend your bravery, brothers and sisters, but this is not the way. I think you know that, too."

A number of the Wardens said nothing, the only sound was the faint hum of the ritual and the din of battle outside the walls. A few turned to face Clarel upon the ledge, all the while Pike began to anxiously bite his fingernails again. "Warden-Commander, it's almost done. You're the only one who can do this," he said, as he started to rock on his heels.

She hesitated for a moment, casting glances between Pike and her Wardens before she spoke again. "Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges, to avoid more bloodshed..."

Pike lifted his hand to his forehead and took a deep inhale, and upon the exhale uttered, "Fuck it all." He offered Clarel one last, disdainful look before he turned to face the Inquisition more fully.

"We thought something like this may happen," he said, the intensity of his eyes beneath his hood ramping up. "We expected the Inquisition would try to interfere, so I was not sent without aid. A... welcoming present, if you will," he said with a twist to his lips. He lifted a hand and squeezed, sparking red energy for a moment.

A loud, screeching roar echoed from high above, punctuated by the deep thumping of beating wings.

Clarel's eyes went wide at the sight of what Estella suspected had to look an awful lot like an archdemon. Where words had failed to move her much, this seemed to be more effective, and she turned to the Wardens below. "Help the Inquisition!" She whirled and darted after Pike, who had made a hasty exit on the heels of his reveal.

Estella sighed, but there was little time to waste. The dragon was still perched on the roof of a nearby building, and looked about to take off. It didn't launch itself into the air immediately, though, bending down just enough with its neck to breath out a gust of its corrupted breath. Estella dove to the side, coming up in a roll only for a crack and a scream behind her to alert her to the fact that a Pride demon was emerging from the Wardens' rift, and had started its inevitable rampage with the mages responsible.

They needed to follow Pike and Clarel—but that dragon wasn't going to just leave them alone, either.

Beside her, Stroud and Nostariel exchanged a quick glance. "Wardens, with me!" He rapped his sword against his shield, and they began to group around him.

“They can handle the demon and help with the dragon, but some of us should stay behind as well." Nostariel spoke quickly to Estella and the others. “The rest can go after Clarel, but we must decide quickly."

Leon considered it, coming quickly to a decision. “Estella, Romulus. Take Vesryn, Cyrus, Ashton, and Nostariel with you. The rest of us will stay to fend off the dragon." It made sense to split in some version of that fashion, Estella supposed; everyone kept a mix of close, ranged, and magical fighters, and half the healing capability of the advance team.

“Go." He didn't leave room for arguing about it, either. Khari looked like she wanted to, but even she kept quiet. Asala on the other hand never broke gaze with the corrupted dragon, determination and maybe even the closest thing she had to anger furrowing her brow. From their journey through Adamant’s grounds, somehow Zahra had managed to scavenged quite a few blood-crusted arrows. She held one poised between her fingers, eyes trained on the hulking serpent hunkered on the ramparts. The expression on her face read little, though there was the same wide-eyed wonder she’d had on the Wounded Coast where they’d first laid eyes on a dragon battling a giant.

Estella nodded once and took off, curving her path around where Stroud and his Wardens were engaged with the pride demon. It was quite a climb to the top, yet.

Romulus spared a look back for those they were leaving behind in their pursuit, but then pushed forward quickly behind Vesryn, who always seemed eager to be in the lead. The heavily armored elven knight seemed barely slowed by everything he carried. They left the ritual area behind, winding their way left and up several flights of stairs that took them around to an edge of the fortress. On their left, the wall dropped off into an immense chasm below, an abyss that likely went all the way down into the Deep Roads.

Shades emerged and tried to slow them, but they were pitifully inadequate, and the group barely slowed to bash them aside, not even bothering to truly slay some of them. Clarel was swift, and Pike even swifter, the pair of them always just out of sight, but Adamant was no labyrinth here, and there was only one path to follow. Judging by the magical scorch marks and blasts decorating the walls and floor on their way there, the two were already exchanging attacks, none of them proving decisive. Eventually they came across a blood trail, though whose it was could not be discerned.

They continued upwards, almost spiraling now, approaching a corner of the fortress. Their breath came hard and fast, all the while screams of the dragon echoed behind them, accompanied by the struggling Wardens, demons thrown into the mix, and more. There was no time to let their thoughts linger on the others, though. They emerged onto what appeared to be the ruins of a bridge that had once spanned the great chasm. Clarel and Pike's battle had taken them out onto it, quite near the edge, and though it appeared the leader of the Wardens had cornered Pike, it was she that looked more wounded of the two. Vesryn continued his sprint, the others close behind, and they closed the distance as quickly as they could.

"You've destroyed the Grey Wardens!" Clarel spat while she flung a stone fist at him. It collided in midair with a bolt of raw force, canceling both out.

Pike cackled in response. "Me! Oh no, no, no, you destroyed them," he said pointing at her. "All I did was suggest this course of action, and you practically snatched the knife out of my hands to start cutting your own people's throats. Couldn't do it fast enough, in fact." They were circling each other, until his words angered the Warden-Commander. A wave of electricity washed over him, but a discharge of force parted the stream, Pike chuckled while his shoulders smoldered.

Then, Pike lashed out, grabbing Clarel with force magic. "Always too eager too martyr yourselves Warden. Would've been easier to submit."

Only then did the Inquisition and their allies reach effective range, running out partway onto the bridge the two combatants occupied. Nostariel slid an arrow from the quiver at her hip and raised it quickly into a draw. She didn't take the time to aim precisely, just shot in Pike's general direction, well over Clarel's head. It hit the ground just behind him and exploded with an impressive crack, likely enough to knock him some distance towards them.

The force that held Clarel evaporated, and she began to storm toward Pike. "I will never submit to the Blight," she said, leveling her staff at him.

Pike had been thrown closer to the Inquisition and on his knees. He glanced between both parties and snarled. He struck quickly, reaching out with his hand and clenching his fist, causing the force magic to return and crush Clarel with a spray of blood. He then hefted himself to his feet and quickly fadestepped behind the Inquisition. He held both hands up to his chest, gathering energy and jammed both into the stones beneath, issuing a shockwave of pure energy into the bridge. The stones crumbled and broke beneath the force of the impact, and the bridge quickly began to fall apart.

However, just to ensure his success, Pike gathered another shockwave, and sent this one out against the Inquisition, looking to knock them back further into the crumbling bridge.

With apparently the last of his energy sapped, he stumbled as quickly as he could away from the collapsing bridge.

The wall of force slammed into Estella before she could even properly think of running to the safe side of the crumbling bridge, picking her up off her feet and hurling her into the empty air. Stone crumbled around them, pitching even the most surefooted of her companions into freefall with her. Cyrus, Romulus, Vesryn, Nostariel, Ashton... all of them were falling, just as she was. Hurtling towards their inevitable deaths at the bottom of an abyss.

Had it really come to this? Air whistled harshly past her ears, stinging her with stone dust and flecks of debris from the crumbling bridge, but Estella scarcely felt or heard any of it, watching the jagged rim of the bridge grow more distant by the second with a sort of detached sense of calm. Did her life really end here? And theirs, too? All of it... the Inquisition, becoming someone she didn't think she deserved to be, the lessons, the fights, the friendships and camaraderie?

Did she really gather the courage to leave her home only to die at the bottom of a chasm?

The thing was, she could believe it. She could believe that this was her fate. Some kind of retribution, for all the lies and all the pretending. But if that was all, then she should be the only one falling. This... this wasn't right.

Turning herself in the air, Estella took in a deep breath. Facing downward, seeing the ground actually rushing up towards her, shattered her torpor with the effectiveness of a stab wound, lancing right to her heart. She pushed down the panic, pushed down the fear, and swallowed her uncertainty. Just like she always did.

How much more impossible was surviving this than anything else she'd already done, really?

On her hand, the mark hummed, the green light pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her fingers tingled; a warmth she could not identify spread up her arm, like she'd immersed it in steaming bathwater. “I can do this," she murmured, the words swallowed by the heavy whoosh of wind. “I must."

The light nestled in her palm grew brighter, as if sensing her thoughts, and responded accordingly. Its glow tinged the skin of her face green, even when she turned her palm outwards, thrusting it down and bracing her wrist with her left hand. The mark reacted, surging until it was too bright to look at directly. Estella closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. A splitting crack reached her ears even over the din, and she felt a burst of magic unlike anything she knew.

The landscape beneath her changed, but before she could understand what she saw, the rift engulfed her.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
The corrupted dragon roared again, and Asala had to clutch at her ears to avoid going deaf. Once it trailed off however, her eyes shot back up toward it and she glared. She was never one to give in to revenge, or let her gentle heart be taken over by hate. Asala was always quick to forgive and forget, and she never held a grudge.... but that vashedan ataashi had killed her brother. She watched as its talons-- seemingly made of raw red lyrium, clutched the wall it perched upon and its neck craned back. A barrier was up at an instant, covering all of her friends and herself. When the dragon breathed its lyrium breath, it struck the shield instead of them. She would not have been able to completely guard against it however, so her barrier was angled, so that the breath would glance off of them.

Still when the air cleared, her barrier was near the point of shattering as it barely held itself together. Fractures had formed all across its surface, and her arms trembled from the effort it required to keep the shield up. Still, she didn't quite feel it, instead what she felt was the desire for the dragon to be closer so she could slam the barrier into its face. Foolhardy, most definitely, but it did not change the fact that Asala wanted the dragon to fall.

She would not be able to do it by herself, and she was not so arrogant to believe it would be that easy even with all of her friends' help. She had to calm herself, and the quiet fatigue she felt in her arms went a long way to do just that. She couldn't let herself forget that they fought against more than just the dragon. Demons and some of the Wardens still presented a danger themselves.

"What... do we do now?" she asked Leon, choosing her words carefully. Regardless, she was quite aware that her emotions played out plainly across her face.

He didn't seem inclined to chide her for them, though it was impossible to have even a vague idea what he thought, covered head to toe in armor as he was. “Not much we can do, while it's up there and we're down here." His voice was roughened, through the helm, as though he were consciously suppressing some other tone he could have had. “We need to get to the wall and draw it to us. Can you cover us with your barriers while we go?" He turned his head slightly, so he was looking at Zahra.

“Arrows should keep it focused on us, if you can be irritating enough. The important part is that it doesn't take off after the others." He and Khari wouldn't be much use until they were in at close range, but at that stage, it was easy to tell that the majority of the burden would be theirs to carry.

"I can," Asala answered. She reached into the satchel at her side and withdrew a vial that held a piercing blue liquid. In one deft motion she unstopped the cork and drained it, replacing the vial once she was done. She could feel the fatigue lift as the potion worked through her veins-- though the taste had always left something to be desired.

“You got it,” while Zahra’s face looked a mess with crusted blood clumped in her hairline, and smeared across the right side of her face, she still managed a weak smile. Like the others, she looked tired. The wild excitement at seeing another dragon had left her eyes, instead they simply looked bright and feverish. She shifted on her heels, and adjusted the bow in her hands. From the looks of it, she’d refilled her arsenal with arrows picked off the dead. Her left arm, however, was bare of cloth and leather alike, scorched down to red, puckered flesh. Healed somewhat by Asala, most likely. It no longer bore blistered bubbles.

Even so, she hadn’t hesitated. Not since stepping into Adamant Keep’s grounds. She behaved as if she were impenetrable in battle, but even she had begun to slow. Grow clumsy. Sweat beaded her brow as she inched close to Leon’s side, and the lip of Asala’s magical field. She reached over her shoulder and drew an arrow from her quiver, holding it at the ready. She took a deep breath. Perhaps, to steady herself. Then she glanced up at Leon and grinned wide, “Make sure I don’t end up this dragon’s last supper.”

Their plan in place, the group made for the wall. While Asala protected them and Zee kept the thing's attention, Leon and Khari swatted aside any lesser demons that accosted them on the way. The courtyard was large, but they were fast, and they'd made it to their target within a minute.

An arrow clinked off the dragon's face—apparently the last straw. With a mighty bellow, it took off, the force of its jump into the air crushing the building-stones beneath its massive claws. The roar trailed into a sharp shriek; its wings beat with a sound like a gigantic bellows.

Khari turned to face it first. It landed again with an earthshaking thud, swiping for her with wicked claws. She ducked under the attempt, swinging her sword for its digits. The crude blade bit in, but not far, and the dragon flung her backwards right after. She landed hard, but rolled to her feet immediately, apparently not much the worse for wear. From the fact that she charged forward again right after, she was more interested in keeping up the fight now that she was in it than in getting help.

Nevertheless, she got some. Leon, moving very fast for a man in so much armor, burst forward all at once, occupying the dragon's right while Khari charged towards the left. He hit its foreleg at full force, leading with his shoulder. Since it was shifted onto that one to claw at Khari, the blow threw it off balance for a moment, allowing him to follow up with two heavy punches. A dull crack accompanied the breaking of one of the dragon's digits, red lyrium flaking off at the point of contact.

It shrieked again, drawing back its head to breathe another stream of corrupted fire at them.

“Hey! Yeah, you,” punctuated with three arrows, fired at once, clattering against the creature’s scaled snout and half-opened maw. Zahra was huffing at its side, backing away but already notching another arrow in place. Not nearly quick enough. If she thought shouting down a dragon was foolish, she certainly wasn’t showing it. Deft fingers pinched the feathers against her cheek and drew even further back before she loosed it in the air, hissing out a “Just die already.”

"Agreed," Asala approved through gritted teeth. She was neither as quick as Leon or Khari, nor was she as direct. Instead she stood a ways out of the fight and when it reared its head back she saw an opportunity. Asala's magic flashed in her hands and when it expelled its corrupted fire, it only went as far as a few yards before the flame was interrupted. Her lips curled back in the effort to hold the barrier against the brunt of the flame, but it did not need to last for long. The barrier she had erected was domed from the inside, and close enough to its face so that when the fire struck the barrier, it ricocheted and engulfed the dragon's face in its own backwash.

The barrier began to fracture quickly under the onslaught, and the toil had fatigued her once again evidenced by her huffing, but it lasted just long enough to dissuade the dragon from continuing, its corrupted flame spilling from its face and onto the ground where it sizzled out. The last act of what remained of Asala's barrier was to slam into the dragon's snout, shattering the instant it touched scale. The damage it had done was nil, aside from maybe surprising it a bit.

It was at least enough to dissuade the dragon from further breath attacks, but even without those, its claws and teeth were certainly fierce enough to pose a serious threat, to say nothing of the red lyrium spikes growing out of its body.

While it was preoccupied with Leon, Khari tried to duck to the side, attempting to cut into its softer underbelly, but she was interrupted by a great rumble, which turned into a cracking sound, and then a grinding clatter, like a rockslide off a cliff. Her head snapped towards the noise.

In the distance, the keep's bridge was visible—and it was collapsing before their eyes. If Asala squinted, she could make out smaller shapes amidst the rocks, falling alongside the stones. It was impossible to tell for sure, but that was definitely the direction the others had chased Pike in. It seemed likely that—

“No. No!" Khari half-screamed, half-yelled the word, taking a quick pair of steps in that direction, as if to run to the bridge herself. The point of her sword scraped along the stone behind her; her face twisted in some inchoate expression of rage, or perhaps something else. Perhaps anguish, or even the beginning of something heavier like grief.

The dragon granted her no quarter to figure out which. Claws raked brutally across her midsection, tearing into the spaces between her armor plates and warping the chainmail underneath as though it were no more than linen. She lost her footing, picked up off the ground and hurled back almost to where Asala was.

She did not move.

Asala grimaced as panic and fear began to mix with the anger she felt toward the dragon. She quickly took the few steps necessary to reach Khari and erected a dome shaped barrier around them as she dropped to her knees beside her. Khari was still alive, and even conscious, but dazed. It could've been far worse considering the manner of monster they faced. Regardless, Asala was thankful for that and quickly readied a healing spell to begin to patch the wounds where the dragon's talons had reached.

That left Leon to command the majority of the dragon's attention. His did not divert to the collapsing bridge; it wasn't even clear whether or not he'd noticed. He went primarily on the defensive, avoiding or trying to knock aside the dragon's blows and retaliating only when the opportunity presented itself. He wasn't accumulating injuries, and oddly enough blunt damage like the kind he dealt with his hands seemed to have an effect on the creature's tough hide.

Unable to strafe away in time, he caught one hit on his arms, crossing them over his head. The effort of staving off the claws brought him to a knee, but he didn't buckle under the force, and the dragon withdrew rather than attempting to press the issue, so to speak. Instead, it snapped forward with its jaws, closing them over his shoulder.

An arrow thudded against its face, drawing blood from just beneath its eye. Leon's fist drove into some of its teeth from the side, accompanied by a cracking noise. When he pulled back, several of the smaller plates on his gauntlet were missing, but the dragon let him go and reared back, putting its face temporarily out of reach. Leon bled liberally from several large holes in his platemail, but if he was in pain, he gave no sign of it.

Lia, responsible for the arrow, was flanked by several other Lions, among them the elf Cor, Aurora's friend Donnelly, and the Qunari Hissrad, all of whom moved to support the Commander at the front. A few additional ranged fighters fanned out behind, a couple archers grouping up with Zahra to support.

Under Asala's hands, Khari's wounds at least partly stopped bleeding. Khari herself was already struggling to her feet. “I'm fine—save the magic." Her tone was clipped, curt, with a growling rasp underneath that didn't seem to be directed at Asala specifically. The other woman's mouth twisted; she braced her sword on the ground and used it to stand. Pulling in an unsteady breath, she hefted the blade in both hands and started forward, bypassing the barrier and breaking into a jog. It didn't seem like a good idea to try and stop her.

“Stubborn girl,” Zahra’s voice cut in beside Khari as she jogged shy of her heels. Bow in hand. Rounding up to her right side, a few paces behind. Enough to cause a distraction. Far enough not to accidentally be cleaved in half. She glanced sidelong at her, eyebrows drawn. Though, she made no attempt to dissuade her. The bow-wielding Lions who’d joined the fray weren’t far behind. They were preoccupied pelting the beast wherever they could. While most of the arrows clattered off hard scales
 some had found purchase, sticking out like porcupine needles behind the creature’s joints.

Asala rocked back to her feet and slipped in closer to the fight to get better aim for her barriers. She managed to just get into place before the dragon huffed. Its larger bony head turned away from them momentarily, looking over them and at something entirely different. Asala took that chance to slam an edge of a barrier into the bottom of its jaw. A few crystals of lyrium broke away from the scales, but otherwise did not seem to register the blow as anything above annoyance. Eventually, it began to turn its massive body away from the fight at hand, though not before lashing out with its mighty tail. Asala was quick enough to erect a barrier to guard against it, but there was not enough strength behind it.

Its large tail crushed through the barrier with ease and caught her heavily in the side. She felt something snap under the impact and then she was airborne. The shock and confusion was immediate and she'd forgotten which way was up until she abruptly found out which direction was down. It wasn't the hard stone of the keep's wall that broke her fall, the landing had been too soft for that. Instead she'd been thrown far enough to collide bodily with Zahra and take them both off of their feet. The dragon's tail hadn't only hit her, however, as any Lions who hadn't had the time to dodge were also thrown off of their feet.

From atop Zahra, she watched as the dragon beat its powerful wings to lift off from the wall and make a quick exit. Not before striking a tower on the way and showering the battle below it with loose stone and debris. Eventually, Asala was coherent enough to try and roll off of Zahra. "Zee! I am sorr--Argh!" she yelped in pain. Her vision blurred from the jabbing sensation she felt with every breath she took, and it was difficult to force air into her lungs. She clutched at her side as she slumped to the ground, slamming her fist against it from the defeat.

If Zahra was at all aware of what had happened in the span of a few seconds, she certainly gave no sign of it. Hefted from Khari’s side like a weightless doll. From the time they tumbled through the air and bounced off the ground, skidding to an unceremonious halt across the cobblestones, she’d been motionless. There was a wet wheezing coming from her lips. But as shallow as it was, she was still clearly breathing. Her eyes, half-lidded, rolled white, and finally shuttered closed. A new wound bloomed out behind her head, painting the cracks red. Her fingers twitched, though as far as anything else was concerned, she gave no indication she’d heard Asala speak.

“Get back to the courtyard." Leon's voice reached Asala over quite a distance. He seemed to be speaking to the Lions, but it was a safe bet that everyone would be heading the same way. “We need to figure out what became of everyone else." He reached up and took the helmet off, raking a hand through his hair to pull it back from his face. He was still bleeding freely from the giant bite mark that formed a crescent around the right side of his chest and shoulder, but other than the heavy sheen of sweat beading on his brow and running down his face, he gave no bodily signs of being strained by it.

Still, he, like most of the others, would clearly need some form of medical attention soon. His eyes fell on Asala and Zahra to her side. Frowning, he crossed the gap and knelt, checking the captain's head wound more cautiously than he initially seemed capable of. The muscles around his eyes tightened, but he apparently decided she was safe to move, because he settled her with care over his uninjured shoulder.

“Can you walk, Miss Asala? I'm going to have the other healers and medics set up in the courtyard. If a potion will help, I'm sure Rilien brought some." His tone was reserved, but not unkind. It was almost as though he weren't sure which one he ought to be using.

Asala rolled back onto her back and wheezed, "Yes, I--" she winced, "I can." Instead of explaining that she had brought her own supply, as that would probably take air she didn't have, she reached into her pack and fished out a crimson vial of her own. She unstopped it and downed in a gulp letting the vial fall to the ground as she grabbed her side again. This time her hands held healing spells as she worked on her own ribs. The tickling sensation was almost unbearable, but eventually she was well enough to move. Not quickly, but move regardless.

"Is she... okay?" Asala asked after Zahra as she forced herself to her feet. There was no way that she could hide the shame she felt from her face.

Leon waited until they were back down on the level of the courtyard before he replied, perhaps to spare himself the strain of speaking while climbing down the ladders from the wall. Once they were both down, however, he made a noncommittal sound. “Well, she did fall unconscious due to an impact," he pointed out, thinning his lips. He seemed to realize that this might not have been the best thing to lead with, though, and backpedaled quickly. “But it's not fatal or anything. With a little time and the right kind of care, she'll be good as new in a couple of days, I'd imagine. Though you're more the expert than I."

Other members of the Inquisition, aided by Stroud and some of the remaining Wardens, were already working to set up a triage area, unfolding cots and moving crates of medical supplies onto the site. Rilien was already directing the process. Aside from a gash on his temple, he seemed uninjured. Under his guidance, the process was nothing short of extremely efficient. It looked like he'd already set up stations for the healers to go to work, including the mana potions they'd need to restore their own energies, in addition to the ordinary health ones for the patients. Leon set Zahra down on one of them, on her side so that her wound wasn't in direct contact with any fabric or anything that might irritate it.

Asala reached for a mana potion-- her second of the day. It was a poor substitute for rest, but it would have to do for now. She grimaced as she replaced the vial empty vial and knelt down on the other side of the cot Leon had sat Zahra down on, deciding that she would be her first patient. It was only fair of course, if she hadn't struck her then Zahra wouldn't be unconscious with a head wound. She then solemnly began her work.

The quiet that had descended over what was once the battlefield was disturbed once again, this time from Aurora and Sparrow taking the set of stairs down that led up to the upper walls with Pike in tow. Pike struggled against his captors, but Aurora held a heavy grip on his hands behind his back, her arm up to her neck encased in stoneskin. Aurora had a cut along her brow and a stream of dried blood flaked away in the corner of her mouth. From the looks of it, Sparrow’s leathers were in tatters. Several slices were cut out around her midsection. Crusted with dried blood, but obviously tended to. Blood speckled across her face like macabre freckles and her knuckles were beaten and bruised; torn and freshly weeping as if she’d spent her time punching someone. Her own hand was poised on the back of his neck. Pike on the other hand was bruised from head to toe, and one of his eyes was beginning to swell shut. He took the stairs with a noticeable limp.

As they reached the bottom, the grumbling from Warden and Inquisition grew louder, but Pike seemed to revel in it. He basked in their hateful stares. "I see that I was missed. Love what you all did with the place by the way," Pike taunted before Aurora's grip on his arms tightened.

“What happened up there?" Leon seemed content to completely ignore Pike himself, and addressed the question to the other two. “Where are the others?"

That caused a shudder of laughter from Pike and he shrugged-- or tried, with Aurora's grip. He didn't seem to care that the question wasn't directed at him. "Oh, you mean the Inquisitors and their friends? Stood a little too close to the edge. Took a nasty stumble I'm afraid-- You know, they might just be reaching the Deep Roads by now. Shh, and maybe we can hear the splat," he said with a cackle.

None of the stares directed at Pike was more hateful than Khari's, and his words were more than enough to provoke her. Her grip tightened on Intercessor; she lifted it from the ground with what seemed to be considerable effort. The end visibly shook, as though she couldn't hold it steady.

“Ar tu na'din, you smug fucking son of a bitch!" Her lips pulled back into a snarl; the roughness of her voice was just as much heavy emotion as injury. Despite her still-oozing wounds, she lunged for him, clearly intent on his death. If he was afraid, he did not show it, and instead met her with only a smirk.

She didn't quite make it far enough; a powerful arm caught her around the middle from behind. Leon held her fast, but was mindful of her wounds. “Khari, don't." He moved his eyes to Aurora. “Gag him, please." The expression on his face suggested that he thought of Pike as about as disgusting as something suspect on the bottom of his boot. That wasn't anything Asala had ever seen on him before, really; he was usually quite mild on any occasion he wasn't busy fighting.

Khari struggled in his grip. “Don't you dare protect him!" She growled it from between her teeth, scrabbling at the arm holding her despite how clearly futile the effort was. She was even more injured than Leon, and not nearly as strong on her best day. “He killed them! He killed–I'm going to fucking murder him, and he deserves it!"

Sparrow hawked and spat on the ground at Pike’s feet, letting her fingers feather away from his neck. A huff sounded, and her hand soon returned. Though this time, much more violently. She wound her fingers through his hair and gripped tightly, jerking his head back. Her mouth twitched into a scowl as she drew her hand into a fist and smashed it into the side of his face. Aurora shifted with the movement fluidly and let the momentum guide Pike to the ground hard. She jammed her knee into his back and reached up for Sparrow to hand her a tatter of leather. She quickly set upon wrapping it around his mouth none-too-gently. Sparrow lifted her boot and poised it across Pike’s exposed neckline. Not quite enough to smother him, but certainly hard enough to cause discomfort, “You’ll die soon enough, Pike. But not here.”

It was only a few moments after they'd subdued Pike that Asala felt a slight disturbance. It wasn't quite physical—which meant it was in the Fade somehow. A heartbeat passed, and then a rift appeared in the center of the courtyard, not far from where the others were gathered. A bright burst of green light bathed everything in its emerald glow for just a moment, somehow less sickly a color than she'd grown accustomed to seeing. It dimmed a little, but the rift itself widened, growing long and tall enough to let a person through.

Leon immediately tensed, perhaps preparing for a demon, but what stepped out of the rift was a much more welcome—and surprising—sight. Romulus, with Cyrus over one shoulder, emerged first, dropping the few inches between the bottom of the rift and the ground. Right on his heels were Vesryn and Estella, the Guard-Captain supported between them.

No sooner had Estella's feet touched ground than the rift sealed up behind them, as though it had never been there at all.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon blinked, trying to reconcile what was in front of his eyes with things he knew to be true. Or perhaps things he'd simply thought he knew.

He hadn't been there, when Romulus and Estella had stumbled out of the rift the first time, but the accounts he'd heard of it described it much like this: a green light, from which emerged what seemed to be two perfectly-ordinary human beings, who'd promptly collapsed. While they remained upright now, he could understand the wonder that invariably accompanied the tellings.

This time, however, there was no figure behind them that seemed to be Andraste. Estella was simply the last one out, and behind her, the rift sealed easily, leaving nothing of itself behind save those they'd let out.

The first thing he felt was an immediate sense of relief, and then the pain of his injuries finally hit him. Carefully, he released his hold on Khari, relatively sure that the reappearance of the others would, if not dissolve her intention to kill Pike, at least quell it by distraction for now. He might have been much stronger than she was, but she was admirably tenacious, even when injured, and he couldn't keep her back forever, anyway.

If this went the way he suspected it might, he didn't really want to.

At Leon's signal, a few uninjured Inquisition soldiers relieved Romulus, Estella, and Vesryn of the other two, carrying both Ashton and Cyrus to the triage area where Zahra and a few others already lay.

Khari, for her part, stumbled forward when he let her go, looking almost dazed. Her eyes, wide and round, flickered between the three left standing; it was unclear if she registered that it was one fewer than the number should be. “You're alive." The words rasped, raw and rough, pushed out of her like a labor of hours, though they took only a moment.

"Not all of us," Vesryn managed, clutching at one of the severe wounds in his side. With his other bloody hand he pulled his helmet off. Blood had run from his lips down most of his chin and neck, and he was blinking rapidly. "We were lucky to—" Quite suddenly, his eyes rolled back into his head and his body simply went limp, causing him to collapse forward into the dirt with a loud clattering of his armor. He did not move.

Leon grimaced; they were really all in terrible shape, whatever they'd been through. He sought and found Reed with his eyes. “Let's get them all to the healers; the rest of this can come later." They could move the conversation to some section of the triage unit if they needed to, but he was first and foremost concerned with them getting the medical attention that was so desperately necessary.

Estella and Romulus at least seemed capable of moving under their own power, for the moment. The former even bent to retrieve Vesryn's helmet, tucking it under her arm and following Reed towards the cots. She smiled thinly at Khari on the way past, reaching out to brush a hand along her friend's shoulder, but she did not speak. Perhaps she could not think of anything more to say.

"We should have died," Romulus said to Khari, putting his unmarked hand fully on her shoulder. He looked perhaps the least wounded of those that had walked out of the Fade, but his injuries would still need treating, too. "Estella saved us. It's... Khari." His eyes fell to her wounds, specifically the ones left behind on her abdomen where the dragon had struck her. "You need healing."

She glanced down at herself, shaking her head slowly. “'S'fine." The response wasn't much louder than a mumble. Raising both hands, she rested them at his sides, just under his ribcage and away from his own wounds, and clenched the fabric there tightly in her fists. “Saw you fall. I thought..." Squeezing her eyes shut, she leaned forward, pressing her brow to his sternum. It wasn't a hug, maybe because they were both wounded, but she shook hard enough that even at his distance, Leon could see it. “I thought you were..."

"I'm not, Khari." His hand on her shoulder migrated around to her upper back, fingers twining with her bright red hair, and he let his chin rest on the crown of her head. "I'm alright."

They remained that way for a moment, until Romulus turned his eyes on Leon, still not really moving with Khari. "I can try to tell you what happened," he said. "Need to get her to a healer, first."

Leon nodded. “There's a free cot over here."

After getting Khari and Romulus at least seated and in line for attention from the healers, Leon took a spot across from the both of them on another. Conveniently enough, Estella was on the one to the left of his, so he didn't need to raise his voice much while they waited for the potions and medical professionals to reach them.

Shifting somewhat uncomfortably, Leon unbuckled his gauntlets, letting them drop near his feet and nudging them underneath the cot. One of them was mangled almost certainly beyond repair from its contact with dragon teeth; he'd split the skin over his knuckles down to the bone with the same blow. He kept that hand as still as possible for the moment, glancing over at the others.

“What exactly happened? We saw the bridge collapse, but not much else."

No sooner had he asked the question then Rilien appeared, bearing a satchel laden, it seemed, with potions. He handed them out wordlessly to Leon, Khari, and Romulus; it wasn't the same as having an actual healer treat them, but it would certainly help during the wait. When he came to a stop beside Estella, he fished out another, speaking too low to be heard, then took a seat next to her.

"We caught Pike on the bridge," Romulus explained, taking a drink of potion. "He killed Warden-Commander Clarel. It looked like we had him trapped, but... we were wrong. He destroyed the bridge with magic. We were falling, would've fallen all the way to the Deep Roads, but Estella..." He trailed off, looking for her to explain what had happened in that moment.

She shook her head, shifting slightly until she was at least partially leaning into Rilien. It seemed to ease some of the pain she was in. “I'm not sure what happened exactly," she confessed. “All I know is that I did something with the mark and it... opened a rift, I suppose. When I woke up, I was alone in the Fade."

“Physically?" Leon almost couldn't believe it, but simply entering the Fade in the usual sense would not have saved their lives the way this clearly had.

When she nodded, his brows furrowed. “But what then? You were gone for quite a while."

"We were in an area of the Fade controlled by a powerful Fear demon. Nightmare." The way the name slipped from Romulus's tongue seemed to give an indication of what he thought of the creature. "We were... attacked, mentally. The demon tried to turn our fears against us, in one way or another. I don't know what it tried to do to the others. But we managed to regroup at this graveyard, or at least, I saw it as a graveyard."

“So did I," Estella confirmed. “Once we were there, we..." she seemed to be struggling to figure out what words she wanted. “There was an... entity, there. One that seemed like the Divine. Her memories, or her essence, or just a spirit that took on whatever she left behind, I don't know. She gave us our memories back. It seems Nightmare had taken them from us."

“Your memories? From before the explosion at the Conclave?"

She nodded, turning her empty potion vial in her fingers. “All of them, as far as I can tell. I don't have any more gaps in my recollection, at least."

"I remembered being back in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, still a slave to Chryseis." Recalling it seem to haunt him somewhat. "I had discovered that Corypheus and a group of Grey Wardens under his control were holding the Divine, performing a ritual. I knew I couldn't stop it alone, so I went to find help. I found Estella and some of her squad." How exactly he felt about that was unclear, but there seemed to be some remorse in his words, whether it was warranted or not.

"We interrupted the ritual, and during the fight the Divine knocked that magic orb from Corypheus's hand. Estella and I, we... reached for it, at the same time. It was the orb that gave us our marks, and the orb that destroyed the Temple and killed the Divine."

“And what of the figure that others claimed to see behind you afterwards?" Leon finally managed to get the two largest plates of his armor off and away from his wounds, helped along by the fact that he could at least move his hand again after the potion. It was suddenly a great deal easier to breathe.

“The same as who we met the second time," Estella said. “Her Eminence, or some part of her. It definitely wasn't Andraste." She smiled a little wryly; Leon knew she'd never really believed it was the Bride of the Maker in the first place, but she didn't seem particularly pleased to be right. Nor displeased, for that matter. “After we touched the orb, all three of us were pulled into the Fade. She... she didn't make it out, but she helped us get there."

His uninjured hand rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “I see." He didn't find that part of it especially surprising, honestly. Without doubt, the intervention of a human or a spirit and an artifact was much easier for Leon's inherent skepticism to swallow than that of Andraste or the Maker. He doubted it would ultimately even make much difference.

"After that, we had to kill the Nightmare to make our escape." Romulus finished the last of the potion and set it aside, wiping at his lips. "The spirit of the Divine told us that the Nightmare served Corypheus, and was responsible for making the false Calling that scared the Wardens into all of this. That much should be over with now. We found Nightmare's lair... but it commanded a massive demon we couldn't hope to defeat. I think Pike was trying to have the Wardens pull it through the rift." He sighed, rubbing at his head with hands still spattered with dried blood. "Cyrus delayed the monster while we fought Nightmare. None of us were at our bests, I don't think. We killed it, but..."

“But the other demon did that to Cy." Estella sounded pained, and glanced several beds down to where the healers were still working on her brother. She was slow to move her gaze back, and when she did, she sighed heavily. “By that point, we were already in basically this shape, and it was still alive. Still coming for us. Nostariel, she—" Her voice cracked slightly.

“She stayed behind. So I'd have time to create a rift and get the rest of us through it. She saved us."

Leon frowned, then dipped his chin ponderously. “Pike has much to answer for," he said slowly. “As do the rest of the Wardens."

“Should kill the bastard." Khari, obviously referring to Pike, grumbled the words from her spot near Romulus, but they lacked quite the same panicked anger she'd had before. Given the way she was slumped partway over where she sat, that may or may not have just been the result of fatigue.

“Warden-Commander Stroud has indicated his willingness to defer to our judgement in this matter." Rilien spoke to the group for the first time since his arrival. He remained steady against Estella, allowing her to support herself on him without any apparent discomfort or protestation. “He has said that he would prefer to move the remaining members of the force here to Weisshaupt, where they might be court-martialed for their actions according to the customs of the Grey Wardens. However, if we desire some alternative action be taken, I do not think he would resist us."

Estella seemed to contemplate that for a moment. “I think we can deal with Pike later," she said, fatigue weighing down her words. “Stop me if something seems wrong with my thinking here, but the less we have to deal with the Wardens after this, the better. If Stroud thinks taking them back to Weisshaupt is the way to go, then he's probably right. Nostariel trusted him. I think that means we can, too."

Leon's lips thinned, but he suspected she was probably right. In any case, the moment word of this reached certain parties in the Orlesian government, it was bound to have an effect. Likely it would be better for everyone involved if the Wardens were already gone by then. Still... he met eyes with Romulus. “Are you of the same mind, or a different one?"

"The same," Romulus answered, almost dismissively. It was somewhat obvious that he didn't feel like dealing with the issue presently. "If they're of a mind to leave, I don't see a reason to stop them. Weisshaupt puts them far from here, and far from Corypheus."

A disturbance nearby interrupted any further talk they may have had as a panicked voice rang out above the ambient noise. "Where is she!?" Ashton's voice, clear as day, demanded. From where Leon was, he could see the guard captain shoot out of the cot he was placed in to roughly snatch an attendant by the collar and begin shaking them. "Where?!" he demanded again, anger flooding his tone.

Carefully displacing Estella, Rilien stood. The look he gave Leon was easy enough to read, and he made his way swiftly to where Ashton was. “Put him down, Ashton." His hand reached up and deftly caught Ashton's by the wrist, though he didn't appear to try and force anything, perhaps expecting that the Guard-Captain would comply on his own.

There was a moment where Ashton did nothing but glare at Rilien, every emotion he felt written out on his face. Eventually, he finally released his grip on the attendant and let him fall to the ground. He said nothing afterward, leaning forward to press his chest against his knees and cradled the back of his head with both hands. Soon after that, his shoulders began to tremble.

Rilien didn't speak again either, merely gesturing for a different person to bring him several of his potions. He moved so as to be blocking most of the area's view of Ashton, cutting him off from Leon's sight as well. It was clear enough that he'd be handling the other man's medical care himself.

Leon doubted any amount of it would do anything for the biggest wound, but that wasn't something it was within anyone else's power to fix.

“I'll tell Stroud what you've decided. Get some rest, all of you." They'd done well to so much as survive, all of them.

Even if others had not.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
She was tired. From what she saw when she last drew water, Asala looked how she felt as well. Stark white hair frazzled at the ends and sticking up and out in places, dark bags settling in underneath her eyes, and a flush to her cheeks. At the very least she had managed to wash all the blood off of her hands, though the same could not be said for her robes. The injuries sustained by both Inquisition and Warden were not minor in any capacity of the word. Some had required more than what a potion and a liberal application of healing magic could provide. Shrapnel was the worst injury to try and treat. She closed her eyes and winced, trying to force her mind elsewhere.

It had only been two days since the siege on Adamant had ended, but her work still wasn't over. They'd moved as many of the injured as they could back to Griffon Wing Keep. The treatment tent had to be enlarged to fit them all and give enough room for the healers to work. Donovan and Millian looked a lot like she had when she left them, though they'd never complained, and never would. None of them would, because they worked with the reminder how much worse it could really be for them. They were still attending to some of the worse cases when she left. Asala would have remained with them, had she not a different job to perform at the moment.

Asala clutched a folder of papers to her chest as she left the treatment tent and headed toward the command tent. For the last couple of hours she had been collecting those reports from the attendants and working on her own to present to Leon. The folder contained the list of casualties the Inquisition had suffered during the siege, and even just carrying it put her in a morose and melancholy mood. They were... heavier for her than she'd ever let on. There was so much more to worry about at the moment than her own mental state.

As she approached the command tent, she passed Leon's lieutenant, Reed. She offered him a weak smile and nod of her head as they passed. Afterward, she gently pulled the back flap that led into the tent and called into it. "Leon?" she asked, stepping through the entrance, "I have the casualty report," she said, finally peeling the folder away from her chest at last.

The Commander sat at a desk, one of the more mobile folding ones that ended up in all the more official tents or occasionally usable rooms of the keep. They were still working on converting it for longer-term use, which was why most of the force were yet in tents instead. A rather large stack of paperwork sat on the right side of the desktop, a slightly smaller one on the left.

When she entered, Leon set his quill upright in the inkwell near his hand and glanced up at her. He frowned slightly, but it was swiftly gone. “Miss Asala. Please, take a seat." He gestured to the lonely extra chair in front of the desk, and then tilted his head at her. “Can I call for something to eat and drink, or have you already partaken this afternoon?"

She couldn't actually remember the last time she had sat down and ate. She wasn't even sure if she had eaten that day, but the pit in her stomach suggested not. Her eyes lingered on the chair for a moment before she shook her head in the negative, but... "I am sorry, but I have to get back..." she said, and for a moment she felt even more tired.

The frown returned, this time evidently more deliberate. “I'm afraid I must insist. Mage I may not be, but I understand the toll magic can take on a body. You cannot afford to neglect yours. If it helps, you can think of it as a vital step in providing the best care you can to those who are injured." Standing, he bypassed her to lean out of the command tent. Someone responded pretty quickly, and Asala could hear him conveying orders of some kind or another before he reentered.

He paused before resuming his spot. “Please. At least sit to deliver the report. You don't have to stand because it's official."

She looked down at the report in her hands and hesitated again. There were others that were far worse off than her, and she felt... wrong for wanting to rest. However, she felt as if she no longer had a choice in the matter, Leon did not seem he was going to accept no as an answer this time. So finally she sighed and relented, nodding her head and graciously accepting the empty seat. With the weight now off of them, she was keenly aware of how much fatigue had seeped into her legs, and now that she was no longer in motion, they felt like leaden weights. She sighed heavily and gave one last look to the folder in her hands before she gingerly placed it on the desk in front of her.

"I collected the reports from the other medical teams and organized them into the folder," she said, glancing at the folder, "There were a... substantial amount of wounded. We counted around five-hundred injured. Most will pull through, thankfully but..." she trailed off. It was enough seeing it first hand, repeating it did her no favors, "About one-hundred did not. We still do not yet know the full extent of our losses, and many are yet to be... accounted for," she said the last part with a wince. That meant that they were probably still out there somewhere, laying on the battlefield. She sighed again, and pinched the bridge of her nose while she slunk deeper into her chair.

Leon slid the report towards him, opening the folder with his bandaged hand. He looked to have been worn down by the past few days as well, though he seemed to hide it better than she did. The circles under his eyes were dark by comparison to his fair complexion, and his shoulders held slightly too far forward in a bit of a slump. He still sported heavy bandages; they'd had to swath not only his right arm, but also most of that side of his body—the dragon had bitten down at an angle, creating a half-moon of very deep punctures that had thankfully been kept short of his vital organs by the presence of his thick plate armor, which was now useless. He'd refused any further treatment until they were no longer dealing with patients in critical condition.

He flipped through the accumulated documentation, scanning each one carefully, then nodding and setting it aside. “Thank you for the update," he said. “It seems Vesryn and Cyrus still haven't woken. Could you explain what the situation is there?" From the report alone, all he'd know was that they hadn't died or left the care of the healers.

Asala shook her head and rubbed her face. She had taken those two and the other injured irregulars into her team's personal care. "Cyrus is still in critical condition," she said, the melancholy seeping into her voice. "He... He lost a lot of blood before we could staunch it. We put him in a tent by himself so that he can have clean air and... Estella and he can have their privacy." Estella had remained in the medical tent almost as much as Asala, keeping not only Cyrus company, but the others as well. "I have Millian attending to him personally and to let us know if anything changes."

Her hands eventually went to the collar of her robes, so that she would at least have something to hold on to while she spoke. "Vesryn... We were worried for a while, but fortunately his condition has stabilized. But he... should have woken by now," she said, her tone bleeding worry. In fact during the entire report her tone read worry. "The others are relatively fine, however," she said with a bright note. "I suggested bed rest for Khari but..." she was not the type to just lay in bed, and they both knew it, nor did she have the personnel to assign someone to watch her.

Leon managed a bit of a huff at that, a little sliver of amusement working its way onto his face. “I doubt she'd stay in one spot if I told her to," he admitted.

At that point, a throat cleared outside the tent. “Enter," Leon called, and two of the Inquisition's staff did just that, bearing what looked like two meals and then some. Lean cuts of meat, heaps of leafy greens and colorful vegetables, and heavy dark bread, baked with grains still in and slathered with butter. Exactly the sort of thing one should be eating if planning to undertake difficult labor.

When it was laid out, Leon took pieces of everything except the meat, leaving that quite untouched. “I'm glad to hear that your team is looking after them," he said, returning to his desk once the aides had left. There was a slight emphasis on the word 'your,' but it seemed he felt no need to make the point more acutely than that.

After a short pause for her to settle again with her food, he changed the topic slightly. “And how are you, Miss Asala? The battle with the dragon was difficult for you... in more than one way." That part, at least, was not a question. His tone suggested he was quite certain of it.

Asala had initially reached for the food, but saw a glimpse of her robes out of the corner of her eye. It was not the crimson one she had been gifted from Leon, but rather a standard white one she used while she worked with patients. Splotches of red stained various parts of the bleached cloth. She felt it in bad taste to eat with bloodstained clothes, so before started, she politely peeled the robes off and gently laid them on the back of her seat.

She sighed. She supposed he would've seen the glint in her eye when the dragon appeared. She was aware that everything she felt wrote itself clearly onto her face, especially so when she saw that thing. She did not answer the question immediately, picking at her food for a time first. "I was... angry," she admitted. Rage was always an unfamiliar feeling, but she couldn't mistake the burning she'd felt. "I... I remember when they told me how Meraad had died fighting it, and seeing it with my own eyes? I... I hated it," she said ashamed.

"I wanted... I wanted to make it pay."

Leon dipped his chin, taking a bite out of the rye bread and chewing methodically before he swallowed. When he did, he regarded her for a moment. His expression, as it often seemed to be, was a mild one. The revelation that she'd hated the foul creature, that she'd wanted to exact vengeance upon it, left him apparently unfazed.

“That's not an unusual way to feel," he observed. “I'm sure you saw, for example, how Khari behaved with Pike. Or even how Captain Rose and Sparrow did." Carefully, he cracked open what seemed to be some kind of nut with his fingers, setting the shell aside. “I've felt that way before, myself. I'm..." He trailed off, brows furrowing for a moment. “Sorry, that you know what that's like, now. It isn't a feeling I'd wish upon anyone, the way it sits and festers as it does."

Asala had looked up to him before he trailed off, but eventually returned her eyes to the plate in front of her. The thing was, she didn't regret how she felt. Meraad deserved justice, that thing deserved to pay for all that it had done. It was a pawn of Corypheus, and there was no doubt that they would face it again, so long as the Inquisition stood against Corypheus and his plans. They would have to get through it to get to him. Still, it was as he said. She did not like the way it felt inside her, and the burning she felt when she thought about the dragon, and about how it had taken her brother from her, and from Tammy.

"How do you..." she trailed off quietly, unsure of what to even ask. How to live with it? How to make it go away? She had no idea what words to put to the question, only that there was one she wanted to ask. Her hands had fallen from her plate, and now clutched the lip of the seat below.

“Don't let it define you," he replied, just as quietly. “That feeling—it's yours. It's part of you. I've found that it's better not to deny that." He said it with the tone of someone whose knowledge was of a personal sort. “But it need not be any more than that. A passing feeling. It might seem strange, but I think accepting it makes it easier to let it go, when the time comes."

Clearing his throat, Leon glanced back down at his plate. “Sorry. I don't mean to tell you what to do. Bad habit, I suppose." He tried for a smile, but it looked uncomfortable on his face.

Asala smiled despite herself. "Well... You are the commander. From my understanding it is... kind of your job?"

He actually rolled his eyes, there, his expression easing until it was something a bit more natural. “As I am often reminded. Takes a bit of getting used to." He exhaled heavily through his nose. “But while I'm giving out orders, I'll add another: take care of yourself, Miss Asala. And make sure your healers take care of themselves, too. The work you have to do is hard, but if you neglect yourselves in the process, it will only get harder."

"Yes. I will," she nodded. "Thank you, Leon," she added with a genuine smile.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
Lady Marceline once more stood in her officiator's position just off to the side of the carpet that led up to the Inquisitor's throne atop the raised dais. This time, it was decided that it would be Estella who would be the one to preside over the day's judgement. Marceline had received detailed reports of what had transpired in the Approach, and though she once respected the name of the Grey Warden, she was pleased to hear that they had been escorted out of Orlais by one of their own. In addition, once word spread that it was the Inquisition that had successfully sieged the Grey Wardens at Adamant Fortress, they would start to be realized as legitimate threats, for better or for worse. They were murky waters that she would have to navigate, but that would have to wait for a later time.

The other advisors, Ser Leonhardt and Ser Rilien, each stood at their customary positions around the throne, and Romulus likewise was nearby. Others were among them to witness the judgement as well. The Kirkwall Guard Captain stood on the other side of the carpet from her, and he looked tired-- but sober, fortunately. He had yet to shave, even for the day's proceedings and his armor sat haphazardly around his shoulders, but to his credit he remained standing at attention. Their respective captains of the mages and the templars also stood among them. It was her understanding that Aurora once had dealings with the accused, and all three of them were in Kirkwall during the time that he was active.

Eventually, Larissa moved out from behind her and handed off her clipboard. Marceline took a few seconds for herself to read over its contents before she finally spoke aloud. "Lady Inquisitor, if you are ready?" she asked, deferring to the Inquisitor for permission to begin.

Estella still sat gingerly in the ornate chair that served as throne, but her discomfort was masked very well otherwise. Her facial expression was placid, her shoulders back and her spine straight. She didn't dress to Marceline's own standards, but the way she presented herself wasn't anything to complain about either—polished light ringmail and dark leather trousers tucked neatly into tall boots. At the question, she took a visible breath and nodded, her eyes sliding to Ashton for a moment before she spoke. “Yes. Bring him in."

Ser Leonhardt didn't even need to repeat the command; the guards at the door heard Estella and opened it themselves, admitting two templars, who'd been chosen to escort Pike from his cell for the obvious reason. They respected the position they were in and his right to a trial, clearly, but neither did either look pleased to be in his company, and they brought him to stand before her briskly, backing off only half a foot once he was where they wanted him.

"Lady Inquisitor, I present to you the apostate and fugitive Elias Pike," She hid the disgust in her voice very well, and she let her eyes linger on the man only for a moment before they moved back to Estella.

That didn't stop a laugh from escaping Pike. Though she would've rather had it otherwise, Pike was brought to them ungagged. He had a right to a fair trial, and that meant being able to speak on his defense. She didn't expect much of a defense though. "Madame Inquisitor, it is... pleasant to see that you remain alive. Somehow," he said. One of the templars roughly shook him by his shoulder, but otherwise did nothing more, leaving Pike chuckling once more.

"The formal charges levied against him for the crimes committed as an accomplice to Corypheus are as follows," Marceline continued, preferring not to indulge the madman. "Crimes against the Order of the Grey Warden, blood magic and apostasy, attempted assassination of both Inquisitors, terrorist activities committed in the city of Kirkwall, and many, many others," she did not wish the read the entire list in her hands.

"What? No murder? Or is that filed under crimes against the order and what not?" Pike grinned and added sharply. A commotion arose from the other side of the carpet as Pike's words had set off Ashton, who was now trying to get to him.

The flighty bird-like woman stood closest to the large doors leading into the chamber. Sparrow's expression bellied many things, but managed to placate itself into a gloomy grimace. Her eyes were downcast as the proceedings continued. Even as Ashton’s hackles raised to meet Pike's glib remark, cutting through the room like a knife, she hadn’t moved. Perhaps, that was the greatest indication that she wished for Pike’s head to roll.

Leon stepped into Ashton's trajectory, physically blocking the other man from reaching Pike.

“Ashton. Please." Estella's tone was gentle, but there was a firmness to it that she rarely used. “He's entitled to speak for himself without reprisal." Her brows were heavy over her eyes, but she turned them resolutely back to Pike.

"Is he?" It was not so much as a question from the Guard Captain, but a statement. As someone with a family of her own, Marceline felt it... understandable. She couldn't, or even wouldn't imagine what he was going through. But despite that, Estella was right. Eventually, after casting glares around the room, Ashton reeled himself in, but he didn't relax. It was Aurora who gently grabbed him by the arm and drew him back, and even after she did not remove her hand.

Pike on the other hand seemed surprised. Not at Ashton's outburst, but Estella's words. He stared at her with his brows raised, putting his feral eyes on display for everyone to see. "I am?" he asked, rather incredulously. Eventually, his features settled back into a smirk. "Then I didn't do it. See, the Wardens and the Templars? They did it to themselves. They set themselves up for the fall. I was simply the push over the edge they needed," he said with shrugged. "It would've happened regardless."

“And if you push someone off a bridge, it's still attempted murder," Estella pointed out. It was a passable imitation or Rilien, actually. She sighed through her nose, turning to her advisors. “There is also the matter of Kirkwall to consider," she said quietly, but left a silence for them to speak.

Leon took the opportunity first. “There is no comparing the magnitude of his various crimes. We have as much right to pass judgement here as Kirkwall does, and they as much as us." He glanced back at Ashton for a moment. “We should be careful not to allow personal feelings to interfere here, however. Justice must be blind."

Ser SĂ©verine cleared her throat from the side of the room. "Lady Inquisitor, if I may..." she paused, evaluating the prisoner before her. It was obvious she had significant disdain for Pike, but she was doing well to keep her tone neutral, and her expression. "This mage has proven time and time again that he is a danger to everyone around him. With the forces he meddles with, and the stability of his mind, or lack thereof, it would seem to me that he is a danger to himself as well. I... would not normally suggest the Rite of Tranquility as punishment, but if there is a mage deserving of it, I believe it would be this one." There were more templars than usual in the hall for the judgement, and a few of them could be heard murmuring in approval.

The Knight-Captain's gaze turned to Estella. "If I have suggested too much, please don't hesitate to correct me. But I'm sure you remember the sight of the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall as well as I do. I would not see such a thing happen again."

“That is not a solution. If we are to kill him, let us simply kill him. Destroying every trace of his identity and letting him wander in a shell is no mercy. And if he deserves none, you would do better to put him to the sword." Rilien delivered the words into the void that followed, his own dull tone a reminder that he knew perhaps better than any of the rest ever could just what the suggestion of tranquility really entailed. He did not seem offended by the suggestion, merely to be inspecting it in his typical logical fashion.

"I agree with Rilien, tranquility should never be an answer," unlike Rilien, Aurora spoke with a deep frown. As a mage herself, and captain of the Inquisition's mage forces, Aurora had numerous dealings with tranquil. Perhaps it was an emotional response from the captain, in spite of Leon's words, but Marceline found herself in agreement with Rilien. Sparrow nodded in accession, though she made no comment.

"An execution would be far more efficient than the Rite of Tranquility, while also not upsetting the mage faction that has allied with us," And allowing their Inquisitor to order Pike be made into a tranquil would do just that. It also appeared that the man himself understood this, as he stood with a grin, unperturbed of the talk of his possible tranquility. Either that, or he was well and truly mad. It was difficult to tell, in all honesty.

It was Aurora who spoke again, this time to Estella. "I believe he should be sent to Kirkwall to stand trial in front of Sophia and the Templars who remain there," she said with a thin frown. "He was once of the Kirkwall circle, it's only fitting that he should receive justice where it all began," she added as she crossed her arms.

Estella sat back slightly in the chair, clearly deep in thought. It was unclear what she thought of the suggestion to make Pike tranquil, or of the other options available to them. It took her several minutes to straighten fully again. When she did, she sighed slightly. “I can understand why everyone thinks as they do. But I believe matters between Pike and the city of Kirkwall are even less resolved than his business with us." It made a certain amount of sense; the situation with the Grey Wardens had been more or less resolved. Kirkwall had as of yet had no chance to seek justice for what had become of the Chantry there.

“I remand you to Captain Riviera's custody, on the understanding that you will be safely transported to Kirkwall to face judgement by the Viscountess and answer for your crimes. Lady Marceline, if you would be willing to provide them also with an official account of our evidence for his other deeds, I believe Lady Sophia should be given the most accurate picture possible of what he has done."

Ashton turned toward Estella, already shaking his head in the negative. "No," it was a quick, sharp answer. He winced afterward as if he hadn't meant to sound so venomous, and began slower in the following attempt. "No... I can't. You don't want me to be the one escorting him. He wouldn't make it," he said, shooting a dangerous glare Pike's direction. The other man simply shrugged the glare off and began looking around Skyhold, apparently bored with the conversation taking place.

"I suggest sending him to Kirkwall before I take my leave."

"If my services are not required here for a short time," Knight-Captain SĂ©verine suggested, "I would be willing to escort the prisoner to Kirkwall with a small detachment of my templars. You have my word no harm will come to him, forgive my earlier suggestion. I will gladly trust the judgement of Lady Sophia." The other benefit to SĂ©verine was obvious. She had previously mentioned serving in Kirkwall for some time, and had not been able to return since her departure on orders to observe the Lord Seeker's activities.

Estella nodded easily. “All right. Ser SĂ©verine's custody, then." She glanced to the templars at guard, who stepped up behind Pike and took hold of his arms once more, ushering him down the long runner.

Sparrow only stayed long enough to hear Estella’s decision being made, though it was difficult to tell if she was at all happy with the results. By the pinch of her mouth and the tightness in her fists, she might’ve thought it best to simply kill him there. Perhaps, she would have done so if it were her choice to make. She passed behind Ashton and settled a hand across his shoulder, feathering it across to the other, before sliding out the door as if she’d never been there in the first place. No words could replace what was lost. So, she offered none.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Estella stood, descending the dais as though she couldn't be away from it soon enough. “I'm sorry, Ashton; I didn't mean to suggest anything you didn't think you were up to." Her remorse broke clearly through the veneer of stoicism she wore; she pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. “That was it for today, right?" The question was directed at Marceline.

Marceline glanced down to the clipboard in her hand and after a moment of inspecting it she nodded. "Yes Lady Inquisitor, that should be it," she answered, holding out the clipboard for Larissa to melt back into view for a second to take.

"Actually," Ashton spoke up, causing a few set of eyes to turn his direction. He met a couple of them before turning his gaze on someone specific. "Rilien, if you can, I have a favor," he said, crossing the carpet so that he did not have to speak to him across the room. "I... Can you get a letter to Lucien for me?" he said, sighing deeply. "He... I want to be the one to tell him about Nos. He'd want to know."

Rilien blinked in typical owlish fashion, then inclined his head. “Of course. Do you already have the letter you would like to send, or should I wait for you to pen it?"

"I still need to pen it," Ashton noted, "I'll see that you get it soon." His hands then went to his head, his fingers running through his thick brown hair. "How about Ithilian and Amalia? Do you know where we can get into contact with them? They should know too." He asked.

The tranquil shook his head. “No one here knows where they are. If we encounter them before you do, I will see that they are informed. If you wish to leave a letter for them in case that happens, I will keep it for you." Rilien folded his arms into his sleeves.

Ashton forced a tiny laugh. It was a hoarse, dry creature, without any mirth. "I... think I'll leave that to you. I've only got one in me, I'm afraid," he said with a broken smile.

Rilien did not argue, simply dipping his chin again in acknowledgment. “As you wish."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon sat patiently on one of the beds in the infirmary, awaiting his turn for treatment like everyone else. He supposed he could have enforced some kind of priority for himself, but he felt absolutely no inclination to do so. He wasn't here for anything terribly complicated anyway. Rilien was busy, and he needed help dealing with a few of the more troubling symptoms of his condition.

There were only a couple of healers on duty, seeing to practice injuries and more mundane illnesses as usual—there couldn't have been more than a dozen people to see on the average day, perhaps. A far cry from the chaos immediately after a battle. Leaning against the wall behind him, Leon tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the ambient noise of everyday activity wash over him. Underneath all of it, he was painfully aware of the workings of his own body: heartbeat, breath rate, the pulsing throb behind his temples, the much vaguer pains in his hands, and the deep ache that he was certain would never leave his bones.

Perhaps one day, he would be free of it. He did not look forward to such an occasion.

"Leon?" He needn't open his eyes to recognize Asala's lilting voice. Though when he did, he saw Asala approaching outfitted in set of white infirmary robes, these fortunately lacking the bloodstains the last one he saw her in had. "What can I help you with?" she asked, taking a seat in an adjacent bed.

Now there was a question with several possible answers. Leon turned his head slightly so he was meeting her eyes properly, but otherwise he didn't move much. “Good afternoon, Miss Asala. I was rather hoping you had something on-hand for headaches. Also, I seem to have split my knuckles during practice about an hour ago, so if there's some sort of healing tonic available, I'd very much appreciate it." He shifted so that the hand in question was visible. One of his calluses had indeed cracked, a much less frequent occurrence since he'd started regularly medicating it with ointments and lotions, but one that did still happen from time to time. Something of an occupational hazard, when he trained without gauntlets.

The crack was still oozing blood at a sluggish rate, but he'd at least staunched it himself already, as well as cleaning and disinfecting the initial injury. Were he not in the company of good healers, he'd have had to stitch it manually, in all likelihood. It was nice to be able to push a bit harder, knowing the solutions were less... time-consuming.

Asala held out her hand to receive Leon's own, and once she had it she looked at the injury. It was a relatively minor one, in comparison of the number of other injuries she dealt with on any given day. Apparently satisfied with the once over, she let her other hand hover over the injury and with a flash of magic the oozing stopped, replaced by a fresh scab. She then smiled at him and nodded, "Of course." With that simple answer, she stood and went to the cabinet that held the infirmary's medical supplies. She flipped through a few items, collected a few and returned only moments later.

First, she handed him a small muted crimson vial-- evidently smaller dose of the standard healing potion, "For the headache-- and it will help the healing process," she said, before handing him a small pouch. Judging from the shapes poking through the fabric, it held a few more vials. "In case you get any more." The next item she held for him to take was a roll of bandages, "Do you, uh, bandage your hands before you practice?" She asked, with a tilt of her head. "Aurora says the extra padding helps with the bruising."

“I do," he confirmed, offering a half-smile. “I'm quite sure I wouldn't have hands left, otherwise." Uncorking the vial she'd handed him by itself, he threw his head back and downed the potion in a single swallow. The relief wasn't immediate, settling in slowly instead, and Leon exhaled heavily, blinking. “My thanks."

"Did someone mention bruising?" the question came from Vesryn, the elf stumbling into the infirmary. He had quite a lot of that bruising already; he'd sloughed off his gear enough to reveal quite a few working their way up his arms, and his hands as well. He looked to have taken several blows to the head, too, though judging by the lack of severity he'd been wearing his helmet at the time.

Despite all that he seemed to still be in his usual good mood, and worked his way over to an empty bed, which he settled himself into with a sigh. "A small red bear attacked me, Asala. I don't know if you've seen many bears here in the Frostbacks, but even the small ones are quite ferocious. And the red ones are particularly strong."

"Bears?" Asala was taken aback by the revelation. "I--I have not seen any bears. We have bears?" she glanced between Leon and Vesryn for only a moment before she hurried to his side, immediately beginning to inspect them. It was in the middle of her cursory inspection that she realized something. "But... I do not see any claw marks?"

"I convinced the bear to engage in more honorable hand-to-paw combat, you see," Vesryn whispered, smiling conspiratorially. "If she comes back, I'll just have to fight her again."

Leon snorted, unable to stop that from turning into a bass-toned chuckle. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. “Fear not, I know this particular bear. She would never attack unprovoked. And I do believe she's quite susceptible to bribery, at least in the form of food." He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled mildly.

"But... Why..." she stammered, unsure which line of questioning she should follow up on. The wheels turned in her head and her gaze switched between Vesryn and Leon, "... Hand-to-paw combat?" she added before she held up a hand. She simply sighed and shook her head, and apparently opted to instead just give up. She instead lit a healing spell in both hands and began diligently working on Vesryn's bruises.

“'Bear' is a metaphor, Miss Asala," Leon said, taking pity on her rather than making things worse. “What Vesryn is saying is that he was in a sparring match with Khari, and gained his bruises that way." He turned his attention to the elf then, though, tipping his head somewhat to the side. “Though I believe last time this happened, she was a fair bit worse off than you. I confess I'm a little surprised she's not here as well."

Asala's head whipped toward Leon when he revealed that Khari was the red bear, and a fraction of a second later she was staring at Vesryn with an annoyed pout. It was subtle, but Leon could make out Asala poking one of his fresh bruises with a finger.

"Ow!" he frowned up at her, not unlike a devious child that had just been scolded. "You should go and give him a poke, too. He played along for a bit." Shaking his head, he looked to Leon, his expression settling into seriousness. "Last time I had the help of an ancient arcane warrior in my head. I've begun practicing without her aid, for my own reasons. Khari's a fair bit better than me, it seems, when I don't have Saraya."

"Wait, who... who is Saraya?" Asala asked. Her pout had morphed into a rather curious look.

Vesryn looked quite skeptical for a moment, looking up at Asala from the bed. "You don't know yet? I thought this was the worst kept secret among the irregulars."

"You are... not going to make me feel foolish again, are you?" Asala asked Vesryn, her own face reading skepticism.

"The little red bear of Skyhold is more believable, probably, but this one's true. I assure you." There was no jest to his tone.

“I'm going to let you do the explaining on this one," Leon said, clear amusement seeping into his voice, though tempered by Vesryn's own solemnity. “I, on the other hand, should probably be getting back to work. Best of luck in your bear-fighting endeavors, Vesryn. I suspect it's obvious by now, but don't count on wearing her out." He stood, taking up the small satchel of potions Asala had given him, and lifted a hand in farewell to the both of them before ducking out of the entrance.

The infirmary wasn't too far from his own tower, though it wasn't quite as close by as Rilien's was. It still didn't take him long to get back, walking along the wall and allowing himself a small moment to notice the view before he continued back inside.

“Romulus." He was a little surprised to see the Inquisitor in his office, but not unpleasantly so. “My apologies; I had to make a trip to the infirmary. Is there something you needed?" Setting the satchel down on the edge of his desk, Leon moved his attention back to Romulus, unsure if he should sit or if this would require him to leave the tower again.

"Commander, ah... Leon." Romulus also wasn't sure whether to sit or not. He had been initially, in one of the seats on the other side of Leon's desk, but he got to his feet when Leon entered, only to look back down at the chair as though he regretted ever leaving. "I wanted to speak to you about something I saw while I was in the Fade. If you have a moment." He looked uncertain about it, to say the least, but he was here still, and knowing his hesitance had probably thought over his actions for a good deal of time already.

“Ah. Well, in that case, let's sit." Leon took the one behind his desk, moving aside a stack of paperwork currently obstructing his view of the chair and its occupant. He wasn't sure exactly what this topic was going to be, but perhaps there was some new piece of intelligence or information that had only now occurred to Romulus. He elected not to start taking notes unless he figured them necessary later, so he folded his hands together on the desktop.

“What was it that you saw?"

Romulus seemed to appreciate the suggestion of sitting, and sank back down into the chair. "It... had to do with you, specifically." He gave that a moment to sit, and then explained. "We were separated initially, but regrouped in a graveyard. The tombstones there had our names, and listed under them were fears, or feared causes of death, or... something. Yours just said 'time.'" He wound his hands together in front of him, studying Leon perhaps for a reaction, if any. "I feel like I might've helped Khari a bit with hers, I just thought I might be able to help you, too. With whatever it is you might be dealing with. I don't know if anyone else saw it."

Leon knew he wasn't completely able to hide his surprise. His lips parted for a moment, shock followed by resignation flitting over his face. “Well," he murmured, leaning his weight back into his chair. It creaked softly in protest, then settled. “It's the slowest weapon to strike, but the only one that never misses. Time takes us all... some more quickly than others." He knew why that word had appeared specifically for him, if those were the parameters, but he wasn't sure he wished to speak of it. Still... perhaps he should.

Romulus looked more uncertain than ever after the initial reception, as though he might flee on a moment's notice. Despite that, he stayed put, taking a moment to figure out what exactly he wanted to say. "Nightmare struck at us very personally. Mine said 'became a monster.' It was in keeping with my fears about what I've done in the past, and my fear of... corrupting the Inquisition, I suppose. Of always being a wicked person." He shifted uncomfortably in the seat. His eyes didn't seem able to settle on anything for long, but when they finally found Leon again, they stayed there.

"If you'd prefer I leave it be, I'll go. We can forget I brought it up. It just occurred to me that... you're our Commander. You look out for all of us as best you can, try to make sure all of us are at our best. But someone should be looking out for you, too. Maybe you already have that taken care of, but I thought I might be able to help. I want to, if I can."

Leon's eyes fell to the desktop for a moment; one hand reached up and rubbed uncomfortably at the light stubble on his jaw. “No... no, you're quite right. It's unfair that I ask the rest of you not to keep important things from me and then keep them from you." Strictly speaking, Rilien knew what was going on, and Leon had no doubt he'd be able to deal with it quite effectively if it ever came to that, but he shouldn't be keeping this from everyone else. Especially not those who relied on his advice.

And... he could not deny the impulse to tell someone else, to at least ease the weight of it a little bit. “I hope you'll bear with me if I take a bit of a roundabout way to get to it, but... it's not the easiest thing to understand, without all the information." Well, maybe the two-word version was, but any particular amount of detail required some background, anyway.

He finally moved his eyes back up, sighing slightly. “Forgive me, I'm not certain of Tevinter cultural knowledge on this matter, or yours. Do you know what a reaver is?"

He thought for a moment on the word, but then shook his head. "I don't think so. Assuming you're not referring to a reaver in the normal sense of the word."

“Ah, no. Not in the usual sense." Though he supposed there might well be people who were both. Letting his hand fall back to the desk, Leon explained. “A reaver is a particular type of warrior, one who uses the blood of dragons to tap into their potential, and who draws strength from pain and injury. It's a form of alchemical blood magic, actually; or the initial concoction is."

Needless to say, he'd been quite surprised when Ophelia explained it to him. That a Seeker would make use of something even distantly related to blood magic was almost impossible for him to believe at the time. It wasn't the first time she had made the world seem a little less black and white, and it wouldn't be the last. He shared the view, now. “Most of those of us who walk that path need only drink the tincture once. The magic takes quite easily, with such a potent reagent." That much, he was sure Romulus would understand better than most, as someone who seemed to know a fair bit of alchemy himself.

"Dragon's blood..." Romulus repeated, thoughtful. "I knew it had some powerful properties, but I've never had the chance to learn much about its uses." He looked more interested than disturbed. If anything, he took the revelation of his commander utilizing a form of blood magic quite well. It was likely he too did not think of the forbidden school in black and white terms. But there was a clear bit of concern on his face as well.

"Strong potions usually have strong side effects," he said, with a degree of certainty. "And rarely can the positive ones be separated from the negative."

“Quite," Leon said, inclining his head. “And it's also important to understand that I'm... unusually resistant to the effects of the reaver tincture. I have to take new doses nearly every time I enter battle, and that has been accelerating the long-term effects considerably." He glanced down at his hands, splayed on the desktop. The knuckles were callused and scarred, evidence of just how many times he'd torn them open. He didn't have the heart to tell Asala that wrapping them made no difference when he struck as hard as he did.

He flexed his left a bit, closing it into a fist and then opening it again. “And as it happens, I can't simply stop taking it. I find that... something stops me from killing. Even when I think it is necessary. Taking the tincture is the only way I can bring myself to do it." When that power hummed in his body, when his heartbeat was loud enough in his ears, it could drown out even his conscience. At least for a time.

“As you might expect, time is therefore a very mighty enemy indeed. I am dying, and I do not know how long it will take."

That seemed to affect Romulus a fair bit, and he sat up a little straighter, rubbing at the back of his neck. "That's..." He trailed off, mouth hanging open for a moment. "That's really unfortunate. I don't suppose... would it affect your other duties apart from battle if you were to stop taking it? If fighting with us is killing you..." He left the rest unsaid. The Inquisition had a growing army with a victory under its belt now. It seemed possible that the commander of their forces might not need to fight at the front. Though the tone Romulus suggested it with was not very strong, implying he didn't believe the idea had weight himself.

Leon smiled a bit, approximating his usual mild expression, though he wasn't entirely sure he replicated it exactly. “I doubt it would make too much difference at this point," he confessed. “But even if it did... it may not be necessary for me to take the field as often as some of the rest of you, but I cannot remain behind when there are fortresses to be sieged or demon armies to be felled. Our soldiers are well-trained, and stouthearted, but I will not let any of them die to foes I could have felled with little trouble."

His training was simply well above par, and his experience sufficient to ensure that he could do much in a battle that most simply could not. “It is just as important for morale that I be present when it counts. What kind of confidence would it show, if I hid behind the lines just when things became most difficult?" He shook his head. “Everyone dies of something sometime. This is... if there is a sword I would prefer to fall on, what we do here is it."

Romulus looked like he might pick something there to argue with, but in the end he restrained it, falling silent for a long moment before he nodded. "I'm sure you've thought a lot about this. Is there anything I can do to help?"

“That's kind of you," Leon said, the smile relaxing until it felt more natural on his face. “I haven't simply given up, for what it is worth. Rilien is working on some kind of alchemical solution. Perhaps if anything from your own expertise in the area strikes you as relevant to the problem, you wouldn't mind sharing the thought with him." He also really did need to talk to Cyrus about this, but that would have to be at some later date. “In the meantime, I only ask that this remain between us. I need to inform a few others, I know, but... I would like to be the one who does that. I promise I shan't wait long."

"Of course. I'll keep this to myself." The Inquisitor got up out of his seat, rubbing his hands together slowly. "I'll see if I can come up with anything, though I doubt I would have the necessary knowledge without being in contact with my... teacher." That thought obviously did not sit well with him, but he pushed it aside quickly enough.

"Thank you for telling me, Leon."

“And thank you, Romulus, for listening." He was surprised by how wholehearted the sentiment was. Perhaps telling the others would not be so bad, after all.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Cyrus leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His workshop was only barely big enough for the four people in it, but part of that might have been because Leon was one of them. Zahra and Romulus were also present, the three of them being Asala's choices to aid her in her endeavors. As far as he knew, she had told them that she needed their help in something relating to her attempts to better her skills at healing. He would have to do the rest.

The spirit was on the finicky side, which just figured, but it also had a more definite shape and personality than many of its kin, which would be of great help to Asala in the learning process, if she could prove herself to it. Something which it seemed he was now partially responsible for trying to ensure.

He cleared his throat softly. “Thank you for coming. No doubt it has struck you that Asala is not present, despite being the one to ask you here. That is quite intentional." Cyrus crossed one of his legs in front of the other. “What she is about to undergo is a trial, of sorts. A test, laid out by a spirit that she'll be forming a bond with, if successful. All of you will have a part in that, as well, and it's important that she not know what that part is." He paused a moment to let that sink in. “So first I must ask: are you willing to deceive her for a short period of time, for the purpose of the trial? No one will be in any danger from the deception, but I am aware that she is rather... endeared, to you, and you may not want to participate for that reason."

Leon looked immediately uncomfortable, but he didn't decline. Instead, he shifted a bit in his chair and tipped his head to the side. “What, exactly, are we to deceive her about?" The question was delivered with careful neutrality.

“The level of danger." Cyrus pressed his lips into a line momentarily, then elaborated. “She is going to believe that we are fighting demons. In fact, we will be fighting illusions that are made to look like demons. The crucial element of the trial is that she continue to believe they are as they appear. Equally important is that she be the one to decide what becomes of them. That is, she decides whether or not to 'kill' them, and we do as she asks. None of us will be at any risk, but she needs to think we are."

Romulus looked thoughtful, and certainly not comfortable, but that was not a new phenomenon for him. He stood rather than sat, hovering somewhere near the door. "If there is no danger to her if she fails the trial, I'm willing to deceive her."

“There isn't." Cyrus confirmed it with a half-smile. Of course, the trial was posed by a Compassion spirit—the very idea of putting the subject of the trial in actual peril was likely anathema to it. But of course, such knowledge was elusive; he certainly didn't expect Asala would think about it quite that way in any case.

Zahra’s look was one of reproach, though
 she clearly understood that this was important to Asala and Cyrus both. It’s why she’d come, after all. She’d taken a spot beside Leon’s chair and had her hands planted on her hips. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she studied Cyrus for a moment, “Well, as long as she’s safe. I’m game then.”

Cyrus nodded slowly. “All right then. The rest of this is quite easy, for you. All you have to do is go to sleep as normal tonight. I will link everyone's dreams, and we'll proceed from there to the spirit." At that point, Asala would receive her task, and the deception itself would begin.



It was around two hours after midnight that Cyrus allowed himself to slip into the Fade, dozing in one of the chairs in his workshop. He'd told everyone else to be asleep by then, naturally or otherwise. As soon as he was there, he took a moment, extending his senses to feel out the dreams in Skyhold. There were hundreds of them, but it wasn't too difficult to find the ones he wanted. The commander was closest this evening, so he struck off in that direction first.

The Fade around him began to shift almost as soon as he decided what he was seeking. It rippled, turning a healthier shade of green, the ground blanketing itself in jade-hued grass. A soft dirt footpath spread beneath the dreamer's feet, almost as if inviting him forward. White-wood gazebos and planter boxes sat in orderly rows in front of a modest home made of the same, each host to little plant-shoots. Herbs and vegetables, from the look of it.

In front of the house itself, a bare patch of grass played host to a pair of young children, both platinum-blonde, with eyes of pale violet. The little girl chased the older boy with a toy sword made of polished wood, both of them laughing, the sound twining with some unseen breeze and the rustle of leaves into a subtle song, light and silvery on the ears. Sitting in a sturdy wooden chair, more relaxed than Cyrus had ever seen him in life, was an unarmored Leon, garbed simply in a loose white shirt and tan breeches. A pipe rested in his mouth, fragrant smoke curling into the air to be carried away on the wind. He looked older, perhaps in his forties, but Cyrus could see the true Leon underneath it as well, a strange double-image.

The older man's hands were bare, his scars long healed over until they had almost disappeared. He did not seem to notice Cyrus at first, his attention split between the worn book in his hands and the children running about the yard.

He'd always suspected the commander would prefer a life of this kind. It was obviously not something that had already come to pass, based on Leon's own appearance. But though he could have made a snarky quip about the domestic life, he held his tongue. Even to him, there was something about it that was... he sighed under his breath. The hazy halcyon filter over the scene was as much a product of Leon as anything. Cyrus was filled with a sort of warmth utterly foreign to him. Well, no—not quite foreign. Sometimes, in Estella's company, he felt thus. When nothing else was complicating matters.

“Leon." He said it softly, omitting the other man's title. Even to Cyrus, it was clear he was not a commander here. Nor a seeker, for that matter.

That drew his attention, both the commander and the middle-aged man that overlaid his image turning towards the source of the voice. It took a second for recognition to spark in his eyes, but it did, almost immediately. The light level seemed to dim a few notches in the same moment. He removed the pipe from his mouth, lowering his hand to the armrest of the chair. “Ah. Cyrus." He smiled slightly, but it was a little sad. “May I have a few more moments, before we go? I don't get this one often." His gaze shifted to the children.

Cyrus nodded, perhaps needlessly. The commander's clearheadedness extended even here, it seemed. Some people had much more difficulty realizing that a dream was a dream. With a thought, he produced a second chair next to Leon's and took it. His own familiar pipe was in his hands a moment later, and he lit it with a flame over his fingertip, sitting back and inhaling deeply. He exhaled through his nose, gesturing to the kids with his chin.

“Are they yours?"

“I would that they were," Leon admitted, his tone fond. “Even my dreams can't ever quite conjure the faces of my own children. Nor a mother for them. Perhaps even I find that too unbelievable." His smile was a little self-deprecating. “My niece and nephew, when last I saw them. My brother Gerwulf's. Cristofer and Alarica." Not unexpectedly, the children continued to chase each other around as though the adults weren't present at all. Already the world around them was slowly dissolving, returning to the Fade-realm it was underneath.

Abruptly, Alarica turned, flouncing over to them and reaching out a hand. Leon lifted his to meet it, scoffing softly under his breath when the touch went right through her fading form. She and her brother vanished, leaving Cyrus and Leon standing alone on yellowed-brown Fade dirt.

“Shall we go, then?"

Cyrus cleared his throat. He'd seen all kinds of dreams before, but... rarely did he intrude on those of living people. Especially not people he knew. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"Let's."

The Fade rippled and shifted around them as they stepped away from Leon’s dream space. The remnants of greenery dropped away like a velvet curtain to reveal a starker image. It bloomed into the interior of a home, stacking up wooden walls to form a large living room. One that might have belonged to someone who lavished in wealth, of what Zahra might have perceived to be Tevinter decorum. The colors were vibrant: painfully so. Absent was the feeling of serene repose. Instead, there was a pervasive sense of dread.

There was an unnatural silence settling among the extravagant furniture like an unwanted audience. Every other noise sounded augmented. Impossibly so. The rattling of a door handle, and the stomping of approaching footsteps. One sounded much softer, slighter by far. The other was much more aggressive, stomping rather than walking—chasing at the smaller steps. The furthest door burst open and slammed against the adjacent wall, nearly clattering against the diminutive woman who was pushing her way into the room.

She appeared smaller than Cyrus or Leon remembered. Both in spirit and physical stature. A younger image of Zahra, reflected against herself: dripping in gold and rubies, eyes cast down and shoulders bunched. There was an anger there, resonating in the furrow of her brows. Her hair was bound in an unusual fashion. No longer wild and free. She wore an equally unusual dress, imprinted with fish. It was ripped and frayed at the edges, tattered and stained with mud.

The second person—man
 entered only seconds after her, grappling at her slender shoulders, fingers digging and turning her around to face him. Dark-haired and handsome, if his face wasn’t contorted. Betrayal dripped from his eyes as he shook her, gripping her chin and holding her in place, “Fasta vass.”

She cowed under him, eyes watery and mouth pinched. Though she said nothing.

“You abandoned me, you bitch. Me.” He drew her face closer to his, still pinched between his fingers, before exhaling sharply through his nose. There was a feral look that shifted and pulsed across his face, as if there was a double-image of a much more placid man underneath. “That was a mistake. One you’ll regret.”

Cyrus had considerably less trouble interrupting this. "Zahra. Captain Tavish. Yours is the power, here." He gave her title the emphasis quite on purpose, crossing his arms over his chest. Next to him, Leon scowled and mimicked his body language.

“Captain?” It was the first sound Zahra had made so far. Confusion tinged her words, as if she weren’t quite sure what to make of it. Tears streaked down her cheeks, which were still bound in the man’s hand—though not for long. The man growled and shoved at her hard, causing her to trip up on her dress and fall onto her side.

He took a step forward and smothered the hem of her dress under his dirty boots, eyes glowering towards the interrupters, “Who the hell are you?” A sneer curled on his lips as he turned his attention down at Zahra, “Is this how you repay me? Whoring yourself out to whoever would take you?” A hand feathered over the pommel of a blade, hanging at his hip. Whether he was too much of a coward to actually use it, he didn’t immediately pull it free.

There was a moment of silence that stretched between them before Zahra shifted at his feet. She moved a hand across the surface of the floor and appeared as if she were trying to regain her feet. A cold, curt laugh cut through as he ground the heel of his boot into her fingers, causing her to cry out, "She is mine. You understand? Mine to do as I wish. Get out, now. Before I call the guards."

Cyrus made a sound approaching disgust. Most of the people he knew treated their slaves better than this, and that was quite the low bar to be using. "Commander, if you would be so kind as to keep this rancid pustule out of our way?" He smiled sharply at the man in question then stepped around him, crouching in front of Zahra, though at a respectable distance, draping his arms on his knees.

“With pleasure," Leon rumbled, one hand reaching out to take hold of the man's collar. He bodily lifted him off the ground, and consequently off Zahra's fingers, walking them both out of the room with an even, unhurried stride.

"Now what's all this?" Cyrus tilted his head at Zahra. "You've never struck me as the type to let some fool tell you what to do, Captain. You'd have stuck an arrow in his eye, no? That sounds more like you, don't you think?" He supposed he could force the dream to vanish, but there was a grain of truth in his words. He didn't think she needed rescuing from this, not really. She was more than capable of taking hold of the dream herself, if she could recognize it for what it was.

A trembling sigh sounded as the pressured released from Zahra’s fingers, which she snapped up and held tight to her chest. She hadn’t tried to stand once more, though she’d turned to regard the man in front of her. There was the briefest flash of recognition, as if a veil was being pulled off her face. It took her a moment before she wiped at her red-rimmed eyes with her palms, knuckling the tears away.

“Cyrus,” spoken against her fingers, which she dropped back down to her lap. A laugh crooked its way out of her throat. Self-inflictive and bitter. In that moment she looked much more like herself. Bedraggled hair and all. “You’re right. I would have.” She blinked once more, warding the last remnants of something away before looking down at her dress.

“I was hoping you’d of walked in on a much different dream. A brothel or—” she shook her head and kicked at her dress with her bare feet. She stared at it a moment longer before swinging her gaze back to Cyrus, holding one of her hands out, “Help me up?”

"Admittedly, I also would have found the brothel dream more pleasant. Though I wonder about the Commander." That was an entertaining thought, actually. He smiled broadly at her and clasped her hand in his left, rising to his feet and helping her to hers. Leon entered again; no doubt the fellow had faded out. The rest of the dream followed, and he fixed his attention on the direction he could sense Romulus, leading them down another Fade-path.

"Two down, two to do, I suppose."

The Fade next gave way to a dark city at night. Dark mostly because the towers, spires, and lesser buildings on all sides of them were indistinct, shadowy shapes. Unimportant, irrelevant. The general shape, though... Cyrus did not have to strain to figure it out. Minrathous, and not a particularly desirable part of it. Every city had its underbelly, and they were standing in this one. More shadowy forms passed them by, paying them no mind, going about their imagined days. Before them was the only well-defined building. A blocky-shaped tavern, warm light flooding out from the inside. It was no Herald's Rest, that was certain, but it didn't lack for personality.

There was little to do but head inside. The room inside the front door was a bland entryway more akin to a closet than anything, and they were immediately drawn to the light and noise and heat emanating from downstairs. A few shadows of shapes passed them on the way down, slowly starting to form faces. Wisps of memory, people that were only vaguely remembered. They headed down the stairs into the tavern proper.

A heavy warmth greeted them, along with ceaseless, jovial noise, punctuated by the odd bit of drunken anger. It was more akin to a basement than a proper place of drinking and socializing, but the people made do. The patrons of the establishment were humans and elves. One Qunari who sat in the corner, keeping to himself and drinking away. All of them, the dregs of Tevinter society. The lowliest of swill drinks for the lowliest of servants and slaves that had saved or stolen enough coin to pay for it. There was one notable exception, however.

Khari sat at the bar, her bastard sword displayed proudly across her back, and prompting everyone nearby to give her a good deal of room. That said, she was commanding attention with a story. No matter how closely they listened, they couldn't make out any of the words. The only thing that seemed relevant was how clear and in focus she was, dressed in her cobbled-together armor she'd worn all the way back in Haven. The clearer voices came from the opposite corner of the tavern from the Qunari. At a table where two men sat.

"I've taken care of everything, Rom. C's never gonna know. C'mon, man, it was a lot of trouble and you're just sitting there." This came from a young, boyish looking elf, with shaggy, dirty blonde hair and dark green eyes. He didn't sit still in his chair for more than a few seconds at a time.

"She always finds out," Romulus answered. By contrast, he wasn't moving at all, just sitting perfectly still, a near empty tankard held loosely in one hand. "And besides, what am I supposed to say?"

The young elf made a pfft sound in disapproval. "How about, 'hi, I'm Rom, the Herald of fucking Andraste and the man who walked the Fade, twice. Please follow me to the place my best friend secured for the night so we can work on our wrestling?'"

Romulus slowly turned his head to look at the elf. "You're an idiot, Brand." The elf shrugged, not bothered in the slightest.

"That may be, but sometimes idiotic ideas can lead to very good things. In this case... tender sexy times with the fiery elf girl." He admired her from afar. "Rom, her sword is way bigger than yours."

A snort sounded at Cyrus’s right side. Hidden behind one of Zahra’s hands. Perhaps, a poor attempt to smother it back in. Whatever plights she’d faced only moments ago seemed to sizzle away into a glowering smile, eyes luminous in the dank lantern light. She appeared to be drinking in her surroundings with interest. It didn’t take her long to take action—one she hadn’t discussed with the others, because she was already elbowing her way to Rom’s table.

She plopped down into the empty seat to Rom’s left and draped an arm around his shoulder. She arched an eyebrow at him and crooked her chin towards Khari, “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about my good friend over there.” There was an allowance of silence, stretched between them for dramatic effect. She spared the elf a glance, then released Rom’s shoulder. “She’s rather captivated by men with bal—courage, you see. So, I’d say if you wanted the chance, you’d have to march right up to her.”

Another grin lit up her dusky features, “and challenge her to a sparring match. Or offer her food. That seems to work.”

About halfway through Zahra's first sentence was when Romulus first seemed to comprehend what the situation was. His lips contorted to start with, and he sort of stared blankly down towards the table while he waited for her to finish. Eventually he started nodding, having come to acceptance of what had just happened.

"Oh ho," the elf said, grinning at Zahra. "I like the way this one thinks. But come to think of it, you can't be too subtle, right? She's thicker than her sword when it comes to this. Just man up and say it. That'll go well, right?"

Romulus's eyes found Cyrus. "I don't suppose you could just make us all forget this ever happened?"

Zahra patted him on the back and leaned in to whisper, “I will not.”

"Alas. Memory modification is not within my repertoire. But the sooner we leave, the sooner something else might distract our dear Captain here." Cyrus knew he didn't sound very apologetic, but the suggestion at least was genuine. They needed to find Asala herself next, and get this event properly underway.

The Fade shimmered and fizzled out, and once it reformed they were presented with an exceptional horizon. The ocean stretched out in front of them as far as the eye could see. The sand of the beach shifted gently beneath their feet, and palm trees rustled on either side of them. In spite of the wind blowing on the palms, the oceans waters were both unnaturally still and clear, giving it a serene crystalline blue appearance. A quirk of the Fade, no doubt.

The scenic view was not the reason they were there however, that would be because of a Qunari woman who stood ankle deep in its waters. Or rather, in this case, Qunari girl was the more apt phrase. She lacked her usual height, her budding horns barely even reaching Cyrus's waist. This Asala couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve at the most. Notably, she wasn't alone. Beside her another Qunari child knelt, half of him submerged in the crystal waters. This child possessed the same hair color as Asala, and recognition would reveal him to be Asala's late brother, Meraad.

They were giggling, or rather, Asala was while Meraad attempted to do something in the water. A moment later, and a boat created from ice from the water. Well, it had a general approximation boat shape, but possessed no refinement. It floated though, and that as enough to make the young Asala coo with awe.

A moment later, a barrier formed behind it, clearly of Asala's make. It had her signature color, but it too was rough around the edges and shimmered unpredictably. It was enough however to gently guide the ice boat out to sea. Once a suitable distance, Meraad finally stood and crossed his arms, seeming rather proud of the boat... Until he turned toward Asala, revealing that it was her that he was proud of. She turned to him as well, a large smile on her youthful face before she leaned over and playfully jostled him with her shoulder.

Cyrus smiled, shaking his head slightly. It wasn't his memory, nor his dream, but it felt more like ones he'd had than any of the rest. He was almost loath to interrupt, but he supposed he could rebuild the dream for her later, if she liked. "Asala. It's time to go."

"Cyrus?" she asked, even her voice carrying a youthful inflection. "What..." she began to ask before she stopped herself. Her eyes closed, giving them all a clear view of the spattering of freckles across her face before she sighed and nodded, slipping into understanding herself. She turned toward the vision of Meraad, as her gaze either expectant or asking--it was difficult to tell. In answer, Meraad smiled widely and nodded vigorously before eagerly tilting his head toward Cyrus and the others. "Go ahead, it will be an adventure!" he urged, making Asala smile before she began to giggle again.

"Well... I don't think he's wrong." But the adventure still lay ahead. At least he could take them to the spirit's domain now.

What happened afterwards would no longer be any of his doing. As it should be.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
With everyone's dream-selves collected together, all that remained was for Cyrus to lead them to the location of whatever spirit it was that he'd found for the purpose. Leon found the experience of walking through the Fade with full awareness that it was the Fade to be some strange mix of disorienting and disappointing. It... wasn't a pleasant place, aesthetically. It looked ill to him, somehow: better than some of his dreams, but certainly worse than others. They passed odd relics of other dreams on the way, though space felt different here than in the waking world. He knew they walked, but found he simply lacked any way to perceive distance. Nothing was fixed, and he didn't seem to tire even slightly, and time didn't feel like it was moving, either.

He supposed that made some sense, for a dream.

He wasn't sure when it appeared, but a fixed point did show up on the horizon eventually, and grew closer as they continued to walk. He'd read that only spirits of considerable power and age could create their own static locations. Well, they and somniari like the one who led them.

“Is that what we're looking for?" He put the question to Cyrus, gesturing to the spot. He couldn't tell quite what it was from here, only that the green seemed to be... less sick-looking than the one around their feet and over their heads.

“This is where she dwells." Cyrus said it with a tone of confirmation, so the 'she' must refer to the spirit in question.

Some span of time later, they at last reached the boundary into the realm. It seemed to waver, reaching outwards as though to enclose them, but from the lack of surprise in Cyrus's reaction, Leon could only assume that this was normal, so he stepped forward to meet it. Light shimmered over his vision for a moment; when he blinked, he opened his eyes to a very different landscape.

Green was everywhere. It reminded him of his first journey south, beyond the decayed steppes of his harsh motherland and into the softer world of those who could grow enough to sustain nations. The colors were gentle on his eyes to a one, but it wasn't only green. Flowers bloomed, riotously in sprays, on bushes, and from climbing vines carefully coached onto trellises. It was a kept garden, but there was a sense about it of the wild as well, the organic rather than the manicured. The scent on the air was a light perfume that changed slightly when they moved, as the flower species changed, but clearly it was organized so that none of the notes ever clashed, as though its architect had engineered it for bouquet as well as visual appeal.

Cyrus led them down a small, winding cobblestone path. Evidence of some kind of presence was everywhere, though what kind of presence it was, Leon found difficult to tell. In one place, a pair of curved swords lay sheathed in the grass, casually discarded next to a pack, a thick wool blanket half-spread over the ground, as though someone had been preparing for a picnic or nap in the warm sunlight overhead and abandoned the effort partway through for some reason. A low retaining wall hosted a couple of dinged tin tankards, a bottle of something standing half-full between them.

As they approached the center of the garden, they passed by several more elaborate architectural features as well; birdbaths, tiered flowerboxes, and even a granite fountain, water burbling pleasantly from the mouth of the drake carved into the top of it, and from the down-pointed spear-tip of the armored woman also depicted, one hand resting at the base of the creature's neck. The entire place seemed frozen in this single moment, some midsummer afternoon with balmy weather and afternoon sunlight and a mild breeze.

But he couldn't see any spirits.

Asala took a few tentative steps toward the fountain, her hand clutching the collar of her cloak. She had managed to return to her ordinary self during the transition, growing the extra couple of feet to stand back over everyone but Leon himself. She leaned her hands hovering near the fountain, appearing unsure she should even touch it. "Where... are we?" Asala asked. She was nervous, but under the circumstances that was to be expected from her.

"I don't recognize it." Romulus glanced around him, taking in the still scenery. "Maybe... no."

"You're in my garden, of course." The voice came from behind them, and... above? Leon turned, immediately wary, following the trunk of a tree up to its branches.

Sure enough, sitting in one of the lower ones was... a spirit. It—she, he supposed—had a more distinct form than most he'd seen. She was pinkish in color, closer to magenta or violet than red, but the lines of her were fairly sharp. Even from this distance, he could tell that she was an elf, from the pointed ears, and quite slight, probably no taller than five-and-three and thin. Her hair, or the wisps of spirit-stuff that served, was long, held in place only by a thin chain circlet around her brow. She smiled at them and pushed herself off the branch, drifting to alight on the ground below.

She gave a little curtsy of sorts, then turned her attention to Cyrus. "You're back, dreamer. And you brought me your friends. Which one seeks my aid?"

Asala glanced between the spirit and Cyrus a couple of times before she finally got around to timidly raising her hand. "Um, I... I suppose--" she stopped herself and closed her eyes, and from the rigidity forming in her shoulders apparently steeled herself. "I am," she said, attempting to sound more confident by omitting the 'suppose.' For what it was worth, whatever she told herself apparently worked.

The spirit moved her attention to Asala. She was much, much smaller than the Qunari woman, but held herself with a great deal more poise and confidence, for all they looked similar in age. There was a quiet certainty to her demeanor that Leon supposed most people did not achieve. He wasn't sure if it was more or less ordinary in the denizens of the Fade. Only rarely had he been this close to one.

With a flowing hand-motion, the spirit conjured herself a staff, planting the end of it in the ground and shifting her center of balance a little. "You are Asala Kaaras, then. I am... well. What I am is not easy to explain, but for your purposes, I am Compassion. You can call me Ethne, if you like. Why is it that you've come all this way to find me?" She flicked her glance momentarily to Cyrus, her smile inching a bit wider. "Your teacher used very pretty words to tell me, but I would like to hear yours, even if they aren't as pretty."

"He did?" Asala asked, glancing at Cyrus for a moment before snapping back to the spirit to her front. "Uh..." she stumbled, but wisely closed her mouth afterward to think on the words she chose more carefully. She seemed confused for a moment, unsure of how to answer the question before realization began to sink in. "I want... to do more," she answered, looking up to meet the spirit's luminous eyes. "If I am able, I wish to do everything that I can for my... friends," she said, turning to face them. She allowed them a small awkward smile before she continued.

"Not only that but..." she said, her losing her grip on her words. She hesitated for a moment more before something else came to her, and she moved forward. "I--I did not understand it at first but, Tammy... Tammy once told me that there was a lot of pain in the world. The only pain I knew at the time was scraped knees and tiny scratches," she explained, smiling at the remembrance. The sweet smile did not last long, however, soon replaced by a thoughtful frown. She was no longer speaking to the spirit, but rather just aloud--to anyone that would listen. "But... I see it now. I saw it at Adamant, but--I knew it at Haven. I think... I understand what she meant." she said, her arm dropping from her collar to wrap around the other.

"She--But she said that I could be a shield. That there were too many trying to cause harm, but that I could be the one that protects. I try, but I... I just do not know." She grew silent, but she began to shake her head. She wasn't finished yet. "I want to try though, I want to try to be that shield--I want to try to ease as much of that pain as I can."

She sighed afterward and her shoulders dropped forward and encased her into a shell. "I... hope that is satisfactory," she said to the spirit, offering an unsure smile.

Ethne did not answer that directly, but she did maintain her smile. "I see," she said, dipping her head as though she understood. "Then there is one more thing I need you to do." Though spirits didn't breathe, as such, this one retained many mortal mannerisms, and looked to take in a deep breath, glancing briefly at the fountain behind them.

"A friend of mine once said that love is the opposite of fear. I do believe he was right about that. If you wish my help, you must show me that your love and compassion is capable of overcoming any fear, even that brought upon you by outside sources." Returning her eyes to Asala, she tilted her head. "Not far from here, demons of fear and terror dwell, poisoning the Fade and tormenting those who wander near. If you are strong enough to conquer them, then I will lend you my power, and teach you everything of healing these memories have granted me." She blinked. "Will you do this for me?"

"... Yes. I will," Asala nodded after a moment of contemplation. She seemed far more raw than she had before.

"Wonderful." Ethne's smile softened; she reached forward and laid a half-substantial hand on Asala's upper arm. Probably about as high as she could comfortably get. "You might find it helpful to take a little while to prepare. Feel free to wander the garden as you like; I believe it has a nice effect on its visitors."

Letting her hand fall, she turned to the others. "And you, friends of Asala? Is there anything I might do or explain for you, while you are here?"

Romulus looked more than a little moved by the entire display, but he still kept his countenance intact, focused. Thoughtful, however. He kept his hands folded together in front of him and closed somewhat tightly, as though the mere act of letting them near his weapons would be a defilement of this place. "Some of us encountered a spirit not long ago, one that took on the form, personality, and memories of Divine Justinia. She helped me acquire some important memories that I'd lost." He chose to leave out, for whatever reason, the fact that he'd been physically walking the Fade at the time, rather than in dreams as he was presently.

"I think the Divine's... soul, if that is the correct word, is what drew the spirit so closely to her. Is this something similar? This elf, Ethne, is or was someone you were drawn to?" He glanced a bit uncertainly at the others with him. "Sorry for the curiosity. I've been exposed to a lot of things that are strange to me lately. I feel like I'm only beginning to understand some of them."

Leon certainly didn't think it unwarranted. He'd been of a mind to ask something similar, honestly, for this was quite a peculiar spirit, based on what knowledge he had of magical matters. Like Romulus, though, he was a bit out of his element with this one.

"Once, I was a spirit as indistinct as most of those you might meet, here." Ethne didn't seem to mind saying so, maintaining her benign countenance and running her thumb along the staff in her grip. "A long time ago, I made a bond with Ethne as she was in life. A dreamer, like you—" she nodded at Cyrus— "And once a slave, like you." Her eyes returned to center on Romulus.

"She created this place, and returned to it often. Before her death, she left fragments of her memory behind, so that what she knew of healing, and what she knew of history, would not be lost forever. Over time, those memories became a part of the garden itself, and a part of me. Thus I have been ever since." She lifted her shoulders. "I do not know what a soul is, because she did not know. But... if it can be said that part of what makes a person is what they remember, what they did and what they knew and felt, then... in a way, I am she. If only a piece."

This place seemed to render Zahra speechless—which was a miracle in its own right seeing as she hadn’t really shut her mouth since Rom’s little rendition. She’d been gushing about how adorable Asala had been in hers
 until the unusual shift happened once more, giving way to a sight even she couldn’t comment on. She was left slack-jawed and staring at all of the flowers blooming at their heels. Even as the others exchanged words with the spirit in question, she seemed drawn towards the items strewn across the mossy ground.

She hadn’t moved anything since they’d first walked in. Only brushed a finger across the pommel of the blades, and inched closer to the discarded tankards. She peered at the half-empty bottle and cleared her throat, as if deciding that she wanted to pose a question after all. There was a moment of silence, before she straightened her shoulders and strode back to the others. “Do places like this stay in the Fade?” She swept her hand at all of the roses, and glanced back at Ethne, “Are there other places like this, that remain? Pieces of memories left behind.”

A short laugh sounded. As if she thought the question ridiculous in nature, but she was too stubborn not to pose it.

Ethne blinked, apparently considering the question. "I'm sure there are some," she replied at length, "but it is not an easy process, to leave one's memory here. Nor can many people or spirits create realms like this. So there are probably fewer than you are thinking."

There was certainly a lot to consider. Leon thought he understood better, now, why this spirit required that Asala be tested. She seemed to be in possession of a lot of valuable information, and if she was really the legacy of a near-ancient somniari, he could understand taking particular care not to be warped into a demon, or come into the service of an unworthy individual. And he had great difficulty believing she had any ill intentions.

As soon as Asala felt herself prepared, the group re-gathered and left the garden, striking out after Cyrus, who could in fact sense demons but was probably only leading them to... wherever this illusion was set up. Leon didn't know if he was going to create it himself by shaping the Fade or if Ethne was doing it, but in either case it did not take long before the world started to darken around them. It was exactly what he thought a fear-realm would be like—perhaps inspired by Nightmare's domain or something of the kind. The sky was almost black overhead, skittering noises audible form a distance even when the mages in the party cast their lights over their heads. As though the edges of the light were stalked by spiders, or some other sort of crawling vermin.

The chill was unnatural, too, creeping down his spine with a sense of deep dread. Up ahead, there were other lights, paler, issuing from twisted demon forms that drifted about in the nearly-formless gloom. What shape they would take, he had no idea, or if they would attempt to talk beforehand, as some demons did.

All of that was likely up to Asala.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
Asala didn't like this. She didn't want to go face demons down in the Fade. Yes, Cyrus was with them, but she felt more vulnerable here, and she did not know what the spirit--what Ethne expected. The instructions were clear and precise, go here and deal with the demons she was worried she would mess that up somehow, and the spirit judge her unworthy. She wasn't comfortable with that, not after essentially dragging her friends into the Fade with what amounted to a personal issue. She didn't want to let them down even more than the spirit, nor let them get injured in anyway for doing something for her.

This part of the Fade was far more eerie than the last. Where the last was pleasant and warm, this one was unnatural and cold, her mind edged with dread. She wasn't sure if it was her, or the Fade but regardless, she did not like the place. The sounds of tiny legs skittering at the edge of her vision made her jumpy, and she retreated closer to Leon as they traveled, her hand clutching her collar out of anxiety.

It did not take long after that to begin to see the demons in the distance. It felt as if the dread she had felt up to that point had up and suddenly intensified. "Are we--are we there? Here?" she stammered.

“This is the place." Cyrus confirmed it without a trace of doubt in his tone. If anyone would know, it was him. “And those are the demons in question." As he said it, the group of them began to drift closer, though they did not charge in to attack or anything similar. She'd learned that demons were always drawn to the living, that it was basically a reflex for them.

Cyrus's brows drew together—she'd also learned that people like him were more sensitive to their presence. Apparently, being near them caused some degree of pain in him, but from what she'd seen, he was usually pretty good at coping with it. “It's your trial, Asala. What would you have us do?"

Some of the demons were starting to shift forms, clearly a reaction to whatever they were reading from the mortals who had entered their domain.

She frowned, unused to the feeling of everyone looking to her on what to do. She felt their eyes on her, but after a moment of hesitation she nodded. Though, her voice was far from sure. "Let us... go then?" she asked, rather than stated. Even after, she didn't immediately start forward. It took a moment or two for her to work up the nerve to begin moving.

That was all it took to garner the demon's attention. All at once, they turned their heads toward them and began to approach as they had. There were... a number of them, mostly of the fear variety. However, there was a single rage demon amongst the crowd. Lumped in with the usual shades and wraiths, there were small, knee high demons that looked like twisted deep stalkers. Gibbering Horrors, she thought they were called, and they were named appropriately. It hissed as they approached, chittering incessantly with with its bony maw. There were also fearlings, which took the form of large spiders-- whose appearance caused her to hesitate in her step before one of the others urged her forward.

There were also no few terror demons, and what she believed to be a fear demon. They did not charge them, but rather... watched them cautiously. She could feel her heart beat faster, and the desire to retreat into herself mounted as even more eyes alighted on her.

One of the terrors hissed, the metallic claws on the ends of its fingers scraping against the ground like fingernails on slate. It cocked its head at her, bending its neck at an unnatural, uncomfortable angle. "Little coward," it rasped. "Cannot even find the bravery to strike first. Flinches before spiders, bends before the slightest pressure... breaks with one little loss. Ssspinelesss."

"Look at her, ssstanding in the front." Another of the same creatures, stretched out and grotesque, rasped around its mouthful of jagged teeth. "As though she has the sssteel to lead. The courage. To tell these what they should do!" It gestured at the others behind her.

“Asala..." Cyrus's tone indicated that he was still waiting for that very thing—a command, perhaps, or at the very least permission.

Another terror demon approached languidly. Stopping a few paces short of the Gibbering Horrors. Its impossibly long limbs flexed out, trembled and tickled at the air as it stared at her with sightless eyes. Its mouth, a parish of dribbling teeth, hung opened. The gravelly voice, however, resonated in their minds, “Do nothing, little coward. Small, shaky moussse. They can sseee you tremble.”

Zahra hadn’t moved from Rom’s side, though her fingers were itching at her sides. She glanced at Asala sidelong and cleared her throat. As good as anything to indicate that something much be done. Quickly.

The rage demon flared from the right side, eyes glowing white hot. Its back seemed to swell with every breath, birthing intense heat from its maw. "Turn your fear into fire, forlorn little mage!" It was hard to tell, but it looked as though it was grinning at her, pleased with what it was seeing. "Remember, wretched creature, what has taken life and love and peace from you! Strike us in anger... I will wear you, body and soul, and bring your rage to bear on the beast in your nightmares."

"What are we doing, Asala?" Romulus asked, a bit nervously. His hand lingered near the hilt of his blade, ready to be drawn in an instant if she commanded it.

She didn't answer, and the fear demon noticed, laughing in a low, rumbling voice. "She fears us, just as she fears herself," the demon taunted. "So afraid of making the wrong choice, of letting her friends get hurt for her," the demon said the word with scorn and disdain. "You regret this, don't you. Wished you had never stepped into the Fade," it said, chuckling evilly. "It is too late, fearful little mage. You are here so face us!" The demon's voice boomed, and there was a shudder in the Fade as the fear demon's body twisted and contorted in jarring motions.

Asala's eyes went wide and she retreated a step as what stood before her no longer was a fear demon, but the form of the blighted dragon, the one that had taken her brother from her. It was not as large as the real one, maybe a fraction of its size, but it remained. "Ataashi hissra," she muttered before the dragon roared, shaking the Fade around them. Asala took another step backward and instinctively reached for the Fade, encasing the demon-turned-dragon in a large shimmering barrier. "No!" she yelled, trying to push the creature away with the barrier.

The first act of overt aggression made it a fight, and the other demons lunged, trying to free their leader from the barrier's confines, either by beating at it or lunging for Asala, who was holding it in place. Leon intercepted the first of these, planting his foot against the rage demon's chest and throwing it back several feet before pursuing it. When he brought an elbow down on the back of its head, the fire of its body sizzled against his light armor, cold from the pervasive chill in the area.

It lunged for him, raking hot claws across his midsection. He staggered backwards a step, but recovered quickly, throwing himself forward again.

Cyrus quite deliberately stepped away from Asala. Perhaps that made sense—he'd made it clear that she was the one who had to actually face the trial, and Ethne has specified that the trial was Fear. Instead, he threw an almost-lazy ice spell at one of the terrors, freezing it just before it sank into the ground for one of its jumps. The other, however, disappeared into a dark circle on the floor. The lightning bolt that followed shattered the ice and the demon along with it. The terror's twin, however, emerged from the ground right behind him, throwing him forward with the force of its screeching attack.

Romulus fired a bolt from his crossbow, piercing the terror through the leg and interrupting its screeching. He rushed forward, but before he could reach it he was met with a swarm of fearlings, small skittering creatures that drove him back, too many at once for him to take them all on. He kicked one away, throwing another off his back, wounding another that bit into his leg. Another jumped for his face, but he bashed it aside with his shield, still steadily giving ground.

Zahra had already shrugged her bow from her shoulder—just in time to stop a fearling from clawing at her face, slamming it off to the side. She took a few steps forward and pinned an arrow through one of the hissing creature’s legs, one that’d been fixated on taking another bite out of Rom. She notched another arrow and took aim. Possibly intending to pelt another. Her distraction allowed one of the things to slink close enough to attach itself to her arm. Her bow clattered to the ground as she pushed her hand against its face, attempting to dislodge it.

The blight dragon began to push back against the barrier, but lacked the strength of the real one. The shield held its shape, but with a roar, the demon put its head against it and began to fight back, sliding the shield toward her through effort and strength. Asala could hear the fighting on either side of her, and a glance revealed her companion's struggles against the demons. She didn't want this, she thought a trial of Compassion would have been different, and not pit them against demons of the fade. Where was the compassion in this? What was this to prove? That they could fight against demons? Ever since the Inquisition was formed they had been fighting against demons.

"Stop," she whimpered as she was forced back a step. The demons did not start this, she did. She was the one who threw the first barrier, and because of that they had been drawn into the fight. If Compassion's trial was meant to make her throw her friends into battle with demons, then she wanted no part of it. She had asked them to accompany her, not to bleed for her. They had too many fights of their own to face without adding hers on top of it. "Stop." She was louder this time. This wasn't a test of compassion, this was just fighting.

This wasn't what Tammy meant when she told her to become a shield. A shield was meant to protect, but what was she protecting here? Nothing "I said stop it," she said, her words clear and audible. She didn't shout them, but she demanded it, her tone accidentally conveying that of a chiding mother-- the same one Tammy used with Meraad when he got into something he was not supposed to. She pushed off with her shield and let it fade, holding off the demon long enough to repositioned herself closer to her friends. A series of small shields dislodged anything clinging to her friends, before a larger one bloomed to life around them all, enveloping them in a large bubble, separating them from the demons.

"Enough," she stated firmly. It didn't matter if she failed the trial at this point, no one would get hurt because of her. Her friends, or the demons they fought against. If they did not attack them initially, then perhaps there may have still been a way for them to leave peacefully. "We will leave here," she said, staring down the fear demon, "No one else will get hurt here, not us nor you," she said, her barrier sparkling with renewed resolve.

Abruptly, the demons vanished. They made no noise, used no words, took no actions at all. They just wavered, like shimmering mirages in her native desert, and disappeared. In their place stood an image of Ethne. It must have been the way she was in life, for she looked as solid as the demons had. As solid as the others did, safe behind her shield. Her hair was red—not as red as Khari's, more like a strawberry blonde. Her eyes were blue-green, large in a very dainty-looking face. The robes she wore weren't like anything Asala had seen, either, except maybe in some of Cyrus's books.

She smiled slightly, an expression tinged with melancholy. "Sometimes, compassion is the hardest choice to make," she said quietly, reaching up to touch the barrier Asala had erected over her group. After a moment, it vanished under her fingers. "Sometimes, it will hurt, because no shield stands forever, and none can cover everyone." Her hand dropped back to her side. "But choosing it anyway and every time is what it will take, to learn what I have to teach. Compassion does not see even a demon and judge it worthy only of death. Some things must be fought, even I know this. But nothing may be fought only because of the face it wears or the things it thinks."

Ethne tilted her head. "This trial is over. But what lies ahead will be more difficult still. Are you willing to take that upon yourself, Beres-Taar?"

Asala winced as the barrier faded around them through no inclination of her own. In actuality, when the demons vanished, she was so struck by confusion that she had momentarily forgotten about it until it was stripped by Ethne. It made her feel powerless, as she remembered that they were in the Fade, and ordinary rules did not necessarily apply there. After hesitating, she let her hand fall limply to her side as Ethne spoke. At the end, Asala grew quiet and thoughtful once more, but when she spoke, it was with a firm confidence.

"I am."

"Good." Ethne seemed pleased, the sadness present in her smile abating for a moment at least. "Have your dreamer friend teach you how to locate the garden on your own. And when you can, I will be there, and I will help you." She gave a little nod.

"For now... I think it's time you wake up."

And she did, with a start. She pushed herself up from her pillow and looked around her dark room. After the initial confusion abated, she let her forehead fall back into her pillow and she closed her eyes-- though she doubted sleep would be easy to find again.

Then she wondered about the others, if they too had woken up from the dream like her and... if they were okay.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
The sound of Khari's hard intake of breath was probably audible only to her under the metallic ring of the collision. She'd just turned aside one of the incoming swords with her gauntlet, but the impact was not without pain. Even though Mick only swung one-handed, he was very strong, and she was definitely glad the platemail had been there—if she'd had only leathers, he'd likely have sunk the edge of his sword to her bone and scraped it. The angle wasn't perfect, but she made do, raising Intercessor to block the other blade and forcing a step in, driving the hard part of her head towards his jaw.

He was ready for it, though, and stepped back out of her rather limited range, crossing his swords in front of him to block when she swing hers vertically up at him. She was never going to beat him in a lock, so she disengaged, trying to dodge around the left-hand sword that he thrust at her with the seconds she spent escaping. She dodged, but too soon—it had been a feint, and he kicked her while she was off-center, sending her to the dirt.

Khari grunted on impact, rolling back to her feet without aggression. That was the match. “Dammit." She sighed. “I'm gonna put you on your ass someday, I swear." Unhooking the mask from her face, she grinned at him, bowing to finish the duel as was Orlesian custom. “Thanks Mick." Her eyes moved to Leon, their silent observer, and she gave him a wave. He didn't hang around often, but she was glad for the chance to show him that she was improving. That his belief in her meant something, and that she was working hard to vindicate it. He returned the smile and waved back, with considerably more reserve, but that was just how he was.

"Told you she was getting better Commander," Mick told Leon, though she soon set his sights back on Khari, a prodding grin returning to his face. "Do not let it get to your head though, you still got a ways to go yet."

Khari rolled her eyes, but it was good-natured. “Obviously." Nobody needed to remind her of that.

"That was very impressive," came a man's voice from behind her, his tone difficult to read. The source of it was the one male elf among the three elves in total that had been walking back towards Skyhold's keep. The "friends" of Vesryn, or so she'd heard, though he didn't seem to spend all that much time with them for some reason. The small mage girl she recognized, Astraia, had been walking at the front of the group, and turned back now to look at the man. Zethlasan, the other mage, the First, bearing marks of Falon'Din on his forehead, displayed prominently by his choice to push most of his dark brown hair off to the side. The others bore vallaslin as well, Astraia's for Ghilan'nain, and the woman in the back, Shaethra, for Mythal.

"What clan are you from, if I might ask?" the First inquired, leaning on his staff.

Khari blinked. Something about this guy in particular really bothered her. She hadn't interacted with him much, so maybe it was just because he seemed so... she wasn't sure of the word for it. Something like what had bothered her about Ves at first. A certain kind of self-assurance that felt like it came from a sense of superiority rather than mere confidence. It set her teeth on edge, but she shrugged and answered the question.

“Genardalia. They wander Dirthavaren, sometimes as far south as the Emerald Graves." She replaced Intercessor on her back, tilting her head to the side. “You're Thremael, right? From Tirashan?" For Khari, her tone was downright neutral, though there was no way she was as good as someone like Stel at concealing her discomfort.

"We are." He smiled pleasantly at her, not exposing his teeth as he did. "I must admit, I've only ever seen one other elf fight in heavy plate like that. No Dalish though, a flat-ear from Denerim. His plate's a bit less... crude, though." He studied her for a moment, glancing once back at Shaethra. Astraia looked nervously between her brother and Khari, pretty clearly not wanting to be there.

"I've never met the Genardalia. Is this a common practice of your clan? Imitating the shemlen that kill each other across Dirthavaren?"

Flat-ear. Shemlen. Khari had suspected that she wasn't going to enjoy Zethlasan's company. Now she knew it, and frowned outright, seeing no need to hide the fact. She barked a harsh syllable of laughter, no genuine humor in it at all. “Nope. Just me. Disgrace of the clan, scourge of good little Dalish everywhere." She bared her teeth, the expression only faintly resembling a genuine smile.

“Might as well be flat-ear myself, huh? Seth'lin? Elvhen'alas? Len'alas lath'din?" She knew what people like him thought of someone like her. The same people who'd spit on most of her friends for being human, or smile and pretend they didn't. She'd rather he just came out and said it than pretend to pleasantry.

Zethlasan, however, seemed to insist on it, meeting Khari's own use of elven language with that same smile. "I think I know a way you could prove otherwise." He removed a hand from his staff to gestured at the mace-armed woman behind him. "A match against the champion of Thremael, our finest hunter and warrior. Shae has assured me many times she could never be bested by a flat-ear."

For Shae's part, she seemed for a moment the smallest bit surprised, but then her expression shifted into something a little more sour. Aggravated or annoyed, maybe, though she was a hard woman to read, and it wasn't clear who the target of her annoyance was. She looked the part of the champion, though. A half a foot or more taller than Khari, with significant and obvious strength in her arms, her legs, her core. She wore lighter armor not of unusual make for the Dalish, and everything about her appearance was utilitarian, down to the black hair that was cut short enough to stay out of her eyes even when allowed to move freely.

She did not, however, move immediately, instead content to wait for Khari's answer first. Astraia inched a step closer to the keep, as though that would help drag her companions along with her. "Zeth, come on. We don't need to—"

"What do you say, Khari?" Zeth asked. "Up for another match?"

Somehow she was always ending up in these situations. Sparring matches that, like it or not, were more than sparring matches. Her answer was always the same. Khari set her hands on her hips, turning slightly to meet eyes with Leon. “Hey Commander. You mind grabbing a practice sword and a—" She double-checked the weapon at the other woman's hip. “—Mace? From the rack next to you?" She blew a breath out, upwards to stir a wayward curl in her face.

“I'm only doing this if Shae wants to, though. I can't stand fighting people who don't want to be there." She arched one eyebrow. “Champion of Clan Thremael against the shame of Clan Genardalia hardly seems fair, but I'll take it if you will."

Zeth turned to his protector. "Well, Shae? Not going to turn this down, are you?" The woman's face was utterly unreadable. It was a rather remarkable talent she seemed to have, hiding emotions about as well as their Tranquil spymaster did. Surely she was at least feeling them, though, which in all honesty could have even made it more impressive. Shae pulled her flanged mace from her belt, flipping it over and offering the handle to Zethlasan. He took it with a smile.

Shae stepped forward, long strides made with a loose and easy gait. Once she was within the practice ring she stopped, observing Khari and waiting for a training mace to be delivered to her. "Don't sell yourself short," she said, somewhat quietly but loud enough for all to hear her. "I've seen you fight. Elvhen'alas or not, you will be a good challenge."

Leon stepped forward then, handing Shae her practice-mace handle first, with a polite nod. Stepping back towards Khari, he accepted Intercessor in exchange for a heavy wooden practice blade of considerable heft. Shifting her sword to his left arm for a moment, he placed a large hand on her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, apparently trusting that to serve in lieu of words. Perhaps he, too, had caught onto the fact that there were meanings laden in this exchange that went beneath the mere surface fact that two people would be having a spar.

As soon as he was back out of the ring, Khari pulled in a deep breath, gripping the wooden blade automatically, easily. It was slightly wrong under her gauntlets compared to the more familiar nuances of her real sword, but that was no obstacle. Rolling her shoulders back and down, Khari quickly flexed her joints to test them for any lingering pain from her match with Mick. She was sore, to be sure, but she was good at ignoring that. She had to be.

In contrast to her flurry of little motions, Shae was quite still, settling into a stance and waiting for acknowledgment that the match was beginning. Khari was immediately wary of this, because she knew someone else who was like that, and Leon exploded at the beginning of a fight. Nodding her head, Khari signaled her readiness. “Death before dishonor." The words were more for herself than anything, but she spoke them anyway, because they were important to her.

"Ma nuvenin."

As expected, Shae was immediately aggressive, bursting forward and swinging in hard from the left. Khari raised her blade to block; the clack of wood on wood was sharp with the weight of the impact. Shae was every bit as powerful as she looked; Khari had to angle the strike off her sword or risk being unsteadied. She followed up first though, ducking low for a slash at Shae's feet.

The other woman jumped right over it in a controlled leap, landing again too fast for Khari to think of somehow taking advantage of the move itself. A series of quicker, lighter blows backed her up several paces. She was forced to go with it and try to reset her balance at the same time—she'd not been prepared enough for the low sweep to hit nothing.

The last blow in the series was the fastest; Khari barely blocked it in time, and unsteadily. Shae capitalized, kicking Khari hard square in the stomach. Even armor had enough give in it that the wind could be knocked out of a person, and Khari was only just recovering her breath when her rapid backwards stagger took her into the fence itself with an uncomfortable thud.

Zethlasan looked to be enjoying the show, albeit with a slight restraint on his expressions. Astraia did not restrain her nervousness at all, watching the fight anxiously and wincing a few times with the hits.

"Kick her ass, mon ours!" she heard Michaël call from somewhere to their side.

Gritting her teeth, Khari pushed off the fence rails, using the slight flex in the wood to help get just a little extra momentum. She was at her worst when someone else controlled her movement, and Shae had just demonstrated exactly what that looked like. She wasn't going to let it happen again. Her lips pulled back into a snarl and she lunged, kicking up a spray of ring dirt with the force of her motion.

But instead of following all the way through, Khari turned it into a last-minute feint, modeled after something Marcy had done to her, but adapted for her much more aggressive style. Instead of going for Shae's shoulder, where the hit had been aimed, she curved the trajectory of the blade and struck her elbow instead. The sound couldn't be mistaken for anything but a solid blow.

Pushing them back out to the center of the ring, Khari forced Shae onto the defensive. The other woman was patient even despite her obvious preference for aggression—certainly more patient than Khari would be in the same situation. They volleyed hits at one another for long enough that Khari felt sweat sliding down her back and sides, more of it beading on her neck and face as well. Shae looked the same, and both of them remained focused anyway. The frequency of wooden bangs increased as their speed did, both of them building to the real fight, the one that had been lurking underneath all of the opening salvos and keen testing of the other's reflexes.

Khari miscalculated a hit, stepping in too close, and Shae's shorter range nearly ended the fight. Ducking under the blow that followed, Khari did the only thing she could that close: she sidestepped and slammed the pommel of her practice sword into the back of the other woman's knee, taking them both to the ground in the process.

Clearly an experienced grappler, Shae almost got her weapon between them in time, but Khari could not count the number of instances of just that move she'd seen since she began practicing with Rom, and forestalled it, forcing both to abandon the too-large wooden arms and fight this out on the ground.

The initial advantage was hers; she'd come down on top, and adjusted quickly so she was sitting on Shae's ribcage, but her effort to get her knees into the other woman's armpits, to stave off counters, ended in a contest of strength she simply couldn't win. Khari switched tacks, pressing her forearm into Shae's neck, but she was off by a bit and her center of gravity shifted too far forward. Shae got enough leverage to flip them, and then it was Khari struggling to breathe, barely managing to get her knee up far enough to take one of Shae's off the ground by hitting her in the back and unbalancing her.

They rolled apart, both scrambling for their weapons, but Shae found hers first, bringing it 'round to level at Khari's forehead just as she managed to lay her hand on her practice sword. It was a difference of a second or two at most, but in a real fight, that could be all the difference.

For a moment, neither of them moved, both breathing hard, and then Khari nodded. “I yield." Sucking in another lungful of air, she rolled to her feet, pushing back up into a stand and shaking dirt out of her long braid. She glanced at the spectators for just a moment, then moved her eyes back to Shae. Her tone was almost cautious when she spoke.

“You were right. It was a good fight. Glad we had it."

Shae took steady, controlled breaths. She'd shown hints of fire in her eyes throughout the fight; though the woman did not seem to enjoy being in Skyhold or really anything that was asked of her, it was obvious that she enjoyed this, the intense physical strain of a good fight. She offered no more words, just a minuscule nod of her head to show her agreement before she tossed the practice weapon aside, and returned to reclaim her real one from Zeth. He nodded to her as she took it, either offering thanks or some quiet form of congratulations on her victory.

Leon picked up the discarded wooden mace on his way back to Khari, returning Intercessor to her by the strap that usually held it to her back. “You did well," he said. It was little louder than a murmur, clearly something only Khari was meant to hear, but the warmth of the sentiment came through nevertheless. “A year ago, this match would not have been so close. In a year more..." He shrugged, content to let the implication speak for itself, or perhaps because it was hard to say what a year more would do.

"You will not lose," Michaël answered, unafraid to talk about the implication. He had his arms crossed and he seemed disappointed, though not at her. She'd trained with him long enough to know when he was disappointed at her. Rather he was disappointed for her, as he looked toward the side where Shae had returned to the others.

Khari was relieved by his confidence, but she knew she had a lot more work to do to vindicate it. She didn't really need the reminder, but she had it, and she wouldn't forget.

Zethlasan had apparently gotten what he wanted out of the encounter, as he didn't offer any more words, instead leading the way towards Skyhold's keep. Shae was close behind him, quite obviously eager to be somewhere else now that the fight was done. Astraia, however, lingered, looking rather distressed. Shae stopped for a moment to look back at her before she got too far away, something the smaller elf seemed to anticipate. "Go, I'll catch up," she said quietly, and though Shae paused to consider it, she eventually turned and followed Zeth.

Astraia let a short moment pass before she approached Khari tentatively, both of her hands wrapped tightly around her staff. "I know some healing magic, if there are any bruises or anything you want me to take care of." With the armor Khari wore, it was naturally quite difficult to see if she could use healing anywhere, but Astraia was obviously concerned there might be injuries hidden somewhere. "I've seen what Shae does to demons. She hits really hard."

Khari huffed softly. “She does. Uh, hang on a sec, lemme see..." She tested one arm first, opening and closing her fist, then moving it first at the elbow, then the shoulder. That one was fine, and so were her legs, it seemed. When she moved her left arm, though, she found a tender spot. “I'm not sure it's worth the magic, but let's see." It took a bit to strip the armor from her arm, but her sleeve was easily loose enough to roll all the way up to her shoulder.

Sure enough, a bruise was blossoming on her bicep, maybe about the size of her fist, already turning a dark purple color. “Well, if you don't mind having a look at that, I won't say no." She smiled readily enough at Astraia, lifting her opposite shoulder in a half-shrug.

"Okay." Astraia pulled her staff inward to rest against her chest, freeing up both of her hands so she could reach for the bruise. It seemed to take her a good deal of focus, but the healing magic came easily enough to her, and she didn't seem as wary about using it as she was with other forms. With one little hand she took Khari's forearm to hold it in place, the other getting to work on the hit. "It wasn't fair of Zeth to ask you to fight Shae. You've been training all day, and she wasn't even tired."

“Maybe not." Khari figured Zeth wouldn't have asked if he wasn't completely confident Shae would win. Whether her having trained all day beforehand made a difference in that or not, she'd sort of expected that the fight would be hard going into it. “But battles aren't always fair either. If I could only fight fresh, then I wouldn't be much use here. Besides, it was a good challenge, so it doesn't really bother me what he wanted out of it." He and anyone else could take it however they wanted. For Khari, it was just one more step. Forward, like Stel was always saying.

"I think Shae liked you," Astraia ventured, smiling a little. "She'd never admit it to anyone, though. Too proud." She fell silent again, continuing to work, but it only took a few more moments before she let the spell fade away, releasing Khari's arm and returning her hands to her staff. "There, that should be better."

Her handiwork didn't really compare to Asala's, but it wasn't bad either. Removed any chance of that bruise being a weak spot to hit for the next day. Astraia looked like she was considering leaving Khari to her business, but she lingered long enough until it became obvious she meant to ask something, at which point she spat it out. "What it's like, being in the Inquisition? I know not everyone gets to do what some of you do, but what's it been like for you?"

Khari blinked, rolling down her sleeve as she considered the answer. “For me?" There was quite a lot she could say there, honestly. “Probably the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I've nearly died... well, a lot." Probably wasn't much use to trying to count out the individual times. She raised her arm to rub at the back of her neck. “But it's also the best decision I ever made, hands down." She said it with clear certainty, a reflection of just how clear and certain her feelings were, at least about this much.

“The people here, they're... they're some of the best people I've ever met. And the cause is—I never in my life thought I'd ever be a part of something this big. Something that affects this many people. And even though I'm only a little part of it, it feels like what I do here means something. Like I'm making a real difference by doing it."

Astraia let her head tilt and rest against her staff, which she'd brought into her chest again. Little beads knocked together softly when she did. She listened quite intently to what Khari told her, obviously taking it seriously. "That sounds amazing," she said, smiling a little. It faded a moment later. "Was it hard, though, leaving your clan behind for this? Your family, friends? You couldn't have known what it would be like."

The question lingered for a moment before Astraia suddenly widened her eyes. "Oh! I'm sorry. That was too personal, I didn't mean to—I'm sorry."

Khari shrugged. “Don't worry about it. To answer the question, though..." She pursed her lips together. “I left my clan before any of this. And... yeah, it was hard. Not the first part so much as the stuff that set in after. But I didn't belong there, not really. And I knew it; I always had. So I figured finding—" She swallowed past a lump she hadn't been expecting to find in her throat, but otherwise, her composure remained intact. “Finding a place to belong was gonna be worth it."

Astraia obviously hadn't meant for the conversation to turn in quite that manner, and she fidgeted a bit in place. Still, she managed a somewhat awkward smile for Khari. "I'm glad it went well for you. And... thank you, for talking to me about it."

Khari dredged up a half-smile. Nothing to be depressed about, after all. The discomfort would pass. “Yeah. No problem."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
It was shortly after noon, and she had just finished lunch with the rest of the infirmary staff. Asala thought it was near enough the time to begin her lessons with Cyrus to start heading toward his workshop anyway. In addition to their usual curriculum, they had added work to devise a way for her to find her own way to Compassion's garden. It hadn't been long since she had passed Ethne's test and had not yet managed to enter her garden on her own. That was not to say she wasn't making progress, but progress happened in steps, not all at once. She'd hope to at least glimpse the garden soon.

By the time she reached his particular tower, she noticed that his door was slightly ajar. That was odd, she decided. Cyrus's door always seemed to be securely shut every time she arrived, usually awaiting for her to knock first. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, wondering if she should just push the door open now, or knock first. Instead, she just decided to do both, and she knocked on the door before taking the handle gingerly in her hand. "Cyrus, are you in here?" She asked, slowly swinging the door open.

"Cyrus!" she exclaimed. She found him on the floor, clearly in pain. Whatever reservations she had about intruding were gone now, and she shoved the door wide open to run inside. She slid to a stop beside him, healing spells flaring to life in both hands. She was without her pack for the moment, having left it in her room thinking she would have no use for it inside Skyhold's walls. Foolish, she thought. "Cyrus, listen to me. I need you to help me," she said firmly, hoping he could hear her.

"I need to know what it is," she said, infusing his body with a general healing spell. She would need to know what was attacking him specifically in order to treat it.

His breathing was harsh and shallow, his eyes unfocused, glazed over, the usual vibrancy of the indigo color muted. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, his expression waxy and wan. Curled in on himself, as though he were trying to take up as little space as possible. He looked but a step from expiration—she'd seen soldiers lose near half their blood and seem healthier than this. The only evidence of what might have done it was the shattered glass, red wine glistening darkly on the stone.

“—sala." His voice was hoarse, weak, the volume barely enough for her to hear. “Don't touch—wine." He took a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. His breaths increased until he was panting softly, apparently unable to muster more energy than it took to keep doing that. Her spells seemed to be having little, if any, effect.

Regardless, she cast another healing spell, and against his own advice reached for the wine. She went to it quickly-- but carefully, so as not spill any on her. She had no idea if whatever it was spread through ingestion or skin contact. The vessel that held the liquid was unnaturally warm, and further drove the point that getting any on her would be inadvisable. Instead, she drew it in and wafted it towards her nose to try and get a scent of whatever it was. It did not take much as it turned out, with the first inhale catching in her throat and she felt violently ill. She coughed and shuddered, taking it as far away from her face as she could before gently sitting it back down.

She hacked and shook her head, trying to recover from its scent. She still did not feel well, but it was enough to return to Cyrus and begin casting more healing spells. If that was her reaction from simply smelling it, she felt her stomach drop at the thought of Cyrus actually drinking it. But she still didn't know what it was. It couldn't have been poison, not of the usual sense. Poison usually didn't have such an immediate and severe impact.

"Cyrus, what is it? Please, can you tell me what it is?" she asked again, putting more power into her healing spells.

He shook his head almost violently. “Leon. Need Leon. Has to burn—" He trailed off into a wheezing cough. It probably would have been violently-hacking if he'd had the strength for it. A trickle of fresh blood escaped the corner of his mouth, running over what was already slowly beginning to dry and crack on his lips and chin. “Hurry, plea—" The rest of the word got lost in a groan.

She was conflicted, for a moment. She really didn't want to leave him in his state, but if Leon was necessary. She nodded, but before she ran out, she summoned a barrier-- it was experimental, but had the same idea as the person barriers she had practiced with him in Crestwood, only larger. She did not know if someone had done this to him or what, but the barrier would hopefully ward off any further tampering until she could fetch Leon. With the spell in place, she rose and bolted out the door toward Leon's office.

It did not take long for her to make it, many of the Inquisition personnel simply gawking at her as she ran by. Reed was the only soldier guarding his door, but by the way she must have appeared, he let her through without question. She didn't wait to knock on his door, simply opening it and swinging it open as quickly as she could. "Leon! Its Cyrus. He's been poisoned, he needs your help," she said, putting the words succinctly as she could.

Leon looked about as thunderstruck as she'd ever seen him, lips parted in surprise and eyebrows inching towards his hairline, but to his credit he reacted quickly nevertheless, his expression hardening. He stood at once, abandoning whatever he'd been working on. “Lead the way." His tone was terse, brisk and efficient. He gestured Reed after them on their way out, and the three of them ran back towards Cyrus's tower just as quickly as Asala had come from it.

She took down the barrier on their way back in, and Leon was the first inside, immediately going to Cyrus's side and kneeling. “Cyrus. What do I do?" He glanced for only a moment at the spilled wine and broken glass before moving his eyes back to the other man's prone form.

If anything, he looked a tiny bit better since she'd left—perhaps all the healing she'd been trying had bolstered him a little. His voice cracked when he spoke, though, still barely more than a breath given vague shape by his lips and tongue. “Red lyrium. Burn it—nngh." His whole body shuddered. “Burn it out."

“Shit." Leon's expression was one of obvious uncertainty. “I could kill you." He seemed to realize the obvious problem with this line of thinking almost immediately, though, and his features hardened. He glanced back at Asala. “Stand back. I don't want to catch you in this by mistake. I'm going to hurt him—a great deal. But you mustn't interfere."

"But..." she sighed before biting her lip. She wanted to do... something, but she couldn't. She felt so helpless, and taking a step back only made the feeling worse.

“Reed. Hold his legs. Don't touch the wine." Leon either didn't hear Asala's protest or ignored it in favor of focusing on what he had to do. His aide moved into the room and complied immediately, taking a firm grip on both of Cyrus's ankles. Between them, they turned him around so he was on his back, and pinned his limbs to the ground.

Leon's chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Forgive me," he murmured, leaning over Cyrus from his spot near the mage's head. Pinning both of his hands under a knee, Leon took hold of either side of his face and made deliberate eye contact. For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then Asala felt a strange shift in the Fade, as though she'd suddenly come to stand a bit too close to a bonfire or a forge, but in the realm of magic instead of physical space. It was uncomfortably hot, but the nearby burn was not the same as putting her fingers too close to a candle. Rather, it seemed poised to singe something beneath her skin. There was a light in Leon's eyes, behind the violet of his iris, something reddish and uncanny. His jaw was tight like he was gritting his teeth, but his attention did not leave Cyrus, not even for a moment.

Whatever it was, it was immediately clear that Cyrus felt it in full, not just the glancing version Asala was getting. His back arched up off the ground, a raw shout tearing from his throat. If Leon or Reed had been any less strong than they were, it was unlikely they would have been able to hold him. When he ran out of air to yell with, he collapsed back onto the ground. The thud of his impact was drowned out by a shuddering split as a nearby armchair exploded, raining fabric and wood debris down on all of them. Cyrus swallowed more air, only to cry out again, the noise cracking into an almost inhuman pitch at the end. The bookshelves collapsed, dozens of heavy tomes spilling onto the floor, loose parchments flung into the air.

Once more she felt fear. It wasn't the splintering furniture that frightened her, but Cyrus's scream. She felt like she could almost feel his pain. The fear was so real and so close, closer than she'd ever felt it before. Instincts took over and she closed her eyes, her hands wrapping around her head, and she dropped to the floor. Unconsciously, a barrier sprung to life around enveloping her in a small bubble, but she could still hear his screams. She gently rocked back in forth in her shields, just hoping that he would be okay. "Please be okay, please be okay," she repeated to herself. She did not want to lose anyone else.

Despite being the one inflicting the pain, Leon remained steady, his grip on Cyrus unrelenting. His fingers trembled at Cyrus's face, but he was otherwise perfectly still—his face might as well have been cast in iron, for all his expression changed.

With what seemed one final, desperate wrench, Cyrus tore one of his legs free of Reed's grip. Pure, elemental lightning flung free of his body at the motion, lancing upwards towards the ceiling and crashing against it. The whole tower seemed to shudder against the force of it, shaking the stones to their foundations. A wooden beam creaked with a great screech above their heads, splitting clean in half where the bolt hit it, drooping with a precarious whine.

But the last burst of magic seemed to have robbed Cyrus of everything he had left, and he went limp. His shouts became little more than breathy whimpers, tears streaking freely down his face, gathering where Leon's fingers held fast until they spilled over the Seeker's scarred knuckles. He was mouthing words, but they were too soft to hear. Perhaps too soft for anyone but Leon himself, if there was any volume to them at all.

Asala had collapsed to her knees, but the cracking of the beam brought her face up out of her hands. Her vision was blurry, but she could still make out the steadily sagging ceiling. The beam lurched dangerously and she shuttered. She threw her hands out wide, and the barrier that had surrounded her quickly began to expand past Leon and Cyrus until it struck the walls on all sides of them. Then she lifted her hands, the barrier raising with it until it alighted on the ceiling, molding with its shape until it reinforced the damage area. As she held the ceiling together, her arms trembled, and not because of the effort.

"Le-Leon?" she asked, her voice cracking in desperation.

He didn't answer directly, and it was several long moments before anything changed. At last, though, he sat back on his legs, taking his knee off Cyrus's arms. “It's done," he said softly. “The lyrium is... it's out. He's not... injured, but there's likely to be lingering pain. If you can do something about that, then..." The commander shook his head, almost as though he wasn't sure what to do with himself for a moment, then stood carefully, backing away to give her room to work.

“Reed... go find the Lady Inquisitor. Bring her to my office. We'll move Cyrus as soon as it's safe to." Probably a great deal wiser than remaining in this building any longer than they must—there was no telling how long the roof would hold. The other man nodded, stepping around Asala to duck out the door.

Asala looked down at him and nodded, before returning her gaze to the ceiling above. She attempted to slowly remove the barrier, but after a point, the ceiling began to creak again. She reapplied the barrier, and instead worked it into a static spell. The barrier remained when she let go of it, but she did not know for how long--hopefully long enough to get Cyrus somewhere she could better treat him.

She inched forward on her knees until she was at his side. She reached for the healing spells and began to apply them with as much strength as she figured was safe. She paused for a moment in her work to wipe her face on the shoulder of her cloak, leaving behind a line of moisture when she returned her focus back on the spell.

Gradually, his breathing grew regular under her care, and while he still looked half-dead, wan, and weak, he mustered the strength to smile thinly at her. “What's the phrase?" The question was still a rasp. No doubt his throat was raw and painful at the moment. “Atta girl." He coughed softly, lifting one shaking hand to knock a forearm against hers, after which it fell heavily back to the ground.

He turned his head to the side, his eyes stopping when they alighted on Leon. “Leta did this—Livia. Kitchen girl, but she's—" A stronger cough, followed by a soft groan. “My notes, on the Breach. They're gone. If Corypheus gets them..."

He didn't need to finish the sentence to be understood.

"Maybe..." she said, quietly. At the moment, she couldn't find it in herself to care about the notes, or the who, or why. Corypheus was the farthest thing in her mind. That wasn't the most important thing right now...

"But they will not get you."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
Vesryn's first inclination was that Skyhold was under attack. But there were no alarms being raised, no troops being called to the battlements.

And who would be such a fool as to attack them here? Skyhold was virtually impregnable while it had even a token of its forces guarding it, let alone the entirety of the Inquisition's standing army. But Vesryn knew what he'd heard. One of the towers nearly collapsing in on itself, having taken serious damage from something. The skies were clear, no wings of lyrium-corrupted dragons beating against the winds. No siege equipment could get remotely close enough to attack the walls without being spotted by any of Lia's scouts or even the bulk of Inquisition forces. That meant the attack came from within, if indeed it was an attack at all.

He'd been driven outside of the Herald's Rest alongside Zahra by the disturbance, to see the Commander's man, Reed, heading straight for the keep. He was certainly moving like they were under attack, but considering how he made no effort to warn anyone else, that couldn't have been the case. Even from here, Vesryn could see the damage, the tower in the distance, its roof struggling to stay upright, precariously wavering. Cyrus's tower.

"I think I'll be getting my gear, Captain Zahra," he said, turning back into the Herald's Rest. If she wanted to do the same that was up to her. Darting upstairs, he donned his equipment as quickly as he ever had, a process which he'd learned to expedite over years of practice. Anything that could be thrown on while walking was saved for later, and he exited the tavern once more with bardiche axe in hand, just in time to see Reed returning across the grounds, leading Stel behind him. Zahra had taken his advice to heart. She’d been hot on his heels, though their routes deviated once they were inside the tavern. Now donning her gear and bow, she stopped at his elbow, staring off across the grounds.

"Looks like trouble if I've ever seen it," he murmured to Zahra, before noticing someone approaching from the training grounds. "Stay put, Astraia. At least until we know what's going on." The young elf didn't seem happy about it, but for once Vesryn's tone was stern with her, leaving no room for argument. Vesryn wouldn't accept any trying to keep him in place, though, and quickly followed after Stel and Reed, Zahra keeping up behind him.

"What's happened?" he asked, hoping either Stel or Reed could elaborate.

Stel shook her head, face tight with unconcealed concern. Her eyes kept moving to Cyrus's tower. Though she made no move to run in that direction, it wasn't hard to see that she very much wanted to. “I don't—I don't know." Her eyes swung for a moment to Reed, just now swinging the door to the Commander's tower open for them to climb the stairs up to Leon's office.

He grimaced; this close it was easier to see that he looked faintly ill. "It's Lord Cyrus, Lady Inquisitor. He's... he's alive, but something happened. I don't know all the details. They're bringing him here, I'm sure, so we'll know soon enough."

Leon's office, however, was yet empty when they reached it. It looked like the Commander had left in a hurry: an inkwell sat unstoppered on the desk, several parchments abandoned in the middle of the writing, and his chair was pushed out at an odd angle. All certainly things a man as fastidious as Leon would have noticed and corrected before departing if he'd had even a few moments to do it.

Stel certainly noticed. No sooner had they entered the office proper than she started to pace back and forth at a nervous rate. “Was it one of his experiments, do you think? He's had a few accidents before with more volatile things, but nothing like—" She cut herself off and shook her head. It was clear that Reed didn't really know how to answer, though he looked like he wanted to say something, at least.

Vesryn thought it would've been nice if the man could've scrounged up a few more words for her, give her some idea of what they were dealing with. Vesryn wasn't just going to let her pace about and worry herself senseless, at any rate. "Hey," he said, laying a hand somewhat firmly on her shoulder. "Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. Cyrus will know what we need to do. He always does." Though whether or not he could actually communicate that to them remained to be seen. When the only description of his status that could be given was "alive," that threw a bit of doubt in there. But they would find out soon enough.

Any further speculation was precluded by the sound of a door opening. It proved to be the one furthest from them, one of the two that led out onto the walls. Leon was the first in, bearing what seemed to be the vast majority of Cyrus's weight. The mage looked like death only slightly warmed over, in truth. His hair was soaked with sweat and plastered to his head, normally-fair complexion gone absent of almost any color and waxy. His eyes seemed sunken, almost hollow, and his movements were those of an invalid.

He grunted quietly as Leon helped him into a chair, collapsing into it with none of his usual inherent grace. Asala filed in behind them. Actually, in certain ways, all three of them seemed worse for wear, though none were nearly as badly off as Cyrus himself.

“Cyrus!" Stel immediately stepped out from under Vesryn's hand and hurried to his side. Leon moved away to give them space, breathing a heavy sigh that didn't seem to have much to do with the labor of carrying the other man over at least some of Skyhold's battlements.

Stel sat on the arm of the chair he was in, laying one palm softly against her brother's cheek, using the other to brush his hair back from his face, heedless of its state. Resting the back of her knuckles against his brow for a moment, as though checking for fever or something similar, she swallowed thickly and closed her eyes, exhaling a shaky breath before cracking them back open again. “What happened to you? Cy..."

“He was poisoned," Leon answered, folding his thick arms over his chest. The commander looked quite unsettled, disturbed by something in particular, but he was doing a good job keeping it from seeping into his tone. “Red lyrium. Livia did it, apparently, and fled with some of his notes." He paused a moment, then, running a hand down his face, and turned to his aide.

“Assemble the off-duty guards. Comb the place for her. She can't have gotten far—the scouts would have noticed her leave, at the least. Inform Rilien and Lady Marceline as well, but keep a lid on the rest of it for now." Reed nodded and left with haste.

"Livia?" Vesryn asked, shocked. "The serving girl? With red lyrium? She... hasn't she always been with us? Even before Haven fell?" He'd seen her not long ago, attending to Cyrus. If she'd gained his trust for that long, she must've had hundreds of chances to try to kill him. But if she'd fled with some of his notes, he must've reached some point in his research she needed to wait for. Even Saraya was annoyed with herself, for not suspecting anything.

“She has." That answer came from Cyrus. His voice wasn't exactly robust, rather raw at the edges like someone suffering a winter illness of some sort. But he was at least understandable. He reached up, laying his hand over the back of Stel's and gently moving it away from his face. He held onto it though, resting both on her knee. “I've known her even longer, at that, but I didn't..." He shook his head slightly. “It doesn't matter. The important thing is, the notes she took were my research on the Breach. If Corypheus gets hold of them, he might not need the Anchors to open another."

He paused then, more of necessity than desire, to pull in several more deep breaths. His hand flexed around Stel's, his other gripping the opposite arm of the chair much tighter. “She won't have fled by conventional means. She planned this long in advance. There's an escape route, and it has to be one available to her here as much as it would have been at Haven."

“Then what unconventional means would she have used?" Leon frowned, his brows knitting together. “I can believe she might have known about the path out of Haven, but Skyhold is a fortress. There are no tunnels, and the gate is the only way out or in, unless you believe she flew somehow." He leaned heavily back against his desk, weariness in evidence by the slight slump in his shoulders.

Cyrus actually managed to smile thinly at that, but it was a rather poor excuse for one. “Nothing so fantastical." He tipped his head back against the chair, gulping down more air. He seemed to be recovering a bit of his color, at least. “I know of only one way to do something like this. She'd have to have access to an eluvian."

Vesryn had to blink a few times with the force of recognition that word provided from Saraya. That said, he knew it too, though his understanding of elven magical tools paled in comparison to Saraya's. Still, he knew enough about what they were and what the elves used them for to frown in confusion at Cyrus's estimation. "An eluvian? Here, in Skyhold? Wouldn't someone have... noticed such a thing by now?" He'd only ever come across shattered eluvians, portals in various states of decay ranging from the cracked and useless to the utterly destroyed. Saraya looked upon them with the same sort of longing she looked on many artifacts of the elves, but the eluvians in particular were... quite valuable, and though Vesryn himself had no magic with which to operate them, he suspected she always hoped they might find one that could be activated by another.

Now, after having traveled to the Fade physically and suffered the repercussions, he wasn't sure he wanted to see one. But any fears he might've had were irrelevant if Corypheus was involved. He couldn't be allowed to tear another devastating hole in the world. "As I understand, an active eluvian would be quite... bright. And they're no small portals, either. There aren't that many hidden rooms in Skyhold. Surely we would've found it if one were here."

“Quite." Cyrus exhaled heavily, making an effort to sit up straighter in his chair. “But Leta—Livia is a mage. If someone taught her how to activate one, she wouldn't need more than a few minutes to do it. And an inactive eluvian would resemble little more than a very large, very shiny mirror. Not so difficult to store in the basement levels somewhere with all kinds of other things we're not using. Especially if she covered it like an ordinary piece of furniture."

“Ah—” an involuntary noise sounded as Zahra’s gaze flicked back onto Cyrus’ rumpled figure. From the moment she’d stepped into the room, her eyebrows had been pinched with concern but now
 she looked truly puzzled. The word eluvian hadn’t evoked any reaction, but the word mirror certainly had. She planted a hands on her hip, and scratched at her chin. “A shiny mirror?” She cleared her throat and slowly nodded her head as if to scrounge up a memory, “Actually, I found a fancy one while
 uh, taking one of my walks.”

Even if any of them had spotted her meandering Skyhold’s nooks and crannies, bottle tucked underneath her armpit, she didn’t seem willing to divulge that particular detail. Not that it was all that surprising given her aptitude for adventure and trouble. “In one of the basements. Sort of out of the way—and I didn’t touch it.”

That got Cyrus's attention, even weary as he was. “We need to go there—now. Can you take us?" He struggled to stand, bracing himself as well as he could on the arms of the chair and trying to regain his feet. Stel immediately moved to support him, draping one of his arms over her shoulders and winding one of hers about his waist.

“Of course—follow me,” Zahra seemed to understand the gravity of the situation quickly enough. Perhaps, it had been the insistent look splayed across Cyrus’ features. She turned on her heels, and beckoned them to follow her as she slipped out the door. It hadn’t taken her very long to retrace her steps, even though she was now doing it sober. Mostly sober, possibly. She led them through dusty, dank hallways, and evidently unused corridors, until they reached one particular room with a large mirror inside, leaning up against the cobblestone walls.

Whatever had been draped across it had been removed. A white sheet had been tossed to the side, rumpled into a pile. Possibly indicating that Zahra had indeed touched it. She cleared her throat and swept a hand in front of her, stepping aside to allow the others inside.

If the eluvian had been concealed before, it was no longer so, and it did indeed look active, glimmering with some kind of internal, bluish light. It stood out sharply from its dull surroundings, like the relic from another time it truly was.

Cyrus, doing his best to stand under his own power, kept one hand on Stel's shoulder nevertheless, gently guiding both of them closer to it. Reaching out with his free hand, he touched the surface with a fingertip. It rippled, but there was clearly a solid barrier there. “Ah. It requires a password. I'd heard some of them do..." He turned his head to meet Leon's eyes. “You're going to want to put a guard on this until we come back through it. I doubt very much you want anyone entering Skyhold from who-knows-where."

Leon seemed to agree. “I'll look after it myself, if necessary." Pursing his lips, he considered the group for a moment. “Captain Zahra, would you be so kind as to find Rilien and bring him here? I believe that would be a start. I suspect, however, that the rest of you won't want to delay. I don't know how these work, but she's had about an hour's worth of head start, in any case."

Zahra murmured something about the quiet fellow in the rookery before nodding her head and taking a step backwards. The thoughtful frown hadn’t left her face. For someone who was capable of cracking jokes at the most bleak, inopportune times, she seemed to be unequipped by what had happened. She paused at the threshold of the hall and glanced over her shoulder, “Do be careful. I’ll have a welcoming party when you get back here.”

Her footfalls clattered down the hallway until they receded into silence.

“Cyrus, are you sure you should be here?" Stel didn't look particularly thrilled that he was down here in the first place. Actually, she seemed quite worried, and kept her arm firmly around his waist despite the fact that he currently seemed to be able stand with less support than that. “You need to rest."

“I'm... quite aware, Stellulam." His tone was a bit strained, but he managed to make it at least somewhat light regardless. “But yes, I should be here. Especially considering I'm the only one who has the faintest idea what the password is. And, I suspect, the only one who has been to the world between before." He glanced at Vesryn when he said so, and lifted his shoulders. “Besides. They're my notes, and I'm the only one who would know the real ones from gibberish." He gritted his teeth for a moment, fighting off some lingering pain, perhaps, then exhaled softly.

“If the Commander is keeping watch here, who else is coming?"

It took a glance around her, but Asala raised her hand while the other clutched her collar. She'd had been silent since she had followed Cyrus and Leon into his office, and her skin also had a paleness to it. Eventually, she spoke, "I will."

He probably didn't need to ask. The situation was concerning for Saraya, of course, but still she couldn't restrain all of her excitement. It was a marvel, to look at the eluvian active and whole, after all this time. It was fortunate none of the many occupiers of Skyhold in the past ended up destroying it, even by accident. Cyrus was correct in his estimation that he was the only one present who had been on the other side of one of these, though Vesryn was certain that Saraya had as well, in ages past. Maybe she would be able to help guide them where they needed to go, maybe not. Either way, it was a risk Vesryn had to take.

"I wouldn't miss it," he said, trying to insert a modicum of levity into his words. "And neither would Saraya. We're ready to help, whatever it takes."

“You're not going in there without me, either," Stel confirmed.

Cyrus gave a weary nod, but his smile wasn't so false this time. “I see. Very well then. Stellulam, I would like to borrow your knife, if I may. My magic is not... it would be unwise for me to try using it in this state." Considering he'd just been dosed with something especially deadly to mages, that wasn't especially surprising. When she handed it over, he slid it into his belt and went to touch the mirror again, resting all five fingertips upon it and closing his eyes.

His face twisted for a moment with something like pain. “Milo." The word was a soft murmur, but the reaction it produced in the eluvian was immediate. The surface rippled like water, and Cyrus's hand sank in up to the wrist in it. He opened his eyes and swallowed. Even he, it seemed, could not quite escape a certain excitement to be using the artifact in this way. “Here we go."

He stepped forward, and the mirror engulfed both he and Estella.

Asala gave Vesryn an unsure smile before she turned toward the mirror and took the first steps through.

Vesryn glanced sidelong at Leon. "Hope the other end of this isn't situated at a cliff's edge or something."

A joke. Mostly. Stepping forward, Vesryn raised the back of his hand to the surface, slowing letting it fall in. It was much warmer than he expected it to be, but not at all uncomfortable. He let the hand linger, teasing it as best as he could. At least until Saraya urged him in with a hefty amount of annoyance. "Alright, alright. Going." He grinned to himself, stepping on through.

He was met with bright light, like he'd suddenly stepped out under the midday sun. He had to shield his eyes, but only for a moment. They adjusted with an unnatural speed, and he was met with an array of vibrant colors. The most noticeable was the soft, pinkish red of the tree leaves, which were in full bloom, one tree planted at nearly every interval of a dozen or so paces. The sky was covered by a soft layer of clouds, not as midday or as sunny as he'd expected, but it was beneficial more than anything. The air itself was pleasant, clean and crisp as any he'd taken in off the battlements of Skyhold.

The area around them was urban, more or less, but in the remains of an old elven style that simply no longer existed in Thedas. Smoothly paved streets crafted with magic rather than hand labor of thousands, with statues of what may have been gold dotting the paths on either side. Elegant, abstract designs, some of them eluded Vesryn entirely, while others seemed shaped more like trees or even fire or water locked in place. There were buildings, but most of them had collapsed to some degree, and none remaining were more than a story or two tall. He could see several more eluvians in the distance, each shaped in their own unique designs, no two alike here. They came in pairs, one here and one in the world he'd just left behind. It was magnificent to look at, and Vesryn immediately found himself forgetting the trouble that had brought him here in the first place.

Saraya was not so quick, and urged him into focus. Her reaction was mixed, and powerfully so. She recognized this place, at least a little. Perhaps she simply knew how to navigate it more than he did. Something swelled within her at the sight of it, a vague bit of longing, homesickness even. But it was tinged with undeniable sadness. That sorrow of loss that the Dalish claimed to know all too well.

"This place is a shadow of what it once was," he said, though he imagined there were greater things to be concerned with. "Still, it's beautiful."

"I... do not understand," Asala stated, looking at Vesryn with confusion in her eyes. She drew them away and appeared to gaze at the landscape once more before she shook her head, and readjusted the cloak over her shoulders. She seemed to be feeling some sort of mild discomfort--more than was usual, actually. "It is all so... gray, monotone. Cold even," she then blinked, and when they didn't work, rubbed her eyes though it appeared that did just as much good. "And murky, everything is so murky."

It was Stel's turn to look confused, though she didn't stop to consider it. Clearly, her focus was more on helping Cyrus guide them, following his lead as they moved through the ruined city. “Monotone? But there are so many colors..." She glanced at her brother, clearly expecting that he would be able to explain.

He seemed uncomfortable, though whether that was due to the pain he was still in or the nature of the discussion was hard to tell. It wasn't easy to discern what about their observations would be uncomfortable, anyway. “It's not the same for everyone." He turned his eyes back onto the path at their feet, though they lingered for a moment on a statue before he tore them away. “See those eluvians up ahead? We need to get close to them. The ones that look like they work, anyway. Might be some clue as to which she used."

"Who is she?" Asala asked as they followed Cyrus and Estella. Vesryn noticed that the woman continued to blink and squint, as if attempting to force color onto her landscape, and from her reactions, it seemed that she was failing. "Livia, I mean. She seemed so... nice, when we studied. Why would she do this?"

“She's..." Cyrus kept his eyes firmly fixed in front of him, squinting at the first eluvian they came upon. It didn't look like anyone had been near it recently, clearly—the foliage at its base was undisturbed, for one. He shook his head, and they moved on.

“She was a friend, once. A long time ago. I suspect she did this because she's working for Corypheus, and has been from the start. She would not have turned down an opportunity to take revenge on me. Not... not after what I did." He slumped a little against Stel.

Vesryn was only half-listening, he had to admit. Serious though it was, he was a bit too distracted by the sights, the gentle sounds, the feel of this place. He felt wonderful. Rested, rejuvenated. Not that he'd been particularly tired, but the strain had been a little higher than usual with his old friends near. Saraya, though, had been rather fixated on something she found curious, and eventually it managed to pull Vesryn's attention forward, to Stel. And Cyrus as well, he supposed. Something they'd said? None of it stood out as odd to him at the moment. Perhaps it would occur to him later.

"Not something particularly pleasant, I take it?" He tried to ask the question with a layer of caution, as he thought Cyrus's hesitance in saying it came from more than just his weariness. In any case, if they did find and catch Livia, they would probably find out from her, if Cyrus didn't want to share it himself.

Cyrus sighed heavily, moving them past another eluvian. “No." It took him several more steps to spit it out, though. “I murdered Milo. Her brother." A heartbeat of silence, then: “I think that's the one we want."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
Marceline, Leon, and Rilien stood in a hall in the lower levels of Skyhold. In front of them a door, flanked by two guards. It wasn't the dungeon, as the man who waited inside wasn't under arrest yet, but he was an unknown entity, and Marceline wished that he would be come a little more known before they decided to lock him up, or let him have free reign of the castle. From the information she had, he had saved Cyrus, Estella, and the others on the other side of something that they called an Eluvian. A device that a mole planted into their ranks had used to escape after poisoning Cyrus and stealing his notes on the breach.

It was surprising how much could break in a span of only a few days. Not only did the attack put questions in her mind about the Inquisition's security, but also cast suspicion on all other personnel in the Inquisition. There was many long days ahead of her yet, but for now, they had to deal with the elf waiting behind the door in front of them. "His name is Harellan," and really, that was the only thing they knew about him. Other than Cyrus also knew him, but he was still in no shape to be questioned. The man had saved them yes, but that did not eliminate him as a possible threat. Not with that track record.

"How do you feel we should proceed?" Marceline asked the other two advisors.

“We should not be hostile," Leon said, crossing his arms over his chest. He hadn't dressed to intimidate, either, judging by the simple tunic and trousers he wore. But then perhaps his physique alone served well enough for that. “Suspicious or not, he did save one of our Inquisitors, and several other people. I think we ought to simply ask him what we want to know, and see what he says. No doubt we should stay sharp and take everything with a grain of salt, but it would hardly be fair to assume the worst because we've already dealt with it."

“My agents have thus far been able to find no information on him at all." Rilien did not sound disturbed by this, but perhaps that was only because it was impossible for tranquil to in fact be disturbed by anything. “We will continue to look, but for the moment we are at the informational disadvantage, and he is likely to know that. We should not present ourselves as if it is otherwise. But if we are sufficiently solicitous, he may be unguarded in his replies. I will watch for signs of deception."

He paused a moment for the information to digest, then opened the door without knocking, entering first with Marceline and Leon just behind.

It was a room appointed for such tasks as interrogation, and as such it was bare of any furniture save a wooden table with a chair on either side of it. Rilien stood with his back to the wall, leaving the unoccupied chair open. The other sat a most-curious-looking elf.

He wasn't Dalish; that much was clear from the absence of tattoos on his face. But he certainly didn't look like a city elf, either. It was hard to tell for sure since he was seated, but he was probably in the vicinity of six feet in height, built somewhere between Rilien and Vesryn. His eyes tracked their entrance quite keenly—a soft spring green, like the underside of mature leaves. His hair was worn in a long tail, but the sides and back had been shorn away, making the points of his ears all the more prominent. He had, apparently, voluntarily relinquished his armor and supplies, and wore a well-crafted linen tunic, plain green save for the swirling teardrop embroidered in gold thread on the upper part of his sleeve.

Most striking, perhaps, was how completely at ease he seemed; he smiled slightly at their entrance and stood, confirming the estimate of his height. He gave a little bow before standing at attention, clearly waiting for Marceline to take her seat before he resumed his.

"Andaran atish'an, Inquisition. Or perhaps I should say good day. I thought you might be by to see me soon."

Marceline inclined her head in response to the greeting, though she did not put it into words. He was unfailingly polite, which was refreshing, considering the type they usually had to have the Inquisitors judge. Not that this man was intended to face their judgment regardless, but it was nice to have someone who spoke cordially for once. Still, she didn't let her guard down in the face of his honeyed words.

"Of course, and as you can imagine, we have some questions for you," Marceline began, though she paused for a moment. "But first, please allow me to apologize for your accommodations, but considering recent events, I hope that you understand the necessity for all of this," she stated politely.

"If you do not mind?" she started, figuring it would be best for both parties if they were to begin the questioning as soon as possible, "I would like to ask, quite plainly if I may, who you are, Serah?"

The elf resumed his seat, folding his hands together on the tabletop in the universal negotiation signal of good faith. He tilted his head to the side a little, blinking as though perplexed. "Forgive me, my lady, for that is a very broad question, and I am not entirely certain of how to answer it to your satisfaction. My name is Harellan, and as you can see, I am an elf, which I confess makes it rather difficult to be anyone of particular importance in the world." His done did not vary from its thoughtful cordiality when he said so; there was no bitterness to be found in it despite the fact that the words themselves conveyed a rather bitter truth.

"I am also a mage, if that fact is of any particular significance. I have found that some do tend to care."

“And your connection to Cyrus Avenarius?" Leon spoke from his spot against the wall, flanking Marceline on the opposite side from Rilien. They likely made a rather daunting trio, not that Harellan was giving any indication of it. “The reports are clear that you acted as though you knew him, and he you as well."

"Ah, of course." Harellan nodded easily, though a hint of melancholy seemed to seep into his smile for just a moment. "We have indeed met; it was I who first taught him the dirth'ena enasalin. What you would call... the way of the Knight-Enchanter?" He didn't seem entirely sure of the translation, but continued anyway. "We parted ways about two years ago now. I was surprised to see him again so soon."

"Which brings us to the next question," Marceline stated, "If you do not mind me asking, how was it that you ran into him and the others when you did?" she asked, keeping any accusations out of her tone. It seemed like a rather large coincidence that he was there when they needed him the most, but Marceline didn't put much faith in coincidence "We, of course, appreciate the aid rendered, but regardless, I am curious," she said with a shrug.

"It's... difficult to explain." Harellan issued a soft breath from his nose, almost a sigh. "The eluvians are all connected, you see, through a central place called the Between, or sometimes the Crossroads. It is not quite the Fade, but it has some similar properties. It is possible to key certain mirrors to the blood or password of a particular person, but it is also possible to sense changes in the Between itself, if you know what to look for." He lifted his shoulders. "Changes such as an inactive eluvian becoming active. As you might imagine, there are very few people who have access to even one, fewer still who know how to operate them. I was quite curious who had recently opened one, and followed the trail I found."

“Fortuitous." Rilien's monotone didn't convey anything in particular, but that in itself lent it a certain impression of skepticism.

"On the contrary: it is most infelicitous news that those cultists—Venatori, if I recall—know how to use them. The knowledge must be less rare than I thought. My own presence was a matter of habit rather than luck; I do not like not knowing what occurs there. As this has aptly demonstrated... the risk is considerable."

"We are in agreement," Marceline said. She was not particularly fond of the thought that they had what amounted to a back door into the heart of the Inquisition just laying around. They had soldiers posted by the mirror, but it was still uncomfortable knowledge that if they could somehow bypass the safeguards then they could theoretically be attacked. However, that was not her area of expertise, so she would allow Leon and Rilien to handle it.

She then shook her head and spoke again, "I am sorry, I am afraid I do not fully understand these eluvians, only what has been reported." Which was that it was used in an attempted assassination and subterfuge and led to what she suspected was a Venatori encampment. "If you would be so kind as to shed light on what they are, I would be thankful."

Harellan sat back in his seat a bit, leaving his hands still in the open and visible. "In simplest terms, they are transport, of sorts. Portals, if you like. For each eluvian that exists here, a match exists in the Between. As I said, they're quite safe when protected by passwords or other sorts of gatekeeping, but if left open they are as vulnerable as any unlocked door." He arched a dark brow. "Once, they connected all of Elvhenan, the ancient kingdom of the elves. But the world was much different then, and many have since been destroyed or otherwise lost. Far fewer remain."

“So why come through this one, then, if you had so many to choose from? Is it simply a matter of seeing your student safe, or did you have some cause for seeking out the Inquisition specifically?" It was clear that this was the crux of the matter, as far as Leon was concerned; Marceline could tell that he'd been waiting to ask the question for some time now.

Something changed in Harellan's expression. It was difficult to pick out exactly what, but it made him look older somehow. His age was hard to pin down already, and the shift only complicated matters. "I confess my motives are mostly selfish; I would like to remain where my student is, though I don't think he would find the suggestion particularly welcome. I fear my use to you would be quite limited; I am not so talented as he is, nor so inclined to the field of battle. But... I might be useful in other ways. I have some experience teaching, as you may have guessed. I believe in this respect I could be of particular help to the Lady Inquisitor."

“How so?" There was something not-quite-neutral about Rilien's question, but pinning it down was impossible.

"Her magic. Cyrus has described it to me. I believe I may be able to cultivate her talents in a way most other mages could not. Otherwise... I have some experience with the keeping of animals, if I might humbly earn my keep here in that way."

Marceline didn't answer immediately, but instead turned toward Rilien expectantly. While Estella was the Inquisitor, she was Rilien's pupil as well and she wished for his opinion on the matter.

“I have never been able to get her to commit to magic as a course of study. She has not wanted to, and I have therefore not insisted. If she should change her mind, I would be unsuitable as an instructor regardless." He gave no further assessment than that.

Marceline nodded and turned back to Harellan. "We still must discuss matters, among each other and with the Lady Inquisitor. It should be her decision, not ours. Ser Leonhardt?" she asked.

“That much seems fair," Leon agreed. “But it would likewise be fair to allow Harellan to make the case to her himself. In any event, I see no reason to keep you here. For now, we will appoint you a room in the barracks, if you would find the arrangement acceptable."

"That would be more than adequate. My thanks."

Marceline nodded and rose as she spoke, "And thank you Ser Harellan, for your patience."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Kurokiku
It was fortunate that Cyrus's debriefing with the Inquisition's lovely panel of advisors was not scheduled until the afternoon, because he woke up at about midday with the worst headache he'd had in years, and an unfortunately-complete recollection of the way the night before had gone. He couldn't say he'd intended to share that particular story with anyone, especially not within earshot of Stellulam, but... it hadn't turned out as badly as he'd expected. He'd long since accepted that the memory of that day would haunt him for the rest of his life. Unlike those who had killed only in defense of self or others, he knew what it was like to spill the blood of an innocent helpless to defend himself. To spill the blood of a friend. It was a stain on his soul, if such a thing existed. It probably shouldn't go away.

He lacked the strength to move, at first, remaining where he was on Stellulam's sofa and trying to slowly open his eyes and accustom them to the light. He hadn't dreamed—but of course he couldn't, anymore. Gone were the days when he wandered further afield at night than he ever did during the day. Now he just... blacked out for a while; lost track of everything. It felt unnatural, strange and wrong, and he was never able to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. Unless, apparently, he had the assistance of very strong drink.

He needed to get up and bathe, among other things. He knew this, but couldn't quite seem to find the motivation or will to achieve it. He was lethargic, heavy in the limbs, and the splitting pain in his head made it difficult to dredge up the effort required. More than that, though, he just... didn't really see a reason. With a soft groan, he extracted his arm from between his body and the back of the sofa, laying it across his stomach instead, but that was as far as his first effort took him. It wasn't as though he had anything urgent to do, anymore. His experiments were impossible, his research inapplicable. He no longer had anything to offer the Inquisition, save perhaps a sword arm better than some but worse than others. And what was one more of those, in the grand scheme of things?

He would stay for Stellulam, but all she required was his presence, and he could be just as well from here as anywhere. Maybe better, since her office was just a staircase below at the moment. If she wanted him for something, he would be easy to find.

But... there was perhaps one more thing he could do, at least. With more time to think about matters—and he'd done little else for days—he'd become relatively certain that he knew who the Venatori's leader was. And that seemed like important information that for the moment only he was likely to possess. It was time he let the others know, so that more useful people could decide what to do about it, and then carry out those plans.

Getting himself cleaned up and into a fresh set of clothes took the batter part of half an hour because he moved slowly in his recovery, but he didn't bother with the more polished touches to his appearance. His hair he left to air-dry, and it curled a bit near his nape as a result. It probably needed a cut. His shirt was just a loose, white linen thing, tucked into grey trousers and his well-traveled boots. His face looked like he'd been through hell: sunken cheeks, hollowed eyes, chapped lips, even, and a very fine layer of black stubble. But he was clean, and even that felt oddly like a victory on this particular day.

He made it down to Marceline's office on time for the meeting, at least; Estella's tranquil tutor let him in when he knocked. He mustered half a bow from somewhere, but the effortless light air of it was gone, leaving only the bare minimum motion of rote instead of grace.

Lady Marceline stood on the other side of her desk, where she leaned over and appeared to be discussing something with Larissa, who sat in her chair. When Cyrus entered, she turned to greet him and nodded politely, and added, "Lord Cyrus," before she glanced back at Larissa. The elven woman nodded succinctly and retrieved a ledger from one of Marceline's drawers as well as a quill and inkwell.

With whatever affairs that they were discussing apparently settled, Marceline finally turned to face Cyrus more fully, though not before she reached for a half empty wineglass that waited for her on the corner of her desk. Larissa's eyes went to the glass as well, though only for a moment before she too started to look toward Cyrus. "If you are so inclined, you are more than welcome to take any seat you see," she said, gesturing toward the finely upholstered chairs and couch, as well as the stiffer ones situated in front of her desk.

He wasn't particularly inclined to do anything, honestly. But he supposed sitting was marginally better than standing, for present purposes, so he nodded slightly, taking a seat in one of the firm-backed chairs in front of the desk and leaning back with a sigh likely only audible to himself. Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, but blinked them open again soon after.

“We met the Venatori's leader, on the other side of the eluvian." He spoke without preamble, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own. The pounding behind his eyes hadn't abated, not even with the help of an alchemical pain-reliever. He'd used to hate the very thought of putting something like that into his body. Of disrupting the natural harmony between his chemistry and his magic. But there was hardly any point in such reservations anymore. What did they protect, now?

He lifted dull eyes to meet Marceline's, arching an eyebrow without humor. “I know who he is now. I don't think it'll mean much to anyone else, but I can at least tell you what little I'm aware of. Not sure if you want to take notes or something." He gestured vaguely with a hand before he let it fall back to his leg with a soft thud.

"Larissa?" She asked, tilting her head in the woman's direction.

"Ready, ma'am," she said after dipping the quill tip into the inkwell. It appeared that they had been prepared to take notes regardless.

Satisfied, Marceline then turned back to Cyrus and nodded, "All information helps, even the smallest piece. Now, who is this man?" Marceline asked, leaning heavily on the lip of her desk. She had an arm tucked across her body while the other held the wineglass to her lips, where they rested while she awaited Cyrus's explanation.

Cyrus huffed. It might have been a laugh, at some point, but he didn't really have the energy for it right now. “If anybody had told me it was him, I'd have thought the whole enterprise doomed to fail. He has a habit of doing that, but only because he picks such... lofty ambitions." Not that he was really in a place to be criticizing anyone else for wanting too much or aiming too high, really. He scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving it curved over his mouth for a moment before dropping it to his own opposite shoulder.

“His name is Alesius. Marcus Alesius, and unsurprisingly, he is a Magister. Though certainly not one with much clout in the Imperium as it is. He's... honestly something of a laughingstock, but his magic is formidable enough that few would dare mock him to his face. So they just all do it behind his back instead, as politicians tend to prefer."

Marceline sighed and shook her head. "I know of his name, this Marcus," she revealed, letting the glass fall away from her lips. "There was an incident at Chateau Haine some years ago that I believe involved him as well as an... acquaintance of mine. From what I recollect, this Marcus had also had audiences with the Empress herself at that time," she said, glancing back at Larissa. At the pause, Larissa returned the look and nodded in agreement.

She then looked back at Cyrus, "It is a surprise then to hear that his own people held such a low opinion on him."

Cyrus shrugged. “Back when he was an apprentice, he worked under Magister Cécilius. His magic was always better than his master's, basically as soon as he'd learned the fundamentals. But Cécilius had the more powerful family. Predictably enough, Marcus wanted an engagement to his daughter to reinforce the connection. The bond of apprenticeship is second only to those; it's not uncommon for apprentices to eventually marry into the family, if they're well-liked by the Magister." Fortunately for both himself and Chryseis, Cassius had never insisted on anything of the sort, though there were always going to be vague insinuations. They just never came to anything.

“The rumors say he decided to prove himself in deed rather than word. Personally, I suspect wanting to marry into his teacher's family had little to do with it. But he infiltrated the Qunari—posed as a convert, hid his magic. They put him into the Ben-Hassrath, which meant he and his partner were handling a lot of sensitive information. Five years later, she has a list of the Qunari operatives in the Imperium and he has her in Cécilius's basement." Cyrus grimaced. “Of course, it wasn't the fact that he tortured her that earned the ire of the Magisterium. It was the fact that he failed to do it well enough to get a peep out of her. And then she pretended to be dead and dug her way out of her grave, they say. You can imagine what a spectacular failure that was for him. Thwarted by a half-dead woman. Everything he's done since hasn't succeeded either; that's why he tried other courts in the first place, I suppose."

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?" Leon asked. “How he fell in with Corypheus, anything about his resources or likely plans?" From the sound of it, he knew the questions were a bit of a reach, but most likely he found them worthwhile to ask anyway.

“Probably it was a desperation move." Cyrus narrowed his eyes; it was really too bright in here, with the daylight filtering in from outside. “But... I will say this. Alesius is remembered for his failures, but he has bounced back from each of them. He overreaches occasionally, to be sure, but there's a certain brilliance to his thinking all the same. It would be unwise to underestimate him. Quite a lot of people want him dead, and yet he is not. That itself should serve as warning." Few survived in Tevinter very long with no allies, and perhaps aside from Leta, Marcus had none.

"Much of the same could be said of us," Marceline noted evenly.

Leon nodded slowly. “I believe that should cover all of our questions, then." He'd clearly noticed that Cyrus was not quite himself, if the furrow in his brow was anything to go by. Once Marceline and Rilien had confirmed, his lips thinned a bit. “There is one last thing, though. If you wouldn't mind accompanying me for a while, Cyrus?"

He wasn't really expecting the request, and for a moment, he considered simply declining. But he supposed he owed Leon his life now, whatever it was still worth, so he found himself nodding. "Very well." He stood with a soft grunt of effort and followed Leon from Marceline's office.

Leon did not immediately makes his intentions nor their destination clear, instead leading Cyrus through the keep and out the front door. It wasn't until they were up on the walls that he finally stopped, leaning forward on the crenelations and bracing himself with his hands. “Apologies. I suppose the light level might not be all the comfortable. If you'd prefer to go indoors, I'd understand."

Cyrus shook his head, slowly enough not to agitate his headache. "Considering how much I drank last night, I probably deserve it." His face pulled into a grim frown, but he did turn away from the wall, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest. This high up, he could see the soldiers practicing on the training grounds below. The mages Aurora led were just in sight; he watched one of them fling a lightning spell and felt for a brief moment as though it had struck him square in the chest.

He exhaled softly, turning his eyes away to watch the arms practice instead, blinking back the tears that had suddenly gathered in his eyes. He felt... empty. Hollow. Like a shell. All the ways he'd heard others describe tranquil, and yet this might be worse. Because he felt the loss. He still reflexively reached for his magic every time he wanted a light or to warm cold tea or something as simple as a book on a far shelf. It hadn't been much more than a week in total, but still he felt as though it would never be otherwise. This would never be normal for him.

He wasn't sure he wanted it to be.

Cyrus steadied himself with a breath. "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Commander?" He knew that by now, Stellulam had told her three advisors and fellow Inquisitor of what had become of him, and as of last night, he could be relatively sure that both Vesryn and Zahra knew as well. Asala of course had been there when he'd first learned. That was plenty more people than he would've liked to have told, but each had been necessary, in a sense. If he had his way, there'd be no more. At least not until he figured out what he wanted to do with himself.

“I'm sorry, Cyrus." Leon still stared out at the landscape beyond the wall. His eyes were narrow, mouth set into a deep scowl. He looked angry, almost, though it didn't seem to be directed anywhere in particular. “That this happened... and that I did that to you."

It honestly took Cyrus a moment to figure out what he was talking about. But then it came back. A burning feeling, like his body was being incinerated from the inside, bones scorched and blackened, something in the Fade searing the corruption in his blood. He understood, now, in a way he had not before, why all the metaphors about Andraste's pyre were as they were. Not because he was any great martyr, of course, but because he knew now what it felt like for something to burn and be somehow pure at the same time. If he had to describe it, that was what he'd call it: holy fire, in his flesh and blood. It rather stood to reason that he'd be burned, didn't it?

Exhaling a short breath at his meandering train of thought, Cyrus shook his head. "As I recall, I demanded that you do it." Not that anything about that point was especially clear in memory, with the notable exception of pain. "I will try not to hold saving my life against you." His tone nearly dripped with irony, but there was a grain of truth in it, too, perhaps, considering how little he thought of what life was available to him now. Many mages would rather die than be rendered tranquil. He had figured himself among them.

At least he felt no such inclinations at present.

“Even so." Leon did not seem particularly assuaged by Cyrus's words, pushing back from the wall and turning to face him better. “That... I've done it often enough to know the kind of pain it puts people through. Others have called it a necessity, but it is torture, and I don't..." He heaved a deep sigh. “I honestly prefer not to remember I can do it. Regardless of the result, I am sorry I did it. Caused you that kind of pain."

Cyrus could see this wasn't an argument he was going to win. And he wasn't particularly inclined to try. Leon knew his own capacities better than anyone, and he had no desire to try and tell him differently. It had hurt. If that was what the apology was for, then... fair enough. "Consider yourself forgiven." He managed a very thin half-smile. "I am in your debt, Commander. If ever you should find yourself in need of... whatever I can do now, name the favor."

“I won't forget it," Leon said, his own smile mild. “In the meantime, is there something the Inquisition can provide you? You prefer swords, if I recall correctly. We could supply you with the steel kind, at least."

Cyrus gave that some thought. He supposed he would have to do his best to be useful again eventually. He wasn't going to do that laying about in Stellulam's room and trying to forget. "I'm not sure I'll be in shape for anything for a couple of months, at least." It was difficult to admit, but he was going to need time to acclimatize to the facts of his situation, and learn to adjust for them. But adapt he must—even if he wasn't strictly needed, he knew himself well enough to know that he would be unable to stand the idea of being locked up here in Skyhold while Stellulam and his other... friends ventured into danger. He'd be restless, perhaps eventually mad.

"But... yes. Two, if you can spare them. Longblades, preferably of lighter make, but nothing so thin as a rapier, please. I'll supply the rest." After a letter to his steward in Minrathous, anyway. But that shouldn't take longer to get here than it would take him to be ready for it.

Something akin to relief passed over Leon's face at that. “Consider it done."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The scent of smoke hung heavy in the air, and it was giving Lady Marceline a headache. That, and a number of other factors.

The Exalted Plains, a region of the Dales in Orlais had recently played host to a front in the Orlesian civil war, or the War of the Lions as it was also known. The place had been beautiful, once, before it was ravaged by war and blood. Lady Marceline and the rest of the Inquisition had received a missive from her father, Marshall of the Loyalist forces. The letter was not unusual, Marceline often received them from her father, and they had always comforted her with the knowledge that he was still okay, and the war had not yet taken him. However, his most recent letter did anything but.

This time, he had written to request her, and the Inquisition's aid. Demons had infested the Plains, and forced the armies to turn their attentions away from each other and on them. From the tone of the letter, it sounded as if the situation was dire, and that both sides were losing ground to the demons. It worried her, to hear that her father was now facing a force of demons, with no real way to get rid of them short of an Inquisitor.

While they could not interfere in the civil war of a nation, they could deal with the rifts and rid the Plains of demons. As valiantly as the Chevaliers fought, they could not hope to defeat what must seem like a limitless force of demons. At the very least, Marceline had hoped that once the demons were gone, that both sides could come to a ceasefire--at least until a time in which a more permanent solution could be found. She may be able to sleep a bit easier at night to know that her father was no longer in any immediate danger. Probably not, all things accounted for, but it would be at least some semblance of peace of mind, for one thing at least.

As it was her father who had sent the letter, she had accompanied the rest of the Inquisition into the field. Not only accompany, but she took point as they approached the battlefield. She wished that their pace was quicker, but was intelligent enough to know the value of patience. Still, that did not help with the knowledge that her father was somewhere out there, fighting against demons. Beside her, Michaël rode and she knew he was worried as well. For her father, yes, but by the many glances he'd given her during the journey, he was worried about her as well.

"I am fine, Micky," she said after the latest glance, perhaps a little more tersely than she meant to. He grunted in answer, something she took as him not entirely believing her.

Ser Leonhardt, riding a bit behind but still within earshot, glanced towards the horizon. Or at least it seemed like he did; it was hard to say for sure when he wore the helmet. “We shouldn't be much further out," he said, voice slightly muffled and slightly echoing. He was still easily audible, however.

A scout emerged from behind one of the hills on their right, one of the Inquisition's. He signaled with a low whistle, and waved an all clear. That was their cue to lead the horses off the main road, and they did so quickly, picking up the pace a bit to urge their mounts over the incline. They descended down a slope after that, following the scout into a patch of dry ravines, with pathways forming naturally between high rock walls. A few bridges attempted to span them, but most had been destroyed, either by time or by the more recent fighting. In either case, going into the shadow of the cliffs led them to the scout camp.

Lia was waiting for them, bow in hand. She looked on edge. By the looks of things, the scouts were dealing with several wounded, though none of them looked seriously injured. She waved a half-hearted greeting and met them at the edge of the camp.

"Lady Marceline. Commander. Glad you guys could make it in one piece. This place is a mess, worse than the Hinterlands ever were. You didn't encounter any trouble on the way in I hope?"

Marceline shook her head, "We met only a few demons, stragglers I believe. Nothing that we could not sufficiently deal with ourselves," Lady Marceline answered. She glanced behind her, toward Asala, but it seemed as if the young woman did not need to be asked, as she was already off of her horse and heading toward the injured scouts. Instead, she nodded and turned back toward Lia. "Was it them that did this?" Marceline asked.

"Bandits, actually," Lia replied grimly. "Or rebels, or whatever. Scum. We've encountered a group called Freemen of the Dales here. Recent, mostly deserters from one side or the other. Which means they're better trained than average highwaymen. Took us by surprise while we were dealing with some demons. We managed to get clear, though." A scout groaned from the camp behind her, prompting Lia to turn her head and look on in concern for a moment, but she shook it off. "I'm not sure if they're based somewhere here, or if they've got larger operations elsewhere. Oh, uh." She glanced around the head of one of the horses, trying to find Khari's eyes. "I spotted a Dalish clan across the Plains. Staying clear of the fighting, I think. I couldn't spare anyone to find out what clan, though."

“Yeah... I think I know who that is." Khari nodded to Lia, an expression of thanks, it seemed. “Probably won't be an issue, though. They'd prefer not to get involved if possible."

"Makes sense." Lia looked back to Marceline. "Gaspard's forces are the closest, or at least a portion of them. They're holding the ramparts north of here against the demons. Can't say how well they're doing, and we don't have the manpower to assist. Well, now we do."

Romulus nodded. "I'll do what I can for the rifts."

"Cool. I can take you out of the ravines, but I'll need to come back here after that. Bit too busy managing my people to come along. We've got our hands full here."

"Any word of my father?" Marceline added tentatively. She tried to wash the worry out of her voice before she spoke, but she was afraid she was not able to get it all, judging by the comforting hand Michaël placed on her back.

"No," Lia answered, in a carefully measured tone. "I'm sorry. Trying to break through to either side was too great a risk, and I've got wounded to take care of already." She glanced sideways for a moment, and then gestured. "Let me just get my horse, and we'll head out now."

Marceline frowned and nodded, "I understand, thank you Lia."

They waited for Lia to get mounted, and the followed her through the ravine. The air as the rode proved to be oppressive, at least, it had for Marceline. It felt as if a demon or these Freeman Lia spoke of could ambush them at any moment. Marceline kept her eyes to their flanks, hoping to catch them before that could happen. The smell of blood and death soon pervaded the air, and Marceline figured that meant that they were getting close. Soon enough, she was proven correct, as they soon caught sight of the ramparts over the next bend.

A squad of Chevaliers were posted near what she could tell was the entrance-- a wooden bridge over a moat. Inside was a series of wooden barricades and a number of trenches. "Those are Gaspard's men alright," Michaël noted, and Marceline agreed. They wore the Grand Duke's color, red, accented with a bronze hued armor. Michaël sighed deeply beside her and shook his head, "I remember fighting in ramparts like those... trench warfare is never easy," he said sounding rather tired himself. Marceline glanced at him and placed a hand over his own, and gave it a comforting squeeze. He was pulled from a battlefield just like this one to serve with the Inquisition with her. Seeing it again... couldn't have been easy.

"Good luck. I hope your search goes well," Lia said, wheeling her horse about. She took off back for the scout camp.

As they drew closer, it was easier to see that the trenches themselves were filled with fog or mist; it smelled vaguely rancid as well. That was unsurprising; oftentimes, all there was time for in situations like this was burning the bodies, if that, and the demons were no doubt further complicating matters.

Their horses' hooves almost crunched over dried, yellow-brown grass; the hasty grey-wood construction of the ramparts was hardly a nicer sight to look upon. The bridge over to the main portion of the holdings was occupied by two chevaliers, one of them wearing an armband that suggested at least some officer rank or other. They were both immediately cautious of the approaching band of mounted soldiers, drawing their weapons and holding them ready.

"Who goes?" demanded the officer. The other looked ready to give a signal to the rest of the squad at any moment.

"The Inquisition, ser," Marceline answered. She was a bit on edge as she spoke, as she did not know how well the Chevaliers would react to meeting both Michaël and herself. He was once an enemy chevalier, and she herself was the daughter of the Marshall of the opposition's forces. However, their stance seemed to relax once she introduced themselves as the Inquisition, though they still kept their weapons in their hands.

The guards exchanged glances between each other before they looked back to her and the one spoke again, "You are here... about the demons, yes." There was a hopeful tone in his voice.

Lady Marceline nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, ser. We are," she said, glancing at Romulus. "This is our Inquisitor, Romulus," She said, introducing him to the soldier.

A flash of recognition crossed the Chevalier's face and he placed a hand over his heart in a salute. "Oh, good," the one soldier answered, deeply exhaling. "Well met Inquisitor," he added. "We have been trying to retake the ramparts from the dead... They rise here, somewhere within the trenches," she said, tossing a wary glance over his shoulder and into the trenches in question. Marceline also noticed Michaël wincing when the soldier spoke of the trenches.

"Have you..." Marceline began, "Have you heard any news of Marshall Lucas LĂ©cuyer?"

The soldier then squinted at her and then nodded his head, "You are his daughter, yes? We had heard that the Inquisition employed her--you. No milady, I am afraid I have not," he answered, seeming rather apologetic about it. The gesture did manage to relax Marceline a little, but still. "Communications have been difficult, since the demons. Perhaps our commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx would know, but we have retreated to Fort Revasan. He has ordered it locked down until we have cleared the ramparts of the demons. It has been going... poorly," the soldier said, shaking his head.

“Where do you need reinforcements?" Ser Leonhardt asked, stepping forward slightly to make himself more visible, perhaps, though that was hardly an issue. “Is there a rift nearby here causing the trouble, or some location they seem to be dispersing from?"

"Deeper inside," the soldier answered, pointing toward the center of the ramparts. "There is a pit filled with corpses, and a... strange glowing light resting above it," He explained.

"The rift," Marceline stated, "That is the source of these demons, and the corpse pit may be the reason for all of the undead," she continued, glancing at Leon.

"Yes, there is another rampart, closer to the fort with the same affliction. We were given horns and orders to sound them once they have been cleared, to let the fort know they have been dealt with," the soldier said. "You will be able to gain entry afterward."

“Rift, huh?" Khari shrugged, glancing at Romulus for a moment. “Think we've got that covered. Let's get to it." She seemed, if anything, a little excited by the prospect, but it was subdued when compared with her usual expressions of the same.

Romulus did not look as excited, reaching into a pouch on his belt and extracting a small vial from it. He'd pulled the cork and downed its contents as quickly as it appeared, shaking his head briefly at the strength of it and blinking rapidly for a few seconds. His blade and shield in hand, he dismounted, starting forward.

Zahra wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her mouth formed a hard line. Unlike Khari, she hadn’t looked all that excited since they’d arrived in the Exalted Plains. Perhaps, it was the exertion of swinging on and off their horses, taking care of the straggler-demons Marcy had talked about. Exhausting work. She, too, dismounted but held the horses reins, as if she didn’t truly want to walk any further. She exhaled softly through her nose, “More Undead. Great.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Undead. Maggot-infested corpses crawling out from all those damned trenches, swaying like drunkards on their broken limbs, clacking their finger bones across too-heavy great swords, staring across at them with sightless sockets
 Zahra never wanted to see them again after Crestwood. Apparently life had a funny way of spitting in their faces. Not only did they have to deal with demons, but the undead, too. She was a fan of neither abominations. She couldn’t tell if the entire place smelt like wet dog or death. Maybe a putrid combination of both. She couldn’t decide which was worse. She’d already decided she hated it.

Hated that there was a beauty here, too. Buried beneath old ruins, and muddy trenches; hidden under centuries of war and slaughter and a stubbornness that prevented people from letting go of the place. Who would choose to live here? She wasn’t sure. The Dalish did. She supposed there was something worth holding onto. Though them being here was still important. She understood that well enough. Marceline’s father was here, somewhere: fighting a war of his own. Hopefully still alive. Marceline was worried. Rightfully so. The pinch to her brows, and the faraway gaze, read plain as day. However, it wasn’t looking promising. From all the corpses they’d seen face down in the muck
 they weren’t faring well.

Who could blame them for faltering? Undead creatures, and more demons than she could shake a stick at were hunkered across the hills. Skulking through the various trenches and palisades as if they owned the place. Bastards. Apparently there were bandits too—you’d think that they would’ve been busy fending off a common enemy rather than pilfering those who fell beneath them. Opportunists; something she also understood. These days, she agreed less and less with the sentiment.

They were approaching a bridge. Surrounded by the sharp wooden spikes, piercing up towards the sky like spines set across the lip of the trenches—presumably to keep their enemies at bay. There were armored bodies, as well as remnants of the undead, rankled through them, as if both had been pushed and impaled. A last stand that ended badly for both parties. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. Burnt flesh, rotting flesh; insects and wet earth. An awful mixture. Smoke wept into the gray skies. Everything felt so bloody heavy.

A soon as they were halfway across the wooden bridge, the moans began. A crooning sound above the eerie silence. Two arrows thudded in front of Rom’s feet, twanging to a halt. It didn’t take long for the source of the noise, and assault, to reveal themselves. Several undead were peeling out of the inner structure, clambering out of the trenches, steel-plated or wearing leathers. The insignia's etched across their chests and backs were familiar. Another volley of arrows sang through the air, zipping past their heads.

Zahra was already notching her own arrow, ducking behind a row of wooden spikes to give her some cover.

“Hold your noses and have at it, eh?" Khari was, predictably enough, the first into the fray, red braid trailing behind her like a brighter version of one of the drooping pennants still affixed to the occasional stake in the palisade. Proud battle-line markers once, signs of greyed-out fatigue and decay now. But not her.

She body-checked one of the undead back into the pit it had crawled out of. From the thudding and wet squelches, she'd delayed the ascent of at least a few more. Her cleaver mowed down another, putrefying flesh no match for solid steel, however chipped and cracking the blade had become over time. Like her, perhaps, always coming away with a new mark or bruise or scar, but undiminished. Glorying in the fact, even, if the throaty sound of her laughter was anything to go by. She spun, chopping into another's torso all the way to the spine and casting it off her blade with a foot. Back into the pit it went, still for good this time.

Leon moved to his work with a soft little sigh, almost under his breath, but Zahra could hear it. It sounded exasperated and perhaps a little bit fond; it was almost certainly directed at Khari's enthusiasm. or rather the woman herself. For all his mildness, he was certainly no less violent when it came right down to it, shouldering his way to the front with a sort of deliberate intention, though the expression on his face was left to guesswork. The helmet obscured him considerably.

When the first of the creatures swung a mace for him, he simply weathered the blow, letting it clang off his plate armor. Abruptly, he reached for the weapon on its rebound, giving a hard tug and yanking the possessed corpse forward into his knee. The muffled snap was most likely the cracking of its spine or pelvic bone—he'd hit too low for it to only be ribs. He shoved it back into the pit as well, turning smoothly to slam his armored gauntlet into the next one's unprotected head, snapping its neck back with a slightly-sharper crunch. It dropped like a stone.

Michaël sighed as well, though Zahra could tell his was far more earnest and detached. He lacked the spirit and enthusiasm Khari held for the battle at hand, and even seemed tentative to jump in with the rest. He gave Lady Marceline one last glance before he pulled his armored mask over his face and dove into the battle behind the others. The sound of a pair of longswords scraping out of their sheathes accompanied his plunge into the undead.

The first shambling corpse didn't get the chance to attack him, his first blade piercing the thing's chest before the other looped around and lopped off its rotten head. A heavy kick saw the corpse dislodged from his blade and crashing into another that was caught behind it. With the next step, he twisted his body and began a spin while he held both blades out. A full rotation saw the blades crash into the next one, tearing through its arm and digging deep into its torso. The force of momentum saw the swords rip free of its body, leaving the undead to twirl limply into the ground.

Lady Marceline stood a safe distance behind him, and dealt with any undead that managed to get around him. Zahra could tell that the stress of worry was beginning to affect her as her technique suffered, and was replaced by a yet to be seen fierceness.

Rom took the sides of the fight, not bothering with the confined quarters of the trenches and instead climbing onto the ramparts around them, where some of those undead archers had taken up positions. He sprinted forward, staying low, catching one arrow on his shield as he went, and stepping in swiftly to meet the first archer before it could draw another projectile. Their bodies were weak and decayed; he reached out, grabbing the thing's head and sawing through the neck, cutting it clean off. The corpse continued to stumble around without its head, but he soon kicked it over and sent it tumbling away.

A second was behind it, already aiming, but Rom ducked low, the arrow passing over his shoulder as he lunged in. He reached with his left hand, grabbing hold of the creature's exposed spine. It hissed in displeasure, but a few seconds and a green glow later it had exploded in half, the small burst of energy from his mark obliterating that block of its spine. It fell in two pieces to the ground. Rom had been about to move on when the top half grabbed hold of him, empty hands clutching at his boots. He yanked his foot free and stomped down on its head, lip curling in disgust.

Asala remained in the rear, though her presence in the fight could still be felt. Barriers sprung to life to in front of whomever needed it most, blocking the arrows from the undead that Romulus had yet to get to. When her barriers were doing that, however, she was using them to funnel and stagger their foes into their frontline fighters so that they wouldn't get overwhelmed. The layout of the ramparts helped her in that regard, the tighter quarters requiring less extensive use of her spell. However, once every now and then, an undead was crushed by the careening force of a shield being swept across it.

Several arrows sliced through the air and thumped into soft-fleshed skulls, felling or incapacitating them for the others to finish off. Plucked in quick succession from behind the general safety of the wooden spikes. A terse grin tugged at the corners of her lips, though it felt more like a grimace on her face. She could see everyone from where she was, advancing down into the trenches, and circling around the main body of undead. Marcy had not escaped her vision either. Her struggles, or sluggish movements, did not go by unnoticed. Zahra shouldered the bow in lieu of her rapiers and stepped down into the muck beside her.

“I’ve got your back—” the rest of her words were interrupted by a clang of metal as a flanged mace bit down overhead. She parried the blow, and allowed the mace to sink its teeth across the blade, dragging the gawping creature off-balance, so that she could sever its head from its shoulders with her second blade. It thumped and rolled away from their feet. The body shuddered and flopped to the side, still as a corpse should be. It hadn’t taken her long to regroup as she circled to Marcy’s flank and swept an incoming blow away. She’d never seen Marcy fight like this before
 but if she was faltering, she would be her blade.

Though it came slower than usual, Marcy's rapier lashed out all the same and pierced the forehead of the undead that Zahra had just deflected. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she nodded, the appreciation surprisingly clear in her usually subdued body language, and though she wore her silverite mask, her crystal blue eyes read it as well.

The undead couldn't stand against their small group, and as they advanced deeper into the ramparts, the sounds of other fights rang over theirs. The squad of Chevaliers they'd seen were not want to stand around and watch while the Inquisition dealt with their problem for them. With the extra hands, it wasn't long before they'd fought their way to the center of the encampment. Their destination was clear, as ahead of them a rift pulsed with energy above a pit. The smell of death and decay wafting from the pit was almost overpowering, probably holding who knew how many corpses for the rift to raise.

"Romulus, please?" Marcy asked, burying her nose within the shoulder of her cape.

Even Rom appeared bothered by the stench, suppressing a cough. He lifted his hand, the mark crackling to life and latching onto the rift. The number of dead here meant that the Veil had been weakened significantly more than usual. Or at least, that was how these things usually went. More dead, more demons. Still, he didn't seem to have any great difficulty in getting the rift to snap shut with a loud crack, allowing them to freely access the bodies. As soon as he wasn't required, Rom made to put some distance between the dead and himself.

"Asala, can you," she paused for a moment to cough and shook her head, "Can you set fire to the bodies? They deserve better but... We must ensure that the undead will not continue to rise," she added.

Asala had a spell in her hand and pressed to her face, and judging by her reactions to the scent it appeared to be filtering the air far better than their clothes were. She nodded and quickly made her way to the pit, tossing down a small fire spell. Though not in her usual repertoire, the bodies were dry enough that the flame caught instantly, and in only a few moments the whole pit was engulfed. Still, the scent lingered, and with the issue dealt with, they didn't need to linger so they made their way back to the bridge.

Along the way, they ran into the soldier they'd spoken to earlier, and though he seemed more battle worn than when they first met, it was clear that their actions had raised his spirits. When they approached, the soldier was in the midst of ordering his squad to mop up any undead that were left and then take defensive positions around the ramparts. "Hail, Inquisition," he said, raising a hand in greeting, before he placed his hand over his heart in a greeting. "We are... truly grateful, for your aid. We could not have closed the rift, as you say, on our own," he said.

"You are welcome, Ser," Marceline answered with a polite bow, though even Zahra could tell that she was anxious to keep moving. Her father was not there, after all, and undoubtedly the woman wished him found soon.

The soldier scratched his head, almost ashamed in asking, "I fear there remains one more, to the north. If Fort Revasan is to be opened, it will need to be dealt with as well." Another soldier approached the first as he spoke, a horn in hand. He received it and turned back to the group, "But for this one, we can handle the rest." With that, he blew into it, sounding it with a deep breath. The call would reach deep into the plains, and into the fort in question. "We wish you luck, Inquisition, and... I hope you find your father well, Lady Marceline," he added.

With a distinct direction to head in, Khari took the lead. Of those present, she seemed least affected by the pervasive smell of death, though why so was hard to say. In any case, it made sense enough to have someone with heavier armament in the front, and it worked out for the better when they reached the northern ramparts on horseback.

The battle there had spilled out onto the surrounding plains, undead having shuffled away from their pits to give ambling pursuit to what looked like only a few heavily-injured chevaliers. Clearly, these had not fared as well as their comrades to the south, but they fought on grimly. Upon catching sight of them, Khari spurred her horse forward, the momentum of its charge carrying her past three corpses before she used her legs to wheel it around. The blade of her cleaver came away black-red with foul ichor, but then she was maneuvering back into the fray, and Zahra's attention forced to her own battles.

There were more, this time, but they were no mightier, and the Inquisition did not flag. When the last had fallen, Khari, still mounted, shook her sword free of as much blood as possible and set it across her lap. “Fort Revasan now, right?" She seemed eager to get there, if without mentioning why.

“Indeed," Leon confirmed, flicking his armored fingers to cast the blood off his gauntlets. He swung back astride his horse with deceptive lightness, pointing her nose to the east. The clicking of his tongue was audible, though trapped behind his helm, and this time, he led.

The plains were oddly empty, for the battlegrounds of a Civil War. But then, by now surely even the soldiers out here had heard that peace talks were imminent. At least imminent by political standards. So the fighting in the fields had died down, but not nearly for long enough that the wildlife had resumed normal activity in the area. Until the fort itself came into view over the horizon, they and their mounts were the only living things to be seen for as far as Zahra could tell.

Fort Revasan was built upon a rock formation, tucked back against the edge of the forest in the rear. Elevated well above most of its surroundings, the well-maintained edifice was only quite small for such a building. But then, it was likely also quite old, a better testament to its effectiveness than mere capacity. They were forced to approach the gate no more than two abreast; Leon dropped back to allow Michaël to ride beside Marceline. He seemed to be inclined to leave the talking to her.

A small team of chevaliers stood guard at the mouth of the gate. On their approach, they shifted into a defensive stance, no few shields rising to greet them. Their caution was warranted as a number of lifeless corpses littered the path, many pushed off to the side and out of the way. Rotten blood was even still present on the chevalier's weapons. "Halt!" one called, "Not a step further. What business do you have with Fort Revasan?" he asked suspiciously. Who could blame him, with that they had to contend with.

"The Inquisition, Ser," Marcy answered. The name seemed to have relaxed a few of them, but regardless their shields and weapons remained raised. "We have aided your men in closing the rifts and cleared the undead from the ramparts. You have heard the horns, no? We wish to speak with your commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx," Marcy said, the impatience growing in her voice. It was subtle, but Zahra saw Michaël lean in and rest a hand in the small of her back. The touch seemed to take some of the tension out of her shoulders.

The soldiers exchanged glances amongst each other before they finally set their weapons aside. "We have, milady. That was your doing then?" the chevalier asked, who received a nod of Marcy's head in response. "You have our thanks then. The Marshall will want to see you," the chevalier then glanced toward the gate and shouted something in Orlesian. Not long after, the gates leading into the fort parted and the chevaliers moved to allow them passage.

The inside appeared as old as the outside, the masonry having cracked from age and grass growing between the stones that made up the floor. A number of chevaliers resided inside, in various states of rest. Upon their admittance, many of their eyes were turned to them, some curious, some suspicious. However, Marshall Proulx was easily made out from the ordinary rank and file. The man was outfitted in finely crafted bronze colored armor with an ornate tallhelm, accented with the Grand Duke's scarlet red. He and what appeared to be a few of his advisors stood over a table that held what was most likely a map of the region.

"The Inquisition, yes?" he said, stepping around the table to greet them properly. "We heard the horns sounding from here, I assume we have you to thank for clearing out the dead from the ramparts?" he asked.

"Yes, Ser," was the only answer Marcy offered.

"Maker's breath, then there's hope for us yet," he said.

However, before he could go much further, Marceline posited a question of her own. "Marshall, if I may?" she began, and continued without waiting for his answer, "Your men said that you may be our best chance for any news of my father--Marshall Lucas LĂ©cuyer?" she asked, worry and impatience infecting her tone.

"Lucas... Lady Marceline then?" he asked, tilting his head, though his face was obscured by his tallhelm. "Uh, yes. I sent scouts out before we locked the gates. The last they saw was that he and his men were falling back to the old Citadelle du Corbeau, fending off undead all the while. We have... not heard of them since, I fear," he said, and through his tone, it was clear he did not have much hope for his chances. "Lucas was a good man, despite our being on different sides of the war," he added.

Marcy didn't have much to say after that, instead sighing deeply and leaving the conversation outright, heading into some other part of the fort. Michaël lingered for a moment after, but spared Leon an apologetic glance before chasing after her.

Leon took up the thread of conversation easily enough, but he didn't dither before asking the question he seemed to find salient. “The Citadelle. Is there anything we should know about it?"

The Marshall's eyes followed Marcy for a moment before they returned to Leon's. "Heavily defended, built to outlast anything thrown against it. and ancient elven make, much like this fort. I am afraid I do not know much more than that, Lucas was keen on keeping us as far away as possible in spite of our many attempts, as I am sure you can understand, but if the demons have gotten inside..." he said with a shake of his head. "He had honor, unlike these undead curs," he added, spitting through his tallhelm.

A sigh also sifted from Zahra’s lips as she rounded to Leon’s right side, arms crossed over her chest. There was a spattering of gore freckled across her cheek and nose, though she hadn’t taken any notice. She doubted she looked any worse than the others, especially Khari. The way she traipsed out of battles, one might’ve thought that she’d doused herself in blood and
 ichor. She glanced over her shoulder at Marceline, hounded closely by her husband. Only for a moment. While she harbored the same doubts, she understood holding onto the hope that her father was alive.

“Had. Was. Poor words, serah,” she didn’t feel as if she needed to explain herself. Realistic as she was, she might’ve chosen a gentler route. Probably only because she considered Marcy a friend. Besides, there was no proof that he’d perished. Not yet, at least. “I’d bet a hundred gold that we’ll find more surprises than we’d like inside. Best not to keep them waiting.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
"Marcy, wait."

Michaël's voice barely registered, Lady Marceline's mind working far to fast for her own good. She had tried to get a handle on her emotions, but the thoughts of her father fighting off what must seem like an endless onslaught of undead always resurfaced. She knew the others could tell too, it wasn't something she could play off. Her feelings in this were written clearly on sleeve. She was both ashamed and embarrassed to have let them see the weakness, but she couldn't help it.

If he was fighting against Gaspard's troops alone, he would be away from the bulk of the fighting, organizing the men and formulating strategies, safely tucked away in a command tent. But by the Marshall's own words he was being pushed back by the undead. She knew her father, Lucas was not one to be the first one in a retreat--he'd fight alongside his men the entire way. He would put his men's lives above his own. It was the honorable thing to do, but dammit, it worried her.

"Marcy," Michaël's voice rang again, this time followed by a firm hand on her shoulder. He turned her to face him and placed his other hand on the opposite shoulder. "Calm down. This is not you," he said, dropping his shoulders so as to be eye-level with her.

"Is it not?" she snapped back, "Do you know how worried I was when it was you fighting in the war? And now it is my father, except he is fighting undead monsters. I thought I was done with this when I got you back, Micky, but now it is my father," she said, shaking her head. At least she could expect some form of clemency from Gaspard's troops, demons and undead were not merciful, nor did they rest.

"Marcy," he said again, this time a tone of chiding in his voice. "Ser Lucas is a tough bastard, it will take more than shambling corpses to bring him down, his pride wouldn't allow it. Think about it. If he made it back to the Citadelle, then with the way it is built, he could defend it for months."

She could feel some of the tension leaving her as he spoke. He was correct. Her father was resourceful, he would not be brought down so easily. She sighed and nodded in agreement, while he continued speaking, "But he will need our help, just as Ser Proulx did. We are the only ones who can close those rifts. Come on Marcy, he is waiting on you."

She nodded in agreement and finally allowed herself to smile at him. While the worry was still present, and her mind continued to wander into dark places, she was at least steeled enough to keep moving forward. She reached out and drew him to a hug, whispering, "Thank you Micky," into his ear before letting him go.

A throat cleared softly behind her. Ser Leonhardt, having removed his helmet temporarily, stood a polite distance away. “Lady Marceline. Ser MichaĂ«l. We're ready to make for the Citadelle. There was little of use they could tell us about it, but... we'll see when we get there." He paused a moment, glancing between them almost uncomfortably before violet eyes settled on Marceline. “For what it's worth, the situation may not be as impossible as it seems. I have fought more demons than I care to count; sound military strategy isn't that different from what you'd use to defend against humans. Given the recency, there is much cause for hope." He didn't sound like he was merely trying to reassure her, either—though perhaps it would be unwise to underestimate a Seeker's ability to deceive, he seemed quite genuine.

"Of course, Ser Leon. We should hurry, in any case," she agreed. She spared a glance for Michaël, and inclined her head for him to follow before she began to make her way to their horses.

Once all of them were once again mounted, they set out from Fort Revasan. The journey, as those before, was rather uninteresting; landscape blurred by around them as they pushed the horses into a swift, ground-eating canter.

The Citadelle itself was from the outside built entirely into a stone wall, the only break being a wooden gate, flanked by two large statues of wolves. Torches burned in sconces at the gate, a sure sign of occupation, but as the Inquisition approached, there was a heavy banging sound, followed by a cracking split: the gate had burst open from within.

Khari was off her horse before it had even stopped, sliding off the saddle and already reaching back for her sword. She brought it around in just enough time to block a heavy ice spell. It coated the blade in frost, tiny spiderweb cracks appearing in the battered metal and filling with pale ice. She hissed when it got all the way up to her hand, but did not stop, barreling forward towards the splintered gate and swinging for the creature that had emerged.

It was a twisted thing, a corpse like most of the others, but clearly swifter and more aware. And able to use magic. An Arcane Horror, then. Certainly not a trivial foe. Khari swung and missed, the creature shifting quickly out of her way. Her sword clanged off the stone underfoot with a harsh sound, but she didn't relent, using the momentum of the rebound to keep moving, forcing it away from the gate towards the others, and open space enough to fight it many-against-one.

Leon moved forward to meet it, a heavy punch nearly connecting with the Horror's midsection. Instead, it glanced off the creature's emaciated ribcage, or so it seemed, producing a thud but not near the wet cracks and crunches that were usually indicative of his blows against the weak flesh and bones of the undead. It issued a wave of telekinetic force, a spell of some kind, evidently. Leon was forced a hard step backwards, and Khari several, though she kept her feet. With the time unimpeded, the Horror moved its hands, generating a blood-red sphere of energy which sank into the ground just in front of them.

With thuds and showers of soil and debris, more corpses emerged, just behind the rear line of the Inquisition. These looked to be stronger than the usual dead—most of them were fully armored in rusted plate or chain, and carried weapons that still looked to have honed edges, if encrusted in grave dirt. The shapes of their helms were more similar to the one Vesryn was known to wear than any chevalier's mask and helm she'd ever seen.

Leon's attention remained on the Horror; he went almost still for a moment. As if in response, the creature's limbs locked up as though it were paralyzed in place; how long it would hold was impossible to say, but it seemed to be unable to do much but hold itself in the air.

Romulus was quick to attempt to capitalize on the opening, sprinting in from behind on the Arcane Horror and leaping up onto its back, stabbing his blade down where he could find purchase. His aim was thrown off by the fact that his interference seemed to get the creature moving again, and its feet set down on the ground with the added weight thrown onto its back. It shrieked in pain at the weapon piercing into it, but was quick to respond, throwing a bolt of spirit magic that struck the Inquisitor and threw him from its back. Turning about, it unleashed a barrage of smaller spirit projectiles, twisting and spinning through the air in clusters of three, impossible to block. Romulus did his best to dodge them after scrambling to his feet, blocking one or two on his shield, but more slipped through, driving him further backwards.

"Um, undead behind us," Asala said, turning her back on the Horror and facing the encroaching undead. Barriers were already springing to her hands, but these undead were unlike the rank and file, and would undoubtedly prove much more trouble than their lone mage could handle on her own. Fortunately she was not alone.

Michaël took the first few steps away from the Horror and replied. "I see them, girl. Let's keep them away from the others," he said before cautiously moving toward them.

"Asala, keep him safe," Marceline asked, before turning her attention on the Horror to her front. With its attention focused on Romulus, it wouldn't see her slip in behind it. Several quick steps brought her within range, and she drew back her rapier and thrust, aiming for the center of the spine poking through its gaunt skin. It proved tough to bite through, but she had hit it square enough that it did punch through. She withdrew the rapier in order to strike again, but the one was enough to take its attention off of Romulus and onto her. Before she could connect with the second strike, it whirled around and brought the knuckles of its skeletal hand across the side of her face with surprising force.

It was enough to tear the silverite mask from her face and leave a bead of blood dripping from her temple. Disoriented, Marceline stumbled a couple of paces away, and by the time she regained her senses, the Horror was already in the process of readying another spell, this one intended for her.

It probably shouldn't have taken its eyes off its more heavily-armed opponents. Khari slammed into the Horror from behind, leading with the blade of her sword. She shattered one of its shoulderblades, from the dull crunching sound, but more alarming was the sharper, uncomfortably-grating snap. With a clang, the top third of her blade fell to the stone below; Khari looked for a moment wide-eyed and unsure.

That was enough; the Horror did not waste time trying to strike her physically, instead throwing a cannonball-sized orb of flames directly for the elf. It struck her in the chest, knocking her from her feet and forcing her to deal with putting it out before she'd be of any use otherwise. The Horror took the opportunity to evade, disappearing in a plume of smoke and reappearing considerably to everyone's left. It hurled several more of the fireballs for the rest of them, relentless in its aggression.

Leon pursued, ducking under one fireball and deflecting the other with a swift motion of his gauntlet. It was difficult to tell if he was hurt by the need to do it, under all the armor, but from the way the metal smoked faintly even afterwards, it was a fair bet he'd been burned beneath it. This fact did not stop him from interrupting the next spell with the same hand, slamming it upwards into the Horror's jaw and snapping its head back.

The creature was dazed, but before he could finish it off, one of the other corpses escaped Michaël, Asala, and Zahra's attempts to keep them pinned and slashed at his back. He whirled to counter, leaving the Horror listing awkwardly sideways, still, it seemed, insensate.

Before the Horror could make another move the Inquisitor was on it, having charged back into the fight from being thrown away earlier. He tackled it fully to the ground, shield hand slamming into one of its wrists and redirecting a last fireball off to the side. His blade plunged down into it, first its chest, and then when it didn't die its face, once, twice, a third time. The Horror's jaw held on by a thin string of decayed flesh, and then fell away entirely, the undead abomination making struggling gurgles as it attempted to rise.

Romulus ripped his blade free, getting halfway to his feet before the Horror made one last attempt at a lunge upwards. Growling, Romulus stabbed his blade back down one more time, puncturing through the corpse's skull and ending it. He planted his foot on its chest and shoved it off, the thing falling back down in a heap. Any of the remaining undead it had raised around it fell as well, their bodies animated only through the Arcane Horror's power. Romulus glanced around at the party's other members, eyes lingering on Khari for a moment. He glanced down at the broken piece of her sword, then back to her, obviously unsure what, if anything, to say.

She didn't seem quite sure what, if anything, to say herself. For what seemed a long moment, she just stared at her broken sword, still fixed to one of her hands by rapidly-melting ice. Her lips parted, but then closed again. She cleared her throat, putting what remained of the sword back in the system of straps she suspended it from on her shoulders, and stooped to pick up the fragmented end, turning it over in her fingers.

“Guess I hit harder than I figured." She half-smiled, but it was thin; the joke fell more than a little flat. Shaking her head, she gripped the chunk of metal by the blunt side and turned towards the broken gate. “Don't uh... don't think we're gonna get a better invitation. Let's go."

"Yes... Let's," Marceline answered as she rose. She gingerly rubbed the side of her temple as she did, wincing from the lingering pain. Michaël soon, approached however, and stopped in front of her. His own armor was covered in ichor, but fortunately none of his blood. He did seem tired, though not tired enough not to pull the gauntlet off of his hand to rub the streak of blood off of her face. He offered her an apologetic smile, one she repaid with a sincere smile of her own. She gave him a gentle squeeze before moving to fetch her mask and slipping it around her belt.

With the battle done, Marceline led the others to the now open gate leading into the Citadelle, but stopped only a few steps in. A overpowering rumbling noise reverberated through the stronghold and its source was unmistakable. A large gout of flame swung haphazardly and bathed the ruined stonework of what seemed like a courtyard in fire. Scorch marks guided the flame's pattern, and the little wood remained was burning into ember. Marceline's heart sank with each pass of the fire. "Oh no," she stated, mutedly and taking a step backward. She was unable to get far however, as she backed into Michaël.

"I do not see any bodies here," he stated plainly, "They are probably deeper in the Citadelle, away from... whatever this is."

“It moves at regular intervals," Leon said quietly. “There is nothing to fear if we are swift." Glancing at the rest, as though to check that they were in form to be doing so. Nodding, he was the first to step out into the courtyard, apparently confident that he understood the patterns of the device's motion. Given the size of the fort, they didn't actually have that far to go, and all of them were able to make it inside the gate entrance on the other side before they were in any real danger of falling under the range of the beam.

From there, it was a climb to the top of the fortress, strewn with the bodies of the dead, both human and in some cases, longer-dead human. Demons, of course, dispersed on death and left nothing behind except the occasional dusting of ash or similar.

At the top of the Citadelle, they were met with another set of heavy wooden doors surrounded with a number of bodies--all wearing the purple of the Empress. The doors were gouged and scratched, claw marks biting deep into the wood, but it remained standing, tall and solid. There was no immediate way to open them, having no handles or bars to pull nor push. Marceline stood staring at the door for a moment, wondering if her father could truly be behind them, before Michaël's voice brought her elsewhere.

"This looks like the mechanism to open the door... and hopefully shut down these defenses," he said, pointing toward a large spoked wheel atop a stone ledge. "Commander, if you could give me a hand?" Michaël asked before moving to take one of the spokes in hand. Marceline had wandered from the door to watch them turn the wheel, and given the effort Michaël was applying, it appeared the wheel connected to somewhere deep within the keep. A moment later, and a loud thunk reverberated through the Citadelle, followed by an arcane racket--something she assumed was the magical defenses shutting down. Behind them, the heavy wooden doors swung open.

Marceline did not wait long before approached the doors, and within she was met with another set, this time made of iron bars and a frightened looking chevalier on the other side. He too wore the purple of Empress Celene, but more than that, she recognized her father's crest emboldened on the shoulder of his silver armor. She felt relief, for a moment, before the chevalier opened his mouth. "H-halt! Come no closer!" He stammered, "We have... We have swords!" he tried to threaten.

That was about all Lady Marceline could take. The only thing standing between and knowing what had become of her father was another chevalier blocking her entrance. Her brows furrowed and her frowned deepened in insult. She was tired of answering these questions with who they were, and what they were doing there, at frankly, she did not care what they thought at the moment. They were clearly not undead, nor demons--and by the lack thereof, had obviously dealt with them. "Hear me well, Chevalier. If you do not open this door right this moment," she said, in a calm monotone that belied the cold burn in the back of her throat, "I will see that you are stripped of both rank and title, and placed among the common soldier, am I understood? Now take me to my father this instant."

Marceline's pledge seemed to have jogged his memory, as he winced with recognition. "Lady Marceline! Uh, yes, of course. Right this instant. Understood," he said, ripping a set of keys from somewhere in his armor before fumbling with them trying to get them in the gate's keyhold before he roused anymore of Lady Marceline's wrath. In short time, the gates swung open, and she didn't waste any time waiting around to listen to the Chevalier's apologies, though she could hear Michaël offering some of his own behind her.

As Marceline descended deeper into the Citadelle, the noted that her father's troops were worse for wear that those of Marshall Proulx's. Their armor was damaged and they all seemed so... tired. But as she strode past them, their interest piqued, and those that sat began to stand. She could tell that some knew who she was, by those who inclined their heads as she passed-- a gesture she returned. Eventually, the Citadelle opened into a larger room, and sitting on a table against the far wall, she saw that familiar face. "Father," she murmured, all of her worry and dread evaporating in a single moment.

"Marcy?" her father asked. Lucas was not in the best shape she had ever seen him in. The top half of his armor was peeled away and placed in a heap beside the table. He was also without the headdress that came with his station, though she noticed that in a broken mess on the table beside him. He wore a dirty linen shirt, the sleeves of which were ripped, and the reason was apparent. Tatters of the cloth were used to sling his left arm, seemingly broken. He seemed... older, than she remembered, but facing against an army of demons and undead could do that to a man. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. "You are late," he said with a controlled smile, standing from the table where he sat.

He wasn't especially tall, or broad but he made up for it with sheer presence. Even injured and tired, Lucas stood with a proud and straight stance, and he greeted her with his head held high and an indomitable smile. "But we are here," she replied, crossing the room to stand in front of him. Marceline basked in his presence for a moment, as she used to do when she was once a young girl, before slowly wrapping him into a hug, one he returned with his sole good arm. "I am glad to find you... well," she said.

"Of course. I hope you did not expect any less," he said easily.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The following afternoon found the Inquisition camped with a small group of Argent Lions. Cleaning up some leftover pockets of demons and undead had taken them the first half the day so far, and they were just now breaking for lunch. The Lions, Khari found, had earned every bit of their reputation—though only a small number of them were present, their assistance made the rest of the work almost trivially-easy. Apparently, they'd been dealing with those bandits for most of the time here. The Freemen of the Dales, or whatever they were called.

Biting into her bread crust, Khari sighed through her nose. It had occurred to her that if Ser Durand were still here, he'd have been the one doing that job. They'd sent him to Ser Drakon; perhaps the presence of his mercenaries here meant he'd received the message about how badly the region needed competent help. Maybe they were just here because of the Civil War. She didn't know. Wasn't important enough to tell, either, probably. No one looked to her for orders or guidance or information, which was probably a good thing—she still needed a lot of those things herself. But someday, maybe...

She shifted in her seat, her mouth twisting into a grimace at the oddly-balanced weight on her back. The Lions had been more than willing to lend her a sword. They really traveled prepared, to have an extra laying around. She was grateful to have something to fight with, but it just didn't feel right. Intercessor, that stupid old piece of junk, was in her tent, but she wished it was at her back. She'd learned to fight with that graceless hunk of metal in her hands, from the very first day Ser Durand had woken her up at the fucking crack of dawn to put her through her paces. She'd barely been able to lift it for any length of time, having only ever held the lighter blades of her clan's make. Khari wasn't sure anything else would ever feel quite the same, now.

She was making her way over to the stewpot for seconds when a small disturbance from the front of the camp caught her attention. She doubted it was anything the Lions couldn't deal with, but it wasn't that far away, anyhow, so she set her dishes down where she'd been sitting and headed over, unfamiliar sword awkwardly shuffling against her armored back with each step.

It didn't take long to identify the issue: a large, dark brown riding halla stood just outside the bounds of the camp. Most people would probably mistake it for an elk, but the horns, black and shiny, were different, curling in the particular way that only halla had. She groaned under her breath. Just dismounting the creature was Vareth, face drawn. He did not seem to have noticed her, and Khari hung back uncertainly. What was he doing here, and alone at that? Normally Elasha or one of the other hunters at minimum would go somewhere with the First, just like Shae had been responsible for protecting Zeth while he moved around and did incredibly stupid things.

Vareth turned dark eyes upon the Lions standing at the front of the camp, still apparently unaware of her presence. Khari decided to keep it that way, for now, and tracked his progress with her eyes, remaining silent.

"Excuse me." He met with the mercenary on watch, pausing a polite distance and smiling thinly at her. "I have heard the Inquisition camps here, at the moment. If... there is a chance that the Lord or Lady Inquisitor is present, I would request an audience with them." He blinked, apparently realizing that he'd failed to introduce himself, and amended. "Ah... please tell them that my name is Vareth Saras, of Clan Genardalia. Kharisanna's clan."

Khari's lips pursed. She didn't know what the hell he thought he was doing, but she was damn well going to find out. “Vareth!" She drew his attention on purpose, stomping over to him even as the Lion left to retrieve... someone, she supposed. Maybe Rom, maybe just the lieutenant in charge of her squad. “What are you doing here?" She couldn't help the accusatory note that entered her tone. Old bitterness and distrust, creeping back in.

His eyes widened; he seemed genuinely surprised to find her there. The expression vanished a moment later, followed by a tentative smile. Khari grit her teeth and tried not to hold it against him. "Kharisa—Khari." He cleared his throat, the smile falling. "It's not, ah, how do I explain?" Vareth sighed. "As happy as I am to see you again so soon, I'm here about something unrelated. Your—ahem. The Keeper has a request to make of the Inquisition. Specifically an Inquisitor."

Khari felt herself relax just fractionally at that. The less this had to do with her, the better. Though she still wasn't happy that her clan had crossed her path twice more in the last year than it had in the seven or so that came before. Still... this was within their roaming area. Perhaps it was to be expected.

It didn't take long for the Inquisitor Vareth sought to arrive. The camp wasn't that big, after all, and they were sticking close for the most part. Rom looked to have been roused from a nap, or at least a bit of rest; he was throwing on a few pieces of gear and armor he'd removed. Hacking down undead was strenuous work, and it wasn't unusual to see him a bit more tired when the effects of those tonics of his wore off. He looked alert enough now, though, if a bit unsure at seeing who Khari was with. He obviously recognized him.

"Vareth, isn't it?" he glanced between him and Khari repeatedly, though he seemed to be trying to stop and focus on the First. Maybe checking to see if Khari intended to be as hostile towards him as last time. "I'm Romulus. Uh. Inquisitor." He held out a hand a little awkwardly. The not-marked hand.

Vareth's brows arched slightly, but he nodded, taking Rom's hand without any hesitation and clasping it firmly. "I'm glad to meet you, Inquisitor. In a more proper fashion than last time, anyway." He politely dropped his hand and stepped away, glancing at Khari almost as if seeking her permission to continue.

She heaved a sigh, nodding reluctantly. It really seemed like he hadn't known she was here or anything, which meant he probably really did need Rom for something important. Vareth was a lot of things, but he wasn't petty or frivolous. She could say that much in his favor. He looked relieved for a moment, but seemed conscious of the fact that he was using up their time, so quickly returned to the matter at hand.

"It hasn't escaped notice that the Inquisition was willing to help the humans here, when they required it. My clan was hoping that you would also be willing to help the elves, though we have nothing to offer in return." He shifted his weight, the ironbark staff on his back producing a faint clink as the bone charms tied to it knocked together on their strings. Khari knew the sound—and was surprised to still be hearing it. "About a month ago, our scouts reported strange activity near Var Bellanaris. Some of our warriors were sent to investigate—it would not have been the first time looters or bandits had tried to desecrate that place."

He pursed his lips, and Khari felt her expression shifting to match. "But it wasn't bandits. Elasha was the only one to make it back alive, and even then, she... a day later, she was gone. She managed to tell us of a shifting green light within Var Bellanaris, and some kind of creature that had confronted them there. The Keeper and I sealed the necropolis, but there is no telling how long it will hold. We were debating sending a message to the Inquisition, in hopes that you would help, but... there was little optimism. So when we saw the chance to ask in person, well. It seemed worth taking."

Rom had crossed his arms while Vareth relayed the information, but his stance was more a thoughtful one than anything defensive or combative. It didn't take him long to answer. "If there's another rift there, then we should close it." He made it sound like a simple choice, and maybe it was. "How far is this place? Var Bellanaris?"

Khari felt an immediate sense of relief. This... this was something they could do. Something she could do. “Probably a couple hours, riding." She glanced at the halla. Clearly they wouldn't need to provide anything additional in that respect, anyway. “I take it you're coming with us, Vareth?" She managed not to sound angry about it, more resigned than anything. She couldn't really blame him—it was the duty of the First to do things like this. To be the extended reach of the Keeper when necessary. She knew he took it extremely seriously, and Var Bellanaris important to the clan. To the People.

"I would be, yes. If something from the Fade has disturbed the dead who rest there, I must strengthen the protections again afterwards. Besides... I suspect I will be necessary to undo the seal." He paused a moment, then turned to address Rom again. "Thank you, Inquisitor. I do not think that many in your position would bother."

Rom looked as though he might say something in return, but decided against it. He nodded to Khari. "I'll see if the others are up for the ride."

It didn't take long before they were once more on the road. Marcy had stayed behind in the Citadelle with her father, Mick, and all the chevaliers there. Though at any other time she would have been quite interested in hanging around herself, Khari knew well enough when it was better to not make a nuisance of herself, and she figured she probably preferred camping with the Lions anyway. There'd been a lot of questions about how Stel was doing; it was actually kind of nice. It must be, to have someplace to return to someday, like that.

Shaking the thoughts out of her head, she turned her eyes to Vareth for a moment. He led, though not by too far, remaining well within sight and earshot of the Inquisition he was escorting. Khari was still a little suspicious, though, and ventured the question she'd been trying to swallow for the better part of an hour. “How come you're alone?" She knew Elasha had always served as his primary guardian, but if she'd... died, then they'd have surely appointed someone else almost immediately. When his face shifted slightly, her suspicion only grew. “Did the Keeper even actually sanction this visit?"

He sighed. "He agreed that it would be prudent to seek the Inquisition's assistance. He... may not know that the Inquisition is actually here, yet."

Khari snorted. “Yeah? Doesn't seem much like you, Vareth, doing anything the old man might not like." Khari eased her feet from the stirrups of her saddle and let them dangle instead, settling into the motion of her horse. She still needed to name him eventually.

A trace of humor entered his expression. "Everyone changes, Khari. Perhaps I have, too."

“This... creature, inside of the burial ground," Leon broke into the conversation with a mild tone. He'd forgone the helmet for now, but it was tied to his saddle. “Is there anything else you can tell us about it?" The introductions had been taken care of before they left, and he'd seemed quite willing to go along for this, once he'd learned what Vareth was asking for. But details had been sparing thus far, and Khari knew he tended to prefer to be armed with information as well as his fists.

"Not much." Vareth admitted it readily, though not exactly lightly. Elasha had been his friend since they were children, after all, though she'd never had much time for Khari. He was probably still dealing with what had happened to the warriors. Everyone probably still was. Khari glanced away, hearing the rest of his words without watching him say them. "It was apparently in possession of some kind of artifact that it was using, but... there are so many pieces of history in that grotto I wouldn't be surprised. That we hadn't already recovered it or looters already stolen it suggests that it was buried with someone, perhaps the creature itself. And that means..."

“Revenant." Khari finished the declaration with a grimace. “Fuck." Her clan had stories about those things, the possessed bodies of powerful warriors, animated by mighty demons of pride or desire. And with some kind of artifact at its disposal, there was no telling what it might be capable of. She really hoped Vareth knew what the hell he was doing. If he was leading her friends into some kind of trap or something, she was going to—

"Aptly-put." Vareth sighed. "Which means we ought to expect combat magic and a great deal of power, I'm afraid. In addition to whatever else that rift is doing. That is what they're called, yes?"

Nearby Khari heard Asala sigh, though afterward she cautiously glanced around, perhaps in hopes that nobody had heard her.

Rom grunted softly in the affirmative. His hand had gone down to a pouch on his belt as soon as he'd heard what they would be facing. Thinking for a moment, he looked dissatisfied and settled on one of a light orange color. Stamina draught of some kind, Khari had seen him take it a number of times before or during his workouts. He downed it with his usual speed, and reacted in the usual way to its taste, but soon had put it behind him.

A sigh deliberated itself from Zahra’s lips as they spoke—though she had no qualms about trying to keep it quiet. There was a pinched look to her brows as she scuffed her boot in the dirt and glanced around at the others. She’d kept relatively quiet when they arrived, and it didn’t seem as if she had anything to contribute. Perhaps, it was all the death they’d faced up until this point. Or the general misery that hung down over their shoulders, like a gray smog. From what Khari could tell, she didn’t look all too surprised by the news that there was something much worse to face in these parts, “Just another thing to bury, right?”

The question sounded rhetorical.

It wasn't much longer after that when they came upon the entrance to Var Bellanaris. The area was indeed blocked—thick, impassable brambles had grown high on all sides of what had once been the stone arches that divided it off in front from the outside. The rest, Khari knew, was backed up against stone, the terrain inside pitted with hills, hardy trees, and ruin-gravel, as well as ancient tombstones, and a few much more recent ones. But from this angle, it just appeared to be encased in a living sphere of protection.

Khari exhaled. Even if the Keeper had done some of this, Vareth's magic had clearly improved by leaps and bounds since she'd last been around. Maybe to be expected, but as usual, her own progress felt dwarfed by it. She tried not to think about it—he did what he did for the People, and no doubt he'd studied just as long and hard as she'd trained to reach something like this.

He stopped them in front of it, dismounting his halla and waiting for them to do the same. "The outer portion was clear when we sealed it, but... that was a month ago. I'm not entirely sure what's happened since then, so please be wary as I take this down." Vareth gave them all several moments to prepare themselves, in which Khari slid from her horse and drew the borrowed sword from her back. Vareth glanced at it, specifically down near her hands, before averting his eyes, something like disappointment passing briefly over his face.

Advancing towards the entrance, he drew a small knife from his belt, sliding the blade over his wrist perpendicular to the length of his arm. The motion was controlled, careful, and practiced. Blood welled to the surface of the wound immediately, and he tilted his arm so that it all ran towards the ground the same way, sheathing the knife. She tensed for a moment, remembering quite vividly her last encounter with blood magic, but nothing else changed. His eyes retained the warm, dark color they'd always had, and he took his staff in his free hand, propping it against the ground and activating the spell.

With a great creaking of wood and the rustle of leaves, the half-sphere of plants over Var Bellanaris began to recede. At the very top of the dome, the leaves turned bright orange, until they were only light, and then dissolved, fragments of them floating upwards towards the sky. The decay of the spell spread, sweeping outwards to vanish the rest of the dome at an even pace, but rapidly. It was actually, she had to admit, beautiful to watch.

When the seal was gone, the white stone arches with their deliberate gap inwards remained, like a skeleton bereft of all its flesh. But the graveyard seemed... quiet.

Leon had looked prepared to be faced down with a very large number of demons. But considering that the area seemed to be empty, he relaxed somewhat, his head turning towards Vareth, if the angle of his helm was any indication. “The light... was it inside the grotto?" They could see that now, a closed stone building a fair distance in.

Vareth hummed. "Elasha did not specify. Perhaps so. Follow me, if you would... and please try not to touch anything if you can avoid it. We walk on sacred ground."

Khari certainly knew better. Though her clan's dead were sometimes buried here, if they could manage it, the older sites dated back hundreds of years at least, maybe more. The Keeper thought they might go all the way back to the age of Arlathan, at least within parts of the grotto itself. It probably didn't really matter—the site was important anyway. She might not care as much about the past as Vareth did, but she didn't go wantonly disrespecting it, either. Not when she could avoid it.

The air here was especially fresh-smelling, which shouldn't have been the case for a graveyard. Likely it had something to do with all the flowers growing, and the spell that had protected it for a month. It must have let enough sunlight in to sustain the plant life. Their feet crunched softly over the main path, laden with small bits of the white stone edifice. Her clan had repurposed the ruined parts this way, to keep it neat and tidy. None of them were capable of rebuilding the structures, so they had to make do.

The door to the grotto was somewhat ajar, a smear of old blood spread over the stone, ending in what looked very much like a handprint. Small, but with a noticeable scar on the palm. Elasha's hand had left it. Khari still remembered giving her the scar, accident though it had been. She swallowed, tightening her grip on her sword. Vareth led the way in, but she went right behind him.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust before an orange light flickered to life overhead, illuminating the dark grotto. The walls were lined with mosaics depicting familiar themes of Falon'din, the god of death. Several stone sarcophagi stood open, their lids cracked and pitted, the engraving upon them ruined by their occupants' hasty exits in undeath. The fresh smell from outside was gone, the scent of putrefaction hitting her like a wall as soon as she stepped inside. Vareth sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"The warriors." Peering around him, Khari bit down on her tongue. Felan and Mahiri were both there, along with another person she didn't recognize. She hoped that was because he was a stranger to her, and not because whatever was here had mauled him so badly he was nigh unrecognizable anyway. Their bodies bore heavy slash marks; Mahiri had nearly been cleaved in two, the wound edged with oddly-blackened flesh. Not burns, but something not totally unlike them.

She'd expected... Khari didn't know what she'd expected. But certainly not the numbness that swept over her. Certainly not the sudden recollection that Mahiri had been about to have a child when she left, nor that Felan liked to sing to the halla when he'd had too much to drink. Suddenly, the blade felt heavy in her hands. Almost as heavy as the air felt in her lungs.

She felt a hand on her shoulder as Leon stepped in behind her. He gave her a firm squeeze and the smallest of shakes, a bracing gesture more than anything else. “I'm sorry, Khari," he said, the words so quiet they almost got lost in the rumble of his bass itself. The rest, he left to implication, and his hand fell away. Rom added no words to that, instead stopping close enough on her other side for his presence to be felt. He remained ready to fight at a moment's notice. Zahra’s footsteps halted behind them. A soft exhale followed. As good as any indication that she, too, was present. For her.

Leon's implication was one she understood, and Khari pulled in a breath, doing her best to ignore how bad it smelled. Her grip firmed back up, and she nodded once to Vareth, whose eyes were too solemn. He returned it, and led them deeper.

The grotto was a large space, and opened up almost like a cavern. Though it appeared from the outside to be a structure with at least three aboveground stories, there was in fact only one—the ceiling was that high. She'd never been this far inside before, but had heard there were further levels underground. Fortunately, they wouldn't have to enter one: the green light they were looking for shone from an adjacent chamber to the one they entered. The door was a low arch, forcing them to pass through in single file, but the room with the rift in it was likewise quite spacious.

The rift itself was near the center, shifting in the almost indolent way they had, the green crystal structure suspended in midair in a way that made no sense. Standing just beneath it, face upturned as though to bask in the light, was a Revenant.

At least, Khari assumed that was what it had to be. It wore armor, rusted but clearly once of finer make than most things she'd ever seen, from a helm with a backswept horn design to solid greaves over its boots. The sword it held bore no such rust, and glimmered faintly with the light of some magic or enchantment. The blade was bright, but with a patina of almost eerie deep green. Not the same color as the rift, but closer to black. It noticed the moment they entered, turning slowly towards them and hefting the blade on both hands.

Khari charged it, leaping the stone railing at waist-height and landing hard on the recessed ground about six feet below. Pushing off from her landing, she made a beeline for the creature, feeling the Haze descend over her senses. From behind her, Vareth launched some kind of spell. The Revenant went to move sideways, but found itself temporarily locked in place by stone crawling up its legs. The rock had progressed to its waist, and Khari almost arrived, when it broke free with a burst of telekinetic force. The shockwave sent pieces of rock flying, and Khari along with them. She hit the ground on her shoulder and rolled several times before she could regain her feet, but by the time she'd even gotten her hands under her, the Revenant was already there, bearing down on her with the sword it carried.

Leon, clearly having followed her pretty closely, intervened, at least as well as he could, lowering his shoulder and ramming the Revenant in the side. It was enough to knock the sword off its trajectory, but the creature itself was hardly moved. It had only been a glancing hit, but still the Revenant recovered more swiftly than Leon, bringing its sword up and around as if to cleave straight through his armor.

Raising both arms to block, Leon grunted at the impact. This close, Khari could hear a dull snap—it sounded like the effort had actually broken one of his arms. From the way he backed off immediately and dropped his left to his side, tucking it somewhat behind his body, that was exactly what had happened.

Rom had been forced to veer around to the flank to avoid the wave that knocked Khari back, and the subsequent clash between the undead and Leon. Once the Commander was driven back, he dove in on the Revenant's side, plunging his blade in deep in a gap beneath the creature's arm. It would easily have killed a normal man where it struck, but if the Revenant felt any of the damage, it didn't show it, instead soundlessly turning its aggression on the attacker. Rom ducked down and sideways just in time to avoid being beheaded by the green-hued blade.

There was no time to even attempt more strikes, and Rom clearly wasn't going to try to block any of its attacks, seeing what had happened to Leon. He dodged once, twice, each swing threatening death if not seen correctly. After a third swift miss the Revenant stepped in and smashed across Rom's jaw with an armored elbow, throwing him back. Some sort of magic was behind the blow, judging by the perceptible boom that accompanied the hit.

An iridescent green barrier was the next foe to fall upon the Revenant, typical of Asala's dispelling method. The woman herself soon came into view, panting but her hands wreathed in the fade all of the same. Apparently, she had a little trouble keeping up with the others. The Revenant took only a glance at the barrier closing in around it, and reared back with its sword. It cleaved through the shield with only a small amount of effort, and the backlash forced Asala a step backward.

She refocused soon after, surging forward with another barrier, her stereotypical blue. This one managed to strike its target, forcing the Revenant off balance for a moment. Only for a moment, as it soon cleaved through that barrier as well, leaving Asala to expel an agitated groan. Instead of sending out even more ineffective barriers, she turned instead to Leon, and cast a spell in his direction. What seemed like a healing spell wreathed him, though his arm would still likely require more focused attention later. Afterward, she went to Rom, probably in an attempt to do the same for him.

Three arrows thunked off the Revenant’s crooked pauldron and clattered at its feet. Ineffective. It swung around to face its attacker, lips peeling back into a toothless scowl. Another arrow, glowing with residual energy, found its mark in the middle of its exposed chest. The flanged tip of the arrow bit into flesh, and sunk halfway down the shaft. Clawed fingers ripped it out a moment later. If it’d felt it at all, the Revenant certainly wasn’t showing it.

A roar rippled out of Zahra’s mouth as she flung herself past Asala and Rom—rapiers singing free from their scabbards as she hurtled forward. Bright-eyed and bristling with anger. Perhaps, at seeing her friends being so casually tossed aside. She swept her blades sidelong across the creature’s blade, which it had swung to meet hers. The sheer force of his blade knocked her back a few paces, though she allowed its momentum to careen off the tips of her bending blades, and dipped around to jam one of her rapiers into its exposed midsection.

It sunk halfway. No blood. No sound beyond the droning growl above her. Under any other circumstance, their size difference would have been laughable. While she was attempting to spin around and drag her blade back out, the back of the Revenant’s gauntleted hand struck her across the face, loosing her grip on the protruding blade, and sending her tumbling off to the side. She landed much less gracefully on her back. A moment later and there was a ragged intake of breath. A good indication that she was fine. As fine as any of them were.

The sound of dragging limbs against the floor marked her attempt to regain her feet. It took her a couple attempts with the help of a nearby pillar, but she was already bringing her bow back into her hands.

By that point, Khari was already trying to find a weak spot again. Unfortunately, in addition to being very strong, the Revenant was also quite quick, meaning that every time she thought she'd spotted a place to strike, it was there, parrying her and knocking her sword away with a strength she could not hope to match. On the third, she didn't recover fast enough, and it kicked her in the chest.

Khari was picked off her feet and thrown back, crashing onto stone. Her head snapped back, colliding hard with the ground, and for a moment she saw stars, even through the fuzziness of the Haze. It wasn't often pain made it through to her in this state, but it definitely had. She groaned, rolling onto her stomach and pushing herself up with her arms.

"Khari!" Vareth was slinging ice at the Revenant now, trying to slow it down on its way towards her. Without so much as a warning, it whirled, turning on the ranged fighters in the room. Letting go of its sword with one hand, it closed its other into a fist. Khari felt a lurch in her stomach, and a force like... sideways gravity, almost, pulled her towards the Revenant, her armor scraping over the floor. It wasn't too unlike the time she'd nearly been pulled into Rom's rift, except faster. It picked up Vareth, Asala, and Zee as well, hauling them over the stone railing with no regard for the safety of their limbs, should any fail to clear the obstacle.

Vareth at least managed to pull his legs up under him to avoid breaking them, and was the fastest to his feet when they were dropped. He swept forward with his staff, trying to trip the creature on its way to Asala, but its center of balance was simply too solid, and it weathered the blow with little interruption, swinging next for the Qunari.

Asala had not been as agile, and had chosen instead to just weather it by encasing herself in a tight barrier. Her bottom half had still struck the railing, chipping it and and haphazardly dumping her on her shoulders. She groaned painfully and was slow to turn over on all fours, but by then, the Revenant was on top of her. It was perhaps only quick thinking that saved her life, as the moment she looked up to see the blade raised above her head, her form shifted with fade energy, and she shot forward like Khari had seen Cyrus do a few times before.

She was gone when the blade bit into the stone, though the spell was hardly refined. It gave out some distance behind the Revenant, dumping her out of the Fade, but with enough moment to keep her skidding across the stones. When she finally lifted her, her chin, nose, and part of her forehead, not to mention her hands and forearms were bleeding from having it dragged across the ground. In one last effort, Asala flipped to a seated position and thrust forward with both hands. A low barrier formed and careened horizontally toward the back of the Revenant's knees.

It didn't seem to do much, but it must have been enough. The Revenant was forced to take a moment to steady itself, and in that moment, Leon stepped in, lashing out with an armored leg and connecting with the Revenant's waist, just where its chestplate ended. It doubled over, and he slammed his elbow into the back of its helmet with a clanging rapport. It stumbled away, still quick but clearly disoriented from the blow.

Rom latched onto the Revenant from behind, grabbing the neck of its breastplate with his marked hand and holding tight. The mark crackled loudly for a second before it unleashed a concentrated burst of energy, momentarily lighting up the space with a green and white flash. With the sound of shattering metal, the Revenant's breastplate sloughed off in pieces, a few smaller ones embedded in its pale flesh underneath. Rom jumped away before it could make a retaliatory strike. The creature was slowed now, and vulnerable to a killing blow without its armor.

“Vareth!" Khari hauled herself to her feet, sword in tow, and sprinted towards the Revenant.

He seemed to know what she meant. From the ground around it erupted vines, thickening and tangling the creature's legs. Flexible in a way stone was not, they weathered the blast it issued with their pliability rather than sheer strength, absorbing the force and clambering further up the Revenant's body. It went to hack at them with its sword, but Khari had planned for that. The awkward angle it had to use was the only weakness she needed, and she struck hard, bringing her own blade around to its shoulder, biting into the flesh Rom had exposed by cracking off the armor around its torso.

Her sword severed a tendon, and the entire arm went slack as a result, its enchanted blade clattering to the ground from numb fingers. The next burst of magic was aimed for Khari, knocking her away before she could finish the blow. She tumbled into a heap before reaching a stop, able to see Zee upside-down in her field of vision. “Zee! Shoot it while he's got it held!" Maybe that was obvious, but she wasn't sure how much longer Vareth's vines would last.

Zahra didn’t need to be told twice. Not for something like this. She’d already planted one of her feet atop the remnants of a fallen stone pillar. Her shoulders bunched. Deft fingers pulled the string of her bow back behind her ear while the vines twitched and gnarled themselves around the Revenant’s legs, and torso. There was a sound that only the nearest heard. Fibers snapping. The notched arrow fizzled a faint white; a pearl hue, before she finally released it. It sliced through the air, leaving a trail in its wake, and slipped straight into the creature’s eye socket.

It hissed through and clattered against the far wall. Her bow, unfortunately, hadn’t fared so well. She was left holding two pieces of wood and shredded string—as well as an expression that belied confusion and surprise
 as if she hadn’t quite expected that to happen.

The Revenant fell, hitting the ground with the insensate solidity of actually-dead weight. Khari pushed herself back to her feet for what felt like the hundredth time but was really only the third or so, sheathing her sword on her back. The rift remained, but she was sure Rom could take care of that, easy. Vareth stood near the body, picking up the sword the creature had wielded with a thoughtful frown on his face.

“That the artifact?" Khari jerked her chin at the blade.

He nodded. "It seems to be. Perhaps the Keeper will know more about it; I suspect the Revenant was from the lower levels, but I can't be sure without looking, and... I think there are more important things to do."

Khari grimaced. He'd need to get the bodies back to the clan, if possible, and no doubt tell the Keeper that the ritual or whatever he thought they could do to put the dead back to rest could go forward now. She didn't envy him the task, honestly, but—

"Kharisanna." He said her full name quite intentionally, she thought; Khari scowled at him. It wasn't enough to make him back down, though, not like before. "Help me do it. Please."

She shook her head. “Oh no." Khari crossed her arms over her chest. “Don't get me wrong, Vareth, I'm sorry you have to do this, but I'm not going back there for any reason. I can't." Her fingers tightened around her armored upper arms.

He sighed through his nose. "Just one night." He pursed his lips. "They know you're alive, Khari, but they don't..." He flinched, as though struggling mightily to find the words he wanted. "Some things must be seen with one's own eyes. This is one of them." She opened her mouth to protest, but the look on his face forestalled her a moment too long, and he tried again. "I know you might not believe me, but... we miss you. The Keeper never laughs. Barely even smiles, and hasn't since you disappeared. Enania doesn't talk to anyone—they're hardly even married anymore. The whole clan misses you." He glanced down, shaking his head faintly, then raised his eyes back to hers.

"I'm not asking you to return. I know you won't. But I'm asking you to prove to them that you really are alive. They might not... we might not deserve it. But you're good enough to do it anyway. And to help me return the others for proper rites. I know you are."

Khari gritted her teeth. Manipulative little fucker. She huffed a sharp breath out of her nose. “We're in a tomb, Vareth. They can get rites here." The protest was weak, and she knew it from the slightly-disappointed way he looked at her. Damn it all. “Fine. One night, and only one night. And I'm bringing a friend. You don't get to say no to that."

He smiled broadly, apparently entirely unconcerned with her caveat. "Of course. I'll go... get things ready, and meet you back outside." Still carrying the artifact, he made his way back towards the entrance.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at herself, Khari approached the others. It looked like Rom had just finished with the rift, and Asala was still seeing to everyone's injuries. “Uh, so." She drew their attention, recrossing her arms and immediately feeling uncomfortable again. “Vareth wants me to go spend a night with my clan. I, uh... told him I would, but only if I could bring someone. So... can I borrow the Inquisitor until tomorrow?" She phrased it in the more official way, glancing at Leon, but it was Rom her eyes settled on.

“If it's okay with you, I mean." Vareth might have been unfair in his persuasion, but... that didn't mean he was wrong. She still remembered what Rom and the others had said the first time about it. About letting her clan think she was dead. She wasn't sure what she thought about it anymore, but the more she did think, the more she thought she might need this.

That didn't mean she was brave enough to face it down alone, though.

Rom watched Vareth go for a second, holding a hand to his jaw before he let it fall away. "Yeah," he said, his tone easy but still quiet. Maybe the grim location had something to do with it. "It's fine."

“I've no objections," Leon added, lifting his shoulders. “The rest of us will see you back at camp tomorrow morning."

Zahra rounded up beside Rom and totted both pieces of her bow at Khari, “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Khari nodded, feeling a little of her tension ease, but not enough to allow any kind of smile. “Okay. We'll see you then."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon started down at his hand, watching it shake with a sort of enforced detachment. If he made himself consider it as though it belonged to someone else, the development was not quite so alarming. But of course, the problem was that it was his hand, and for once no amount of concentration on his part would steady it. He swallowed thickly, pushing a long breath out of his nose. Hanne purred on his lap, blissfully oblivious to his problem, and he supposed that it wouldn't be much of one if it didn't matter so very much what his hands were capable of. What he was capable of.

He rested the other hand—thankfully steady—on her head, stroking down her back once before he shifted it underneath her, picking her up and setting her down on a nearby chair. Dusting cat hair off his trousers, he struggled to slide the glove on his shaking hand and used the other to reach for one of Rilien's potions. Taking the cork out with his teeth for lack of much other option, he downed it in a swallow, sighing heavily and setting the flask down.

It only took about a minute for the shaking to stop, but Leon couldn't help the feeling that his body was already beginning to betray him. He flexed his hand, feeling the pull of old calluses and scar tissue beneath the pliant leather. Pursing his lips, he crossed to his office door, throwing his cloak over his shoulders. The black one, with the Seekers' eye on the back. He'd lost his other one at some point—he couldn't remember where, now.

The Inquisition's templars practiced in one of the main yards, usually on rotations with the regulars the Lions' officers were in charge of. Sometimes, he made them practice together, for cohesion and the learning exchange, but today they were by themselves. Running drills, by the looks of it. He still thought it would be useful to have the mages actually throw spells at them, but he could easily understand why, from a psychological standpoint, it was not the best idea. The last thing they needed was more reason for the groups to clash; the tenuous peace that existed between them here was worth forgoing a few training advantages.

“Captain SĂ©verine," he greeted amiably, offering a mild smile as he pulled up next to her at the fence. As he intended to do himself, she seemed to be observing today; the sergeants could doubtless run the drills fine themselves. “How do they look?"

"Promising," was SĂ©verine's immediate answer, after she'd offered a nod greeting to Leon in return. "Talented. And restless." She smiled, the expression a little rueful. "I wish I knew how to calm their eagerness but... I'm feeling it too." They were a mismatched group, these templars under SĂ©verine's command. All of them were veterans of what had taken place at Therinfal Redoubt. The demon posing as the Lord Seeker there had called all templars to join him, meaning that the ones that were left hailed from a wide variety of homelands and backgrounds. They were united as templars, at least, but almost all had been trained with the regular comfort of a Knight-Commander to look to for leadership. SĂ©verine included.

She didn't lack the looks of a leader, at least. She was tall and proud of appearance, bearing obvious traits of nobility. The most easily seen of those was her hair, a sleek black mass arranged into several braids and more, one secured around the crown of her head. Her voice was loud, clear, commanding when it needed to be, her armor kept in perpetually perfect condition. She stood like a leader, watched over the templars like one.

"It's been too long," she said, looking troubled. "Since we've seen the Red Templars. They might be leaderless, but they were hardly destroyed. My templars... some of them feel adrift, and I don't know what to say to them."

“Waiting is never easy for people trained to act," Leon conceded. And there was no mistaking that Templars were trained to act. Even if that action was just keen observation of their charges, there was always something to do, and training like this usually only a relatively small part of it. The Inquisition was as regimented as it could be, considering the flexibility they needed to maintain, but even a solid training schedule and relatively well-organized command structure could hardly compare to the familiarity of a Circle of Magi.

Gripping the uppermost post of the fence in both hands, Leon watched a line of them practice footwork drills, the basic fundamentals of balance and solidity. Important, to make those instinct instead of thought. “Corypheus will move again, in time. As will the Red Templars. High Seeker Ophelia is close to tracking down the Lord Seeker as well. There will be work enough for them soon—of that, I am quite sure."

"That's good." SĂ©verine crossed her arms, pausing while one of her sergeants sternly corrected a younger templar on the placement of his shield. "I'm best when I know what the target is, and where I can hit it. That's always been true. This... waiting, and teaching, and preparing everyone. I don't know if I really understood what I was getting myself into here." She laughed a little to herself. "Not that I'm regretting it or anything. Maker knows we're doing good work here. But I'm starting to think I'm not the best woman for the job, if it's as long-term as it seems to be."

She didn't seem particularly distressed about these supposed faults of hers she was seeing, instead simply laying them out in front of her with that smile, a little self-effacing laugh. She took her eyes off the practice, glancing at Leon. "So how's it work in the Seekers, then? You were trained by Ophelia, right? She kick you out before you were ready, hope you could learn to fly before the ground hit?"

“Absolutely." Leon shook his head slightly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Granted, I was sent to her in the first place because I was already floundering after the Vigil, but she kept me no longer than she felt absolutely necessary. And then there I was in the field again, people to command and still spinning from all the ways my life kept turning upside down." He grimaced a bit. It had all worked out for the better, he thought, but it certainly hadn't been a lark.

Leon was not naturally gifted in the arts of leadership. Nor, it turned out, in a number of other rather important things about being a Seeker. He'd had to learn to compartmentalize the pieces of himself that were less suited to his job, so that he could do it effectively. Ophelia's training had helped with that in the most literal fashion, but the rest had still been up to him to figure out. “For what it's worth... leaders are rarely made before they actually lead, I find. No one's born with the skill, and it's a rare few who can acquire it simply from following another for a while, even a good one. I certainly didn't, but I don't think it's working out too badly."

"Well, it must've been the rare few that I served under, before coming here." Again, she offered a soft little laugh, before twisting at the waist to better face Leon for a moment, briefly holding out a hand preemptively. "Not that you haven't been excellent, you're just... well, you're a little more mild-mannered than what I'm used to. Hope you don't mind me saying." She tucked her arm back under the other one again. "Say what you will about Knight-Commander Meredith, she knew how to inspire, whether it was fear or loyalty, or both. It inspired me. To the wrong ends, of course, but until then I'd never devoted myself to anything like that."

She smiled a bit wistfully, then. "After she was gone, there was Cullen. I thought he'd be soft compared to Meredith, and maybe he is, but he still didn't have an ounce of patience for my dithering about. He's kept hope for the Order alive there in Kirkwall. And Viscountess Dumar? If there was ever a woman born to lead, it's her." She snorted another laugh, shaking her head. "Even that surly Seeker, the Nevarran royalty, Pentaghast, kept us in line while she was looking into the origins of the mage rebellion. So..." Her words trailed off for a moment, as though she'd almost lost her line of thought.

"I guess what I'm saying is you should come by more often. Your cloak says to me you're still a watcher of the watchmen, in addition to our Commander. And..." She exhaled softly. "I'd appreciate the help, once in a while. I'm not looking for another mentor, but if past experience is anything to go by, I flounder without one."

She had encountered quite the selection of skilled leaders, come to think of it. He certainly didn't think he matched up in any significant way to the likes of Sophia Dumar, but then he suspected he didn't have to. The Inquisition had other leaders, ones that occupied many places on the scale between unseen and prominent. He was lucky to be somewhere in the middle, and in truth his preference would have been to occupy a place closer to Rilien's than Estella's, for example. But he would make do with the demands of his position, just as SĂ©verine was clearly doing her best to make do with hers.

“Truthfully, I'm not in much of a position to mentor anyway," he said with a trace of humor. “But I'm happy to help, where I can. I'll stop by a little more often, if you'd find some use in it." His instinct was to avoid stepping on anyone's toes where possible, but if his presence was requested, that was quite another matter.

"Good. Maybe I'll stop by sometime, myself, when I need some advice." She grinned a little. "And when we find the Reds, I want to be the first to put my boot on their throats. We all do. We'll put the Order back to rights, even if we have to grind every one of those traitors to dust."

He supposed that was a sentiment most of them shared. He could even understand it, to an extent. “Well then... we keep preparing, so our blades are sharp when we make the attempt."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
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They cried out in rage to gods
Who did not answer.
And they would have vengeance upon
The gods of broken promises.
And through them, vengeance
On the Maker and His world.
-Canticle of Silence, 3:15
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The beam was very thin.

Of course, Rilien himself could traverse it without the faintest trace of difficulty. He didn't ask her to do anything he could not demonstrate himself, but that left a rather small number of things off the table. Apparently, deft maneuvers on inch-thick bars were not excluded. While she'd never been afraid of heights in any way, and the bar itself was only about four feet off the ground, the probability of taking a tumble was rather high.

Sturdiness was not a concern; she'd watched it hold Rilien's weight steadily through jumps and the like without even bending much. “Uh. If I fall, don't laugh too hard at me, please." Estella pursed her lips faintly in Ves's general direction, suspecting that it was an impossible request but making it anyway. They'd just finished warmups; Rilien had set her tasks for the next hour and disappeared upstairs, probably to take care of Spymaster business. He'd be back to check on her shortly, no doubt.

Holding her arms out to either side, she stepped up onto the bar, trying to get a sense for the feel of it under her boots. Maybe she should take them off for the first couple of passes? That had helped with the two-inch one she'd been working on before this.

"Saraya likes the way that teacher of yours thinks." Ves was not training, not currently anyway. He'd brought his gear along for when they would spar later, but for the moment he'd brought that bench from outside inside and he was sprawled out on it, his gear piled next to it behind his head. The lion pelt was a pillow now, and he held a book open in one hand. A recommendation Estella had made for him when he asked about an epic he might be interested in reading. In general he'd been coming around, to her office, and her practices, more and more, and he seemed to enjoy simply being there. Probably attempting to ensure she stayed sane. He never got in the way of her work, unless his presence itself was a distraction, which he was obviously not trying for.

"If it helps, I won't watch. Or I'll tell you some of the ways Saraya had me train a decade ago. Or I'll try that when you're done, make sure you can get a laugh, too." The corners of his lips quirked upwards. He probably meant he'd attempt it without Saraya's help.

She smiled, already feeling a bit better about her doubtless many future failures at this exercise. He had a way of doing that—making her feel like sometimes it wasn't so bad. She supposed the ever-present sense of humor had a lot to do with that, but part of it was surely just that baffling attentiveness of his, the way it just seemed to intrinsically matter what she thought or felt or wanted. Frankly she wasn't entirely sure what to do with that, but in this case at least, the answer was easy enough.

“I shan't deprive you of a good laugh, but perhaps either of the other possibilities will suffice to soothe my wounded pride." But she wasn't one to delay the inevitable, so, stretching her arms out to either side, she took her first step forward on the beam. The solidity was actually a bit jarring; she might have preferred a bit of give and flex in it. No doubt Rilien knew that and had very intentionally denied her any sliver of mercy. She was steady for the first three steps, balance solid enough, but she faltered on the fourth, tsking under her breath and rotating herself sideways for stability so her feet were perpendicular instead of parallel to the bar. Still she wobbled like an erratic pendulum, but she didn't give up, trying to find her center of balance again.

Recovery was a near thing, but she did it, breathing out a relieved sigh and allowing herself to stand still for a moment, to make sure she was actually properly centered again.

“You're too tentative." The voice came abruptly from behind her. Apparently, Rilien had returned earlier than he'd indicated planning to.

Estella never heard him approaching. Not ever. And, of course, it turned out she hadn't managed to center her balance well enough to recover from the little jump that his sudden words produced; she leaned forward too far and fell right off. The only consolation was that she managed to land on her feet instead of her face.

He paused long enough for her to collect herself, blinking slowly. “And also not paying attention to your surroundings. Ought I ask Vesryn to leave, next time?" The question was delivered as blandly as anything he ever said, but the flicker of amusement behind his eyes wasn't something she could miss anymore. That he wasn't serious was clear enough even to the uninitiated, because he handed her a parchment envelope rather than waiting for any kind of answer.

“This came for you. The seal is Arlesans; I thought you would wish to know as soon as it arrived."

Estella's brows arched; she felt a slightly-uncomfortable twist in her gut that she ignored, taking the envelope and examining the seal for a moment. Dark red wax; that was the right color, certainly. The elegant, almost beautiful handwriting on the front did in fact bear her name, and no reference to Lady Marceline or Rilien, through whom most of the Inquisition's official business was received. Frowning slightly, she flipped it back over and broke the seal, carefully extracting the letter inside.

She read over it several times before carefully folding it back over, pursing her lips into a thin line and glancing back up at Rilien. “Do you think you could get Leon and Lady Marceline in a meeting space of some kind in about half an hour? I'm going to need to request some Inquisition resources, I think."

“Of course." Rilien did not ask her why. Clearly, he simply assumed that her reasons for making such a request would be sufficient. “We will use the war room. I estimate approximately fifteen minutes, if neither of them are otherwise indisposed." He nodded, then exited the tower, apparently headed toward Leon's office first.

Ves snapped the book shut, setting it down on top of his gear and sitting upright, turning to put his feet on the ground. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. "Bad news?" His look was one of concern as much as curiosity, but the question as always wasn't asked forcefully.

She nodded. “A friend of mine. He's... in trouble." With a little sigh, she rolled out her shoulders. Practice would be cut short for today, it seemed. “He thinks—and I think—I might be able to help, though. So perhaps the bad news is only temporary." Estella tilted her head. “Mind coming with me to the meeting? I think I'm going to have to explain to Lady Marceline why letting me take a few of my friends to Val Royeaux to help another friend is a good idea. And we don't, um. See eye to eye on that kind of thing, sometimes."

Truthfully, she wasn't looking forward to the prospect.

"Sounds like a bit of a balancing act ahead of you." He stood, grabbing his cloak and smiling a little. "Sorry, that was terrible. 'Course I'll come."

She snorted in a rather embarrassingly unladylike way, but couldn't quite bring herself to care. The joke deserved it. “I'll be walking a thin line, to be sure," she drawled in reply, gathering up her gear to leave.

By the time she'd stowed everything in her office, it was about time to be in the war room anyway, so they made their way over directly, entering with no fanfare to find Rilien, Leon, and Lady Marceline were all already present. Estella offered a thin smile, standing on the opposite side of the map table from the three of them. “Sorry to call you here so suddenly," she said quietly. “But there's a request I'd like to make. If possible, I would like to take some members of the Irregulars to Val Royeaux, probably for about a week. A friend of mine, Julien D'Artignon, has requested my help. I intend to give it to him, but I know it's unwise of me to go alone."

Whatever Marceline thought of the request, it didn't appear on her face, but rather she took the news evenly. "What type of help, may I ask?" she predictably asked.

Estella pursed her lips. “He's been accused of treason and sedition against the crown. He maintains his innocence, and claims that he was framed. He has requested that I, as the Inquisitor and a neutral party with no political stake in the matter, conduct an investigation, as he believes his trial was too hasty." Given the timeline, she suspected he was right, but she wasn't sure what to make of it yet.

“He's been... he's been sentenced to death."

The news seemed to catch Lady Marceline by surprise, as the obvious shock managed to crack her even features. "Did you receive any other details on the matter? What has he been suspected of to be tried for treason?"

Estella hesitated. “He was... sparing with the details. Probably because he didn't want the letter to be intercepted. He's just asked that I hear him out, where he's being held. He's in La Flùche." Full name La Flùche Noire, it was Val Royeaux's prison tower for criminals whose crimes were either especially severe or committed directly against the Empress. Few who went there were expected to ever go anywhere else but the guillotine or the gallows. Estella knew Julien wasn't what anyone would call a crown loyalist, and she also knew he was more reckless and cavalier than he should be about his own reputation and arguably safety, but sedition?

She didn't think he was capable of that.

Lady Marceline was quiet and slipped into thought after that. She rested her chin on her hand as she stared into the map onto the table. She appeared to internally debate something within herself before she finally sighed and spoke again. "I apologize if this seems personal Estella, but I must ask. How close are you with the Marquis?"

It wasn't an unexpected question. She was asking quite a bit here, and while Rilien already knew the answers, or most of them, Estella knew it was only fair that she give the relevant information to the others as well. She sighed, glancing down at the letter in her hand, and the script that bore her name. Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius. He'd say something like that without a trace of irony, then laugh when she frowned at him for it, wave a hand and apologize: sorry, sorry. Stel.

“He's my friend," she repeated. “A dear one. Someone with a good heart, who doesn't deserve to die for something he didn't do." Maybe he had done it. But she liked to believe he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't lie about something so important. Even for him. So if it was her he was asking for help, then he was likely both innocent and truly desperate.

Once more Marceline took her time before she replied, most likely gauging and choosing her words well before she spoke them. "That may be so, but if it were only so easy," she said with a slight shake of her head. There remained a worried look to her face, even as she continued to gaze into Estella's face, like she was searching for something.

"You do understand the risks that involving yourself in this would pose?" Marceline asked, though she was still gentle in tone. "This will not be seen as you just aiding a personal friend, but as the Inquisition as a whole involving themselves in another governing body's justice system," she let the knowledge sit for a moment before she added, "I need not tell you in how many countless ways this intervention may be taken, or the risks posed to the Inquisition and our reputation. The actions you take may set an undesired precedent and reflect poorly back on us."

Estella pursed her lips, pulling in a deep breath. Precedents were indeed important, and she understood that very well. It was part of why she and Lady Marceline had argued the last time they spoke about something political. She straightened slightly. Though Rilien's expression was neutral as ever, she could see that Leon was a bit concerned too; he at least made no attempt to hide as much. Fortunately, she had an explanation that she thought would satisfy them, in terms of the Inquisition's interests, even if it wasn't the one she personally considered the most important.

She straightened, letting her shoulders fall back and her eyes move carefully between the three of them. “I understand the risk, but... viewed a certain way, the opportunity is greater." Estella glanced down at her hand, turning the letter over in her fingers for a moment while she gathered the words she wanted. “Think of how we must look to the rest of the world right now: a fledgling army grown strong, by absorbing nearly all the mages and templars left in the south, and volunteers from multiple nations. A body like that, only increasing in strength, holed up in an impressive fortress in the mountains, a place that's effectively neither Ferelden nor Orlais nor anywhere else." The effort it would take to get border patrols or any kind of decent force up the Frostbacks on any regular basis was far too much to bother with.

“And this army, this unknown, has already intervened in another country's civil war. Not to mention in the siege of an important Bannorn in another country. We've taken prisoners and judged them on our own, without input from the realms in which they've committed crimes. We exiled the Grey Wardens from the south, without so much as consulting anyone else. This organization is run, officially, by two people from the most hated country in Thedas and claims, or at least does not disclaim, some kind of... divine authority or privilege. We answer to no one but ourselves, and it's clear enough by our actions that we work well outside the bounds of political sovereignty that other people think are of utmost importance." She shook her head. “Right now, if I were a noble in some other country, I'd be quite wary of the Inquisition. Especially when there's so little evidence of what its moral character is. Fighting Corypheus hardly takes righteousness—only a desire to survive. They have no reason to believe anything especially good of us right now, and much reason to fear the worst—that we'll become a conquering army someday, when everything else is done."

She looked back up, expelling a breath from her nose. “This could be an opportunity to lay some of those fears to rest. To show that we are willing and able to act within the bounds of a nation's laws, and to show that what we're interested in is doing what is right. Julien hasn't promised the Inquisition anything, and I don't intend to ask him to. What he has done is ask for our help. If we find the truth, and bring it through the court system like everyone does, then we will be showing both that we respect the authority of Orlais over her citizens and also that we respect and care about justice. That we don't just sit idle when the innocent are maligned." Estella paused.

“With all due respect, those are things we need to do better at showing."

Marceline frowned. "There will be some who will not see it as such, but rather one more drastic overreach in our already questionable authority. This may provide them more ammunition against us, but..." she stated, before sighing, "You may be correct in that this may solidify support from those who do not understand yet where we sit and prove that we are able to peacefully coexist with other nations and act under their rule--if the best possible outcome were to occur," she added sharply. "If the opposite were to occur, then we may irrevocably damage our reputation, and sour the opinions of those we wished to gain trust from. It is risk, with an uncertain outcome."

She went quiet again before she appeared to have decided upon something internally, "Yet, it is clear where your heart lies, and I cannot fault that. I can only hope that others will see the act with the same sincerity as you do, if you were to succeed." She sighed and nodded her approval, though it was abundantly clear she still had a number of misgivings.

"Very well, I shall accompany you on this matter."

Estella was immediately uncomfortable with the suggestion, but she wasn't sure how to put the discomfort into words. At least not ones that would convey her point the way she wanted it. She hesitated for a long moment. Too long, surely. “Um. I was actually hoping to take Rilien, if that was all right. And Cy and Ves, too. I thought a small group would be for the best, and if there's something I really need to know about someone, well... I don't know anyone better at teaching me things I need to know than he is." She half-smiled at her teacher, who nodded his understanding, but it faded when she returned her eyes to Lady Marceline.

“I wouldn't want to take two of the three of you away from Skyhold, not for something like this. If possible, I'd like the disruption to our usual ways of doing things to be minimal." All of that was true, though... it certainly wasn't the whole truth.

Marceline frowned again, this time even deeper. "Lady Estella, though I do not doubt your skills and Rilien's, this will affect many an opinion in Orlais, and as such is a rather important matter. Larissa will be able handle my affairs in my absence, but I believe it is important that I assist you in any way that I possibly can, and I cannot do that while remaining at Skyhold."

Estella's shoulders slumped. This wasn't going well at all. Her eyes found the floor and she shifted, betraying her discomfort even as she kept her expression as neutral as she could. Biting the inside of her lip, she took a few breaths. Maybe Lady Marceline was right. Maybe there wasn't really any way she should be trusted to handle sensitive matters like this herself. It would be just typical, wouldn't it? She'd go into something, try her very hardest, and still not be good enough. Maybe she was letting other things, other successes, get to her head, but... if she tried a million times, surely even she was bound to succeed once or twice. Just by chance. Maybe... maybe it would be better, to bring along someone who really knew what they were doing so that if her successes had just been chance, then...

Maybe she should leave the important things to others. But Julien had asked for her help, and that didn't happen often. All of this was on her shoulders because of happenstance; surely she shouldn't be getting a big head now. The only things she'd accomplished were her accomplishments because of that. Because of things that weren't about her at all. The mark, or... or the rest of it. Those were really the things that mattered, weren't they? Her friends would say otherwise, but they were her friends—it was practically obligatory for them to think she mattered apart from all that. Much as she might want this to be about that, helping her friends, the truth was that it was so much bigger. And she wasn't equipped for bigger.

“If you really didn't doubt my skills, Lady Marceline," she said, smiling thinly, “I don't think you'd be insisting. But maybe you're right to doubt. You must be; I'm sure you know the court better than I do." She cleared her throat softly.

“Perhaps she knows the court better." Rilen's eyes were slightly narrowed. “But I am the one who knows you. You are adequate to the task. You would be without my assistance, though I am at your service if you so wish." He crossed his arms, his posture the closest thing to displeasure she might have ever seen him express. “If Lady Marceline needs evidence of your competence, she is welcome to take my words as such. And I am competent enough to handle a situation of this magnitude, as well as assess your capacity for the same." He said the last completely flatly, as though it should have been obvious. “I remind her that I have spent many years in court as well."

"I remember Ser Rilien, and that is why I believe that between the three of us, we will be able to come to a fitting resolution," she stated, nearly as evenly as Rilien. However, then her features went stone hard and she turned her attention back on Estella. "I do not know what opinions or regard that you believe that I hold you in, Lady Estella, but I assure you that they are quite a bit higher than you believe. I apologize if you feel as if my insistence is meant in anyway as an insult to you, or Ser Rilien," she said, sparing the Tranquil a glance, "But you must realize that I simply wish for you to employ every tool you have at your disposal, and that includes myself."

Her features softened, but did not entirely leave their even territory. "You must understand, that if my expertise would aid you in any way, then I would not hesitate in giving it at a moment's notice," She then sighed and her head dipped a fraction, "But, you are the Inquisitor, and if you believe that I am better served in Skyhold, then I will remain."

She was quiet for a time afterward and each moment that passed, the steel seemed to drain from her face. "One more thing I wish you to know, Estella," she said, though this time there was genuine emotion in her tone, "As a mother, worry comes to me easily. Each time one of you-- any of you-- leaves the Keep, I cannot help but worry for your wellbeing, and recent events only served to add to that. I fear... you may have misconstrued this worry as something else entirely, and for that I apologize."

Estella felt something uncomfortable drop into the pit of her stomach, remaining where it was despite her best efforts to dislodge it by force of will alone. Her eyes immediately fell back to the ground. But Rilien's confidence was enough to assure her that she was doing the right thing—she trusted her teacher absolutely. The thing to do was not make a big production of this: to conduct their investigation quietly and with the truth in mind, for the sake of a man she felt was likely to be innocent. There wasn't any need to drag anything into it beyond that. Deeds spoke for themselves. She'd seen people build real trust, real cooperation between very different parties by letting their honesty, forthrightness, and care show through in what they did, rather than what they said. Maybe she wasn't the best choice, but she'd had the best examples to learn from.

And if Rilien thought she could do those examples justice, then... she could. She could do this her way. Estella knew she had to try.

Swallowing, she took in a deep breath. “That's, um... that's kind of you, Lady Marceline. But I think—I think I should try to do this the way I was planning on doing it. You have my word that if we find ourselves in a bind, we'll send word. I'll be careful, and I'll trust Rilien to know better than me if we disagree." It was about all she could offer by way of reassurance.

Marceline's eyes flicked to Rilien for a moment, like she wanted to ask him something, but apparently she decided better of it and turned back instead to Estella. "Very well, Inquisitor. You do what you believe you must," Marceline said, slipping back into her guarded tone, though it felt even more so than the last time.

Estella worked not to flinch. Her eyebrows drew together a little, but she kept her face smooth and impassive, controlling her reaction to the shift back in tone by reminding herself of what Rilien had said. Ves's steady presence at her back helped, as did the fact that Leon at least favored her with his usual mild smile.

“We'll look after things while you're gone, of course, as I'm sure the others will as well. Best of luck, Estella."

She managed to smile a bit in return. “Thank you. I think I'll go find Cy, and then we'll leave early tomorrow morning. Leon. Rilien. Lady Marceline." She nodded to each in sequence, then turned on her heel to face the door. Estella was well aware that much of her hidden unease made it to her face when only Ves could see it, but she didn't linger long in the room, pushing the door open with the palm of her left hand and trying not to hurry out.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Before she and Rom had left the Exalted Plains, Vareth had promised to write her. To keep her updated about things, and pass along any information that might be of use to the Inquisition, he'd said. Khari had admittedly not expected it to really pay any useful dividends, especially not so soon. But sure enough, the clan had moved into the Emerald Graves recently, and it hadn't taken them too long to notice that something was wrong. Exact details were vague; apparently he'd written before knowing all the information, but it involved both the Venatori and the Red Templars.

That was enough to get most of the Inquisition's Irregulars out to the area, as well as Stel, who'd be doing... any Inquisitor stuff that came up. There were probably rifts here. There were rifts fucking everywhere, so Khari didn't give herself any points for guessing that.

The Graves was a massive part of an even more massive forest—everything here was like a normal forest, but doubled. The trees were absolutely huge, towering over them like buildings, and the color of the leaves was the purest shade of green Khari had ever laid eyes on, though maybe she was biased, since she'd grown up here. Even the fauna were pretty big; she knew firsthand how big the bears could get here. The vaulted canopy overhead gave the place almost a similar atmosphere to one of the Chantry's cathedrals, or at least they seemed similar to her. Sort of an enforced silence, like her voice would echo back at her if she were too loud. And the kind of scale that made her feel small.

When they reached the Inquisition's forward camp, it was to find Vareth already there, one hand holding his halla's reins and the other resting loosely around his staff. He was speaking to Lia, but he paused in his words at their approach. Once the group had made their way over, he offered a smile, but politely waited for the Scout-Captain to speak first.

Lia looked to be getting along much better with Vareth than the Inquisition's previous Dalish guests, judging by the lack of any awkwardness in her posture. The camp itself was situated among some particularly gutted ruins, only a few walls and pillars left standing on either side of the path. The scout tents were situated more closely together this time, due to the need to fit more forces into the same small space. Behind Khari, the templar Knight-Captain SĂ©verine had brought along a moderately sized squadron of her own, carrying their own gear. She wordlessly instructed them to being situating themselves in the camp, and they set to work.

"I know I've said it before," Lia began, eyes wandering above her to the trees. "But I do love all the places this job takes us to. Grim business, but a nice location this time. And we've had a much easier time moving unseen here." She looked back to Vareth. "You want to tell them about the Venatori? We haven't seen as much of them as the Red Templars."

He nodded easily, wearing a pleasant smile, but Khari knew him well enough to recognize the fact that he was troubled about something. "As I was just telling Lia, there are humans in red and white robes moving about in the area around Din'an Hanin. I'm not actually sure if they've found the entrance yet, or if they've already come and gone from inside, but in either case, it's quite possible they've desecrated the tomb. I thought you'd want to know that they were here."

“Not the first time we've seen them mucking about in elven ruins." Cyrus pursed his lips thoughtfully, as though an idea had occurred to him, but if it had, he kept quiet about it. Khari figured he'd tell them when he was sure enough to bother, and not before. “Is this particular site ancient?"

Vareth shook his head. "It's built atop older architecture, but it's the tomb of the Emerald Knights. That part of it only dates back to the second age."

Khari tilted her head at Cyrus. “Does that matter?"

He shrugged. “Honestly? I don't know yet. In any case it seems prudent not to let them do as they will. Perhaps if we remove them, we'll get a better idea of what they want in the process."

"And the Red Templars?" SĂ©verine asked. She was geared for battle already, and unlike how she'd fought previously, she was now equipped with a moderately-sized flail, the flanged head attached to a chain coiled around her belt. She carried her helm under her arm, looking eager to don it.

"Much more mobile, and much less subtle," Lia answered, her tone darkening a little. "They have heavily guarded caravans making their way through the forest. Transporting red lyrium, if the glow is anything to go by. Seems like they take a different path each time, different directions... they're coming and going, but we're not sure where from or where to."

SĂ©verine nodded her understanding. "And you haven't been seen or attempted to engage them?"

"No, Ser." She gestured over her shoulder, in a north-eastern general direction. "I sent Signy to identify choke points in the forest, places most likely for the caravans to have to come through. We're working on setting up an ambush site, but we'll need your templars and some of the Irregulars to make it work."

"What's their strength like?" Ves asked, leaning slightly on his spear. His tower shield rested with the end planted at his feet. "You said they were heavily guarded."

"The caravans aren't entirely Red Templar troops, is the problem," Lia explained, with a slight wince. "Almost all of the caravans we've seen have civilians among them. Mostly Orlesian, but I couldn't tell you where from. I think... I think they're being held prisoner, forced to drive the carts, but I could be wrong. As for the templars... if they're anything like what we've seen before, they don't always show their true forms until attacked. But they're here in force, and well equipped, too."

Between Ves and Cyrus, Stel grimaced at the word civilian. “Sounds like we have two jobs ahead of us then," she said with a little shake of her head. “Thank you, for the information." That, she directed at Vareth and Lia both.

Leon crossed his arms over his broad chest, frowning slightly. “It would be better to handle both at once. Before the Venatori move and we lose any clues as to their plans, and also before much more lyrium moves across the forest... or more people are pressed into service." He paused, expelling a heavy breath from his nose. “I think... Estella, Ser SĂ©verine and her people, Captain Zahra and myself should be sufficient for the Reds." He glanced at Khari.

“Can you guide the rest to this Din'an Hanin and take care of the Venatori?"

Zahra only nodded her head. A hand drew up to shield her eyes, which were directed upwards. She seemed far too preoccupied watching the wind weave through the enormous trees, swaying like towers overhead to absorb the nuances of their mission. Fortune favored those who only needed to be directed to shoot. It was a position she’d never complained of. She hadn’t noticed Khari’s obvious discomfort. Either that or she hadn’t thought Leon’s suggestion all that absurd.

“Uh." Khari was immediately uncomfortable. That sounded an awful lot like Leon was putting her in charge of something, and Khari had never been in charge of anything in her life. She could see the strategic reason, of course: she knew the area better than anyone else, probably. She didn't doubt Ves had been here at some point, but she'd spent a combined total of years in this forest, and visited Din'an Hanin often enough to know the way.

She considered protesting anyway, but her excuses were all weak as shit, so she held her tongue. Glancing at the others, she cleared her throat. Really, if you had to put someone in charge of a combat operation, she wasn't... well, she could console herself with the fact that Asala would probably do worse. Ves and Cy would almost certainly do better.

“...sure. Can-do, Commander." She plastered a grin on her face that she didn't really feel. Maybe if she faked it long enough, it'd get stuck there and she'd feel some genuine version of the confidence it pretended to. “Good luck, you lot. See you later, I guess."

Only then did Zahra’s head drop down and level off towards Khari. A wide grin, much more genuine than Khari’s own had been, split across her lips as she took a few steps forward and slapped her gently on the back. A low, hoarse laugh sounded. “You’ve got this, second Commander. See you when we see you.” Zahra’s teasing was commonplace, and nearly always expected, but the look in her eyes belied true belief. She meant it.

Asala must have sensed her discomfort, because she was the next to speak with an encouraging smile. "It is not as if you are by yourself," she said before she turned her gaze on the others around them. Asala had her hair pulled back into a tight bun, with golden vitaar spread across her face in the geometric patterns she'd been known for. She seemed prepared for whatever the forest dealt them, for what it was worth.

"Best of luck with the Reds," Ves said, inclining his head in a nod to the rest of the group they were leaving behind, though he looked at Stel when he said it. "We'll see you soon."

It wasn't long before they'd put the camp behind them, passing beyond the safe perimeter the scouts had established and finding themselves surrounded by the colors of the forest. That Khari was leading the group wasn't entirely obvious, as Ves often walked side-by-side with her, and Cyrus and Asala didn't trail behind all that much, either. The silence, or rather lack of any noise from human or elf, became apparent not long after they put the camp out of sight, replaced by only the constant sounds of nature. The wind in the leaves. The slow ambling of a nearby stream. Chittering birds.

Ves was the first to break it, speaking in somewhat low tones due to the lack of necessity to use anything louder. "Saraya didn't see the fall of the Emerald Knights. We didn't visit many places here. It's beautiful, but..." his eyes wandered up to the trees around him, but only for a moment before resuming their watch. "You can almost smell the sorrow on the air. Maybe that's just me."

“It's not." Khari grimaced, glancing to the side at Ves. It made sense that all that stuff was after Saraya's time and all. But it was still really damn old by most reckonings. “I mean, the whole thing's a graveyard. They planted the trees for the Knights when they took their oaths. All the bodies are in the actual tomb."

From slightly behind her, Cyrus hummed, tipping his head back to look up at the canopy of one such tree. “The last defenders of the independent Dales, yes? Right around the second age or so? I've heard only a little."

Khari supposed that meant she might well be the one who knew the most. That was a bizarre feeling, in present company. She could add it to the stack that was slowly accumulating here. She'd heard the stories before, of course. Her clan's last hahren had told them to her more times than she could count because she always wanted stories about knights and these were really the only ones that applied. Most Dalish heroes were mages, as it turned out. “Yeah. Wiped out to a one, like usual." A gust of breath escaped her; she'd been thinking a lot about that story lately, actually.

“Nobody was too fond of the Dalish, after they watched Montsimmard practically burn during the second Blight. But what probably really got the whole thing started was what gets everything started: people hating each other for stupid reasons. I guess there were rumors at the time that elves sacrificed people to the gods or whatever." She snorted, making it abundantly clear what she thought of the intelligence of anyone who'd believe something like that.

Khari adjusted the unfamiliar sword on her back and continued walking, stepping smoothly over a jutting tree root. “Watch your feet, Asala." The Qunari woman was almost fatally clumsy sometimes. Certainly not as smooth in motion as either of the other two. “There was this village called Red Crossing. Not too far from Dirthavaren, actually. One of the knights, Elandrin, fell in love with a human girl there." She'd used to screw up her nose at that part, when Barildal had inevitably turned the story into a tangent about humans, or in later years, some kind of practically-lyrical musing on love. Both had been equally annoying, as far as Khari was concerned, in all her teenaged wisdom.

“There was this pretty awkward identity mix-up, but it ended with Elandrin's sister accidentally killing the girl, Adalene. By the time the other villagers got there, Elandrin was by her side, and you can guess what they thought. That was all it took. There was a war, and then an Exalted March, and then cities fell and Halamshiral was captured and all the Knights were dead on the field." She shrugged. It was about as pleasant as any other Dalish story.

“Used to think Elandrin was a big idiot, myself. Used to think everyone in the story was an idiot. Tragedies are kind of like that." Most of them seemed to rely on someone or multiple someones being idiotically blind about something and everyone paying the price for it.

"Used to?" Ves asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. The look was gone a moment later, however, as it was the only moment he'd given to look at her rather than their surroundings.

Khari nodded, unsure she wanted to elaborate. It was kind of a weird topic, especially for this group. Still... she'd kind of opened herself up to the question, and they had a while to go yet before they were anywhere near their destination. “Well... yeah. Can't do much to stop feelings, can you? Even the stupid ones. Doesn't seem much like it was their fault. Maybe it wasn't anyone's fault." She shrugged again, aware that her body language would probably go unnoticed. It was just a reflex.

“Still happened though. Gave everybody one more reason to just shut out anybody who looks different. This one cut pretty deep." Losing whatever ancient fantasyland had once held the gods and the immortal elves and all those people who seemed so far away from reality, well... that was one thing. Losing the Dales, though. That stung. Particularly for a group that still called themselves Dalish. It was easy to lay the blame on the humans, and forget the part they'd played in starting it. Black and white was always easier than grey. It was just that not everyone agreed about which was which.

"Sadly, feelings of hate and distrust are as hard to stop as love. Maybe harder, if history is anything to go off of." The conversation seemed to be a sobering one for Ves. A few moment passed in silence, before his eyes fell to the ground before them, and he briefly held out a hand towards the others. "Hold up."

At their feet were old tracks, hard to notice but definitely there. No heavy boot thuds of Red Templars, but lighter steps, and a few soft indentations in the ground, where perhaps a staff had pushed into the earth. "Venatori came through here, I think. Are we close?"

Khari's eyes flicked for a moment to the trail ahead, then back down to tracks. “Close enough to be careful. Still about a couple miles out, though." Not that it made a great deal of difference; the Venatori could easily have moved, or be in the process of moving, or even just send patrols out this far. “Guess this is the part where we clam up and go in... uh... quiet-ish."

The chances of this particular group of people getting anywhere close without being noticed was very low. Everyone was in armor except Asala, and she was probably the worst at not stepping wrong, so it was a bit of a predicament. Best to count on being seen sooner rather than later.

Khari pulled in a breath. They could do this. She could do this. The Venatori were dangerous, but so were she and her friends here.

Time to go prove it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Seeing how they were currently trekking through the woods, Zahra was given a much better of view of the forest surrounding them
 if that’s what she could even call it. How could trees grow so damned tall? Like towers, creeping up towards the sky. Reaching spindly fingers overhead and twining leaves like a great blanket-of-a-canopy. It was surreal to behold. Something she wouldn’t have even imagined sailing the seas. She’d never been this far out. Never had any reason to. They went where the coin pouches rattled—none of their marks, or mercenary endeavors ever required them to traverse into Dalish territory. At least, not this far out.

She hummed low in her throat. An old tune. Mostly to keep her focused. Soft enough not to be a nuisance. Subtlety hardly mattered when two handfuls of clanking Templars followed at their heels, decked in their stifling steels. Leon led their little troupe, flanked by Sev and Lia. She’d chosen to walk alongside Estella because she had no clue where they were going—meeting Signy somewhere deeper into the woods, perhaps where no light at all would speckle through the trees. Sometimes, it felt like they’d step into a hole, and be swallowed up by the shrubbery.

While her fingers still itched for her old, broken bow, she’d taken her faithful rapiers with her. Best to sharpen her technique with her blades, and stop relying solely on her arrows. It was a hard lesson to swallow, and one that made her feel a little uncomfortable. At least until she acquired a new one. She’d tried some of the extra bows they’d brought with them, but they felt wrong in her hands. Unbalanced. Awkward. Too small. Too light. Too heavy. Her tastes were precise, as if she were choosing a ship to sail. Some might say that they were all created equal, but she begged to differ. Stubborn or no, her habits often died hard.

Knuckling at her nose, she allowed her eyes to stray off to the side. Looking at nothing in particular. There were small noises, scuffles through the undergrowth. Twigs snapping. Subtle sounds that could’ve easily been mistaken for animals, if she hadn’t known there were scouts skulking through the shadows, eyeing the horizon for anything that needed worrying about. So far, there was nothing to see. No trouble. Not yet. She rubbed the back of her neck and glanced sidelong at Stel, a grin growing on her face, “Figure it’s moot to ask if we’re there yet.” A pause, a beat and her smile widened, “But while we’re walking
 I don’t suppose I’m wrong to notice some romantic developments taking place.”

Truly. There was no wrong time or place to gossip about the Inquisition’s respective paramours. Besides, it would make the time pass far quicker. For her, at least.

Estella, who had been dutifully concentrating on the road in front of them, eyes frequently scanning their surroundings with wariness, started at the statement, pulling a breath in through her teeth. Whether it was just because someone had spoken closer to her than she was expecting or due to the content of the words was initially hard to tell. Her eyes moved quickly to Zahra's; she cleared her throat. It was at that point that it became obvious what part of the verbal prodding was startling. Her blush, as it turned out, was a bit blotchy, darker over her cheekbones than anywhere else, with spots of color on her nose and forehead as well.

She glanced around, almost as though afraid someone else might have heard the inquiry. Leon and the others ahead were the most likely, but if they'd heard anything, they weren't giving any immediate indications. A look over her shoulder confirmed that Sev's templars were a bit too far behind to notice it over the sound of their own passage. Still, her voice was low when she replied, as though she were afraid of being heard. “I, um... yes. Or rather, no, you're not wrong." Estella cleared her throat again. “Just, um... maybe don't tell everyone." She looked genuinely concerned for a moment, almost unsure of what she was going to say.

“Some people wouldn't understand, you know?" Her voice dropped even further. “I'm not sure how to deal with that yet, and I don't want—" She paused awkwardly, her mouth pulling to one side. “I don't want him to deal with any trouble because of it."

Zahra raked a hand through her wild hair, effectively pushing it from her face. What was wrong with a little romance in their merry band of misadventures? Saving the world was exhausting enough. That everyone wanted it to be kept secret baffled her. While she’d never been one for overt sweetness, she loved freely. Loudly. Without shame, or embarrassment. Apparently that wasn’t so with everyone else. It felt like, as of recent, she was collecting secrets of the affectionate variety, adding them to her repertoire of things she must not speak of. What good was it if she couldn’t openly tease both parties?

She was happy for them. That Stel allowed herself a little reprieve from all of her responsibilities—that she could lean on someone, and lessen her burden. Friends were good for that
 but sometimes, having someone behind closed doors, someone to hold hands with, was more, felt like more, in a sense. The smile smoothed itself out as she kept pace with Stel, and glanced over to Leon and Lia’s backs as they strode ahead. While there might have been a chance that they could hear their conversation, she was sure it wouldn’t interest them much. Of course, maybe they were secret romantics, as well. She’d been wrong before.

“My lips,” she made a gesture across her lips, and winked, “are sealed. Though I do believe more people would understand than you’d think.” An eyebrow raised. “I’m happy for you. You make a good pair.” The smile wobbled into a smirk as she drew nearer, and gently bumped her shoulder. Her voice had lowered to a coquettish whisper. A girlish, secretive coo, “So, the pretty ones are your type. I wouldn’t have thought.”

“Erm..." The expression on Estella's face hovered somewhere between further embarrassment and something like exasperation. “That's, uh... um." She seemed to be very much out of her element talking about this kind of thing. A huff escaped her, a wry smile twisting her lip. “Let me try this again. I... don't know about that last part, but the reason I asked you not to say anything wasn't because I—I know some people will understand. But if there are even a few who don't..." The smile fell away.

Estella shook her head faintly. “People have been killed for less, Zahra. And it's usually not the human. I'd rather have some kind of idea how to handle that before we actually have to." Her eyes fell to the ground beneath them. It took a few moments for her to snap herself out of it, but when she did, she managed another smile. “But I trust you with the secret. So you can keep making fun of me if you want. I'm sure it's entertaining." There was a sort of gentle self-effacement in her expression; clearly she knew that how flustered she was wasn't how most people would handle the same situation.

Zahra lifted a hand and rubbed at her chin. While she couldn’t profess to understanding why it was such an issue, she supposed she could see where Stel was coming from. Ruling a kingdom aside, being the Inquisitor was similar to royalty. There were potential weaknesses, slits in her armor that could be taken advantage of. The world wasn’t a simple place, that much she understood. There was a difference between doing whatever you wished on the seas, and facing the world head-on with an army at your back. Perhaps, one day, it wouldn’t be an issue. She hoped so, at least.

Her smile tempered itself. Drew back into something much smaller. That much was true. She made another humming noise, and nodded her head. The fact that Ves was elven hadn’t eluded her. That it might mean something to someone else had, though. Her entire crew was composed of misfits, belonging to all walks of life. If anyone tread on their toes, she made them regret it. Pirates hardly discriminated against specific races, though she’d seen her fair share. Slavers, raiders composed solely of Qunari. Humans. These slights were usually solved with the sharp edge of an arrow. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a luxury the Inquisition could, or would, allow.

However, she didn’t doubt that she’d do the same for them, if it came down to it.

“I suppose, I’ll have to settle for teasing you in secret as well,” she lamented with a softer smile, bereft of its toothy edge, “The Inquisition makes for difficult affairs.” For her sake, she wished it weren’t so. To fear backlash for caring for someone else
 she’d never feared such a thing before. Vulnerabilities, however. She had plenty. “I meant it. When I said I wouldn’t breathe a word.”

There was another pause as she gave Stel some room and stepped off to the side, scanning the treeline as they walked. “I may even spare you the embarrassment. I’m no monster.” Crass as she was, even she had caught on to Stel’s discomfort. Her concerns, her worries. This, she assumed, was not familiar territory for her. She cleared her throat and turned her attention towards the canopy, “I’m, uh
 sorry if I was insensitive.”

“Oh, don't be." Stel smiled more fully at that. “This may sound strange, but I'm glad you think of it like that. Just something to tease a friend about like you would with anyone. It's reassuring, in a way."

Anything else they might have said was precluded by the fact that they seemed to have reached their destination. The Avvar scout, Signy, was already present, arms crossed over her chest, a longbow across her back, the quiver at her hip just in front of a short, machete-like blade. She'd braided her ginger hair to her head, exposing the tattoos on the left side of her neck. As they approached, she offered a nod and a casual salute, motion smooth and almost laconic. She didn't bother much with preamble. "Expecting a caravan soon." She turned dark eyes down the road behind them for a moment, then returned them to the group, shifting her weight slightly to the opposite foot. "The land makes a choke point here, but the cover's a fair bit back from the road, as you can see."

A gesture with her chin drew their attention to the fact. The road cut between two small hills here, providing ample opportunity for ambush, but the nearest trees were a fair distance up, and the ground cover with them. It meant anyone trying to enter melee would probably be seen in considerable advance of getting to the caravan. "Not sure how that's going to complicate things for us, but there isn't a better spot anywhere we saw." She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. "I've got the others up the trees with bows, but that doesn't look like it'll work with our friends here." She raised an eyebrow at the heavily-armored templars.

SĂ©verine made her way up to the edge of the natural cover the foliage provided, peering down a moment at the road to confirm Signy's words. The other templars formed up quietly, awaiting her opinion. "Going to be hard to make this clean," she said, grimacing. She turned back to face the others. "Arrows won't take down Reds quickly, even well placed ones."

"What about a lot of well-placed arrows, all at once?" Lia asked, eyebrow raised. She had her own longbow in hand already, eyes glancing up at the trees and likely identifying the positions of her own people without much need for asking Signy where they were. Zahra’s fingers habitually inched towards her shoulder and halted at her collarbone, fingers curling into her palm. She made a small noise, exasperated. Her hand crept back and settled on the pommels of her blades instead.

"We'll have to do the best we can, but the red lyrium makes them hard targets, even under their armor." SĂ©verine looked over the others that were with them, likely going over some tactical options in her head. "The goal here should be securing as many civilians as we can, or maybe even a Red prisoner. There are many caravans, and destroying one won't mean much. But information could lead us to the source." Her eyes turned to Stel. "Inquisitor, I've heard your mark allows you to... cover ground very quickly, so to speak. Could you use it to pull a civilian or two clear of danger?"

Estella thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “It's not... the most reliable thing, but I'll do my best. I could, in theory, transport a couple of you with me on the trip there, too, if we wanted to get some people into melee range as quickly as possible." She glanced at Leon and grimaced. “I've, um... never moved someone of the Commander's size before, and I don't know how that would affect anything, but I could probably move you, Captain, and maybe Zahra as well?" She seemed to have noticed that Zahra herself was without a ranged option at the moment.

Leon crossed his arms. “It's a risk, but it's probably better to get at least a couple of us down there while they're still unprepared. If you think you can do it, we ought to. As for whom to take... that would be a matter of volunteering, I should think. It's a perilous position to be in."

“I’m game. Do keep my limbs intact. I’m rather attached to them,” Zahra inflected with a smile, nodding her head. She wasn’t sure how any of that actually worked
 but if Stel was confident enough to move one or two people along with her, then she trusted in her judgment. A small part of her was curious what it would feel like, anyway.

SĂ©verine looked to be considering for a moment before Zahra volunteered ahead of her, at which point she closed her open mouth. "If the pirate's willing to throw herself in there, then so am I. Let's make it our opening move. As soon as we have all of their attention, loose a volley. Make your shots count, and be careful not to hit any of the hostages."

"We'll get our part done, Ser," Lia assured her.

"Good. The rest will charge from both sides, and clean up any resistance. A warning, though..." Her eyes fell for a moment, before she swept them out over her templars, and the others. "There's no way this is going to be clean. The Red Templars are powerful, and with civilians caught in the middle... we'll save as many as we can, but don't go in expecting to save them all. Do your job, trust the one next to you to do theirs, and we'll get the best outcome we're capable of. Any objections?" She took her helm into both hands, preparing to drop it into place over her head.

Leon nodded once, expression somber. “Well-said, captain. For now, we wait."

Waiting wasn’t something Zahra was especially good at. It made her itch. Especially when surrounded by nothing but endless trees, spanning as far as the eye could see. Two hills and a measly road cut between them did little to stifle the openness, and lack of cover it provided. Where would they come from? Where would they be hiding? While she was all for throwing herself into the fray
 not knowing when ate at her, and made her feel ill-prepared. She hoped the Red Templars were just as noisy as their own entourage, at least then they’d have an opportunity for a preemptive strike. A ringing bell, a signal.

Unlikely. She moved to Stel’s side, and shifted her weight from foot to foot. It wasn’t like she’d be bolting ahead of the pack—something that she never looked forward to, but even so, a tickle of anticipation quickened her heartbeat. She blamed the forest and its restrictive, brambly embrace. Pressing into their sides. Open fields, and rolling hills, she could easily deal with. How the Dalish lived here, she’d never know. The chirping of cicadas and insects rattled her nerves; and whether it was her imagination or not, she felt like eyes were trained on them.

She took a deep breath in and exhaled in a slow, controlled manner. Her hands, however, hadn’t loosened their grips across the pommels of her blades, ready to free them from their scabbards as soon as they made the jump.

A low whistle came from above. Zahra could see Lia perched in the branch of a tree, high above the ground. She made a few hand signals down at the group below, balancing her weight skillfully without the use of her hands.

Closer to Zahra, Signy tsked softly under her breath. “Twenty hostiles." She grimaced. “Ten hostages." She eased the bow from her back and fit an arrow to the string, drawing back partway and turning her eyes to the road.

It was at that point that everyone noticeably tensed, the fight becoming imminent. SĂ©verine's templars quietly drew out their weapons and made sure they were out of sight, while the Knight-Captain herself took up her position on Stel's other side, holding the chain of her flail against the handle to keep it from making any unwanted noise. The scouts all drew and readed whatever ranged weapons they were most comfortable with, Lia above them drawing back an arrow and holding it steady.

Within moments Zahra could hear the approaching carts coming up the path, drawn by sets of clopping hooves. There were five in total, large covered wagons with well-constructed wheels rimmed in steel, strong enough to make long and hard journeys. Pairs of blindfolded hostages were tied to each one, their hands bound to the reins, their arms lashed to each other, and their legs tied to their seats, all with thin leather straps. They were dressed for the cold of winter, a few of them hiding their faces. Behind them it was easy to see the glow given off by the red lyrium, that substance which seemed almost to infect the air around it. Those civilians that could be seen looked sick and pale, almost like they had the darkspawn taint, but instead of blackness welling up inside them there was a dull red instead. Overexposure to the substance, no doubt.

The Red Templars themselves kept good spacing between each other, split columns keeping pace on either side of the caravan. Each of the carts carried one of them on top of it, either to lead the group, or to ensure the hostages didn't try to flee with the horses at their command. They looked... different, from when they'd last been seen, at Haven's fall. The time with their precious red lyrium had not been kind to them. Or perhaps it had, it was hard to say. Some of them were approaching the point where they were less recognizably human, the lyrium growths spurting out of their heads, chest, shoulders. Some of them walked with hunched backs bristling with spikes of the stuff, radiating the energy that went along with it. Others had retained their appearances somehow, but by the way they moved, they weren't necessarily new to the substance. It was hard to tell who among them, if anyone, led the group.

The scouts picked out their targets. SĂ©verine's templars prepared to charge out of their hiding places, adjusting their grips on their weapons in either anticipation or nervousness, or a mix of both. SĂ©verine held out her right arm towards Stel, her eyes not leaving their targets. When she spoke, it was in a barely audible whisper. "When you're ready, Inquisitor."

Between Zahra and SĂ©verine, Estella exhaled almost inaudibly, nodding slightly. One of her hands closed around the Templar Captain's wrist; the other found Zahra's. There was a muted cracking sound, and then a fine green mist filled Zahra's vision. Stel tugged her forward, but no sooner had she taken what felt like a single step than the mist was receding and the sounds of the Reds were all around them. Stel had deposited them next to one of the columns, granting them the advantage of surprise, but these were well-disciplined soldiers. It would not last more than a moment.

Stel herself didn't seem to have taken the jump well, or maybe it was the sudden proximity to the red lyrium. She staggered, fumbling for her sword, the color draining from her face.

The entire jumping process felt as if Zahra’s insides had folded inwards and then pressed forcefully outwards, and if it weren’t for Stel’s grip on her wrist, she felt as if she would tumble into nothingness. She wasn’t even sure where she was, until the feeling subsided and felt more like the sway of a ship. It hadn’t been what she was expecting—but it was as disorienting as she’d assumed it would be. As soon as the green smog sloughed away from her eyes, red assaulted her vision. Rouge crystals, and ugly malformations.

She took advantage of their surprise appearance, and ripped her blades free from their scabbards. While she would’ve much preferred shooting arrows from a distance, there was nothing she could do but step away from Stel’s side in an attempt to gain ground and knock the first crooked creature off-balance, before it turned to face them. It worked. Though, not as well as she intended. The Red Templar’s arms were
 unfortunate things. No fingers. No weapon to hold. Well. It’s arms were more like blades, polluted by red luminous shards.

Its movements were far swifter than she’d given it credit for. Hunched body be damned. Her blade clattered off its forearm and sang free from her intended mark—its exposed neckline, somewhat guarded by its iron helmet. She didn’t have much time to think of where she should aim next before it reared back and attempted an overhead swing, which she barely parried with her second blade. It bent under the pressure, clearly not crafted for such a deadlock. With a breathy snarl, she leveled a swift kick to the chest, sending it reeling backwards against one of the wagons.

SĂ©verine intercepted a sword strike from a nearby templar, the blade clanging loudly off the face of her shield. She lashed out with the blunt face of it, driving the corrupted woman back a few steps, and giving SĂ©verine the space to engage the next. He came at her with a two handed sword, red lyrium beginning to mold from his flesh into his armor. The Knight-Captain angled her shield carefully as the blow came in and turned it aside, tilting the edge of the weapon down into the dirt. The chain of her weapon jangled behind her for a moment, before she brought it around smoothly to take advantage of the opening.

The flanged head of the flail crunched into the Red's jaw, deforming the helmet and the face beneath it and sending little shattered fragments of red lyrium onto the ground. It would've knocked a normal man out cold, but the Red Templar just staggered back, taking a moment to recover from the blow.

"Go, Estella, we've got your back!" she shouted. On the wagon closest to them, the pair of civilians looked around frantically and in terror. Above and behind them, a Red archer drew back an arrow aimed for the back of one of their heads. A different arrow whistled into his skull first, as did two more into his chest mere moments later, and he dropped, falling off the side of the cart into a heap on the ground below. The full volley followed, almost every arrow finding its mark. A few Red Templars were taken down, the weaker of the group, but many more simply shrugged off the wounds.

Despite the roar of SĂ©verine's templars charging down to attack them, the Red Templars acted with a singular mindset and an obvious initial goal: to reach their hostages, and kill them all.

Stel still seemed to be struggling to get her bearings; she lurched more than ran forward towards the civilians, but she'd managed to free her sword, and whatever discomfort or sickness she was experiencing was not enough to deter her from her path forward, though a pair of Reds had broken off to try and beat her there. One of them looked especially imposing, spikes of corrupted lyrium long erupted from his shoulders and arms, calcified over his skin. He was still a bit more humanoid than some of the others, able to hold and wield a greatsword.

Before anyone had much time to try and stop him, he'd cleaved halfway through the woman on the left. Stel made a soft choking noise, and threw herself forward, reappearing a moment later bodily between the second approaching soldier and the other civilian, who now cowered in terror, his blindfold no protection from knowledge of what was about to happen to him. An arrow whistled for him, aimed right between his eyes, but Stel got in the way, catching it in the shoulder and just barely avoiding decapitation by the shieldbearing Red who'd been about to kill the second innocent.

She raised her sword, swinging for his legs, but her blade rang off his shield. Beside them, the big one had finally torn his blade free of the woman's split body; he brought it around in a swing Stel couldn't hope to block.

His aim was knocked aside by a heavy impact; Leon had slammed hard into his side, armor-to-armor the clang audible even over the other battlefield noise. It was enough to get the big one's attention, and he refocused his attention on the immediate threat. The other tried to shove Stel aside with his shield, but she wasn't deterred, sliding around the bash attempt like water. She seemed to be struggling to call up the green light again, though, and for a moment, a look of surprise flickered over her face.

The moment was enough; the Red Templar's axe struck fast, bypassing the opportunity to hit her for one to hit the unarmored man she was trying to protect. Bones cracked wetly from the impact; the young man screamed. Stel lunged, wreathed in verdigris, and pulled him with her, back to where Zahra could not see. Probably behind them.

But he left a prominent blood-smear behind.

The rest of SĂ©verine's templars cut into the Reds, who had willingly turned their backs in order to eviscerate their hostages. A few tried to cut their way to them in time, but the Reds were difficult to move, and swift to kill. Screams erupted through the woods, each one following the sound of a vicious wound rending flesh. Their tactics served to work the true templars into a rage, and they set upon the corrupted traitors with fury, a group overwhelming and bringing down one of the horrors quickly. In the midst of the fray the most confident archers in the trees still picked out their targets and found ways to contribute. The Red Templars would not survive this. It was simply a matter of how long they could last.

Chaos erupted around them—bloody chaos, Zahra hadn’t expected the Red Templars to turn on their sickly, unarmed hostages. What good would a wagon full of dead bodies do? It made no sense. Trying to wade in after Stel had turned out to be a bad idea and one that she’d immediately failed at. Turned away by scraggly creatures with crystals embedded through their spines, hefting shards over their heads. She’d managed to fell two fairly normal looking knights, if she could even call them that. Men and women who looked like they’d dragged themselves out of a grave.

Her first kill had taken a handful of stab wounds to his torso and shoulders, still managing to press her backwards. As if their bodies couldn’t process the pain or outright denied it. By the time she turned to face another shadow, perhaps the same one she’d kicked way, she was out of breath and growing weary of parrying incoming blades, and crystal shards. Her legs and arms burned from the exertion and she swore, swore that she felt like throwing up. A sickness that felt as if it were blooming in her gut and anchoring her down.

The unarmed hostages didn’t have a chance in hell. Half of the Templars had turned away from them. Their priorities were clear, even as SĂ©verine's templars cut into their exposed backs. Blood-curdling screams echoed through the surrounding woods, rang in her ears. Those who were tied to their dead neighbors were trying to scramble away from the approaching Reds, only to be silenced. Slaughtered. A hiss sifted from between her teeth as she cut into the Shadow’s side, pushing him backwards, enough to cut further into the column.

Leon's fight had taken him a fair bit away from the thick of things, though whether that was incidental or by design was hard to say, exactly. The Red Templar knight had since lost his heavy two-handed blade, and they now fought with bodies alone. Bonelike protrusions of lyrium served the templar well as knuckle-spikes; one of them scraped across the commander's chestplate with a shrill screech, loud enough to cut even into the nauseous haze of the battle. Leon himself seemed less affected by the sick feeling that had the rest of them reeling.

He was, rather, in the grip of something else entirely. Whatever it was drove him forward as though possessed; he didn't even flinch when the knight landed a heavy blow to his midsection, leaving a slight dent behind in the plate which protected him. The seeker drove his elbow up into the other man's chin, splitting open the skin just beneath. His darkened veins, prominent under the waxy pallor of his skin, bled almost too lazily, as though clotting quicker than any human or otherwise had a right to.

The retaliatory shove knocked Leon back several steps, staggering him. A follow-up, delivered with a ringing clangor, slammed into his helmet, lyrium knuckle-dusters finding the narrow vertical slit in the helm. It was hard to tell for sure, but it seemed like they came away bloody when Leon's head snapped back, prevented from moving too far only by the helmet rim's collision with the plate protecting his back and shoulders.

The match seemed almost equal, and considering just who was being equaled here, it was an ominous sign, to say the least. Blood ran freely from under Leon's helm, curling down his bronzed chestplate like little crimson rivers. No supernatural force stopped the commander's blood. They lunged for one another again, disappearing from Zahra's line of sight.

A shrill screech came from a horror near on Zahra's right. The most deformed of the Red Templars barely appeared human anymore. SĂ©verine pressed the attack on it, bludgeoning her flail into the partly crystallized flesh repeatedly, taking bloody chunks away each time. Six or seven arrows protruded from its back, lodged in at various angles from where they'd been shot down from the tree branches. The arrows came fewer and fewer now, as the number of enemies dwindled and the difficulty of the shots increased.

The horror unleashed a small storm of lyrium shards, forcing the Knight-Captain to make herself small behind her shield, which barely absorbed the barrage of projectiles. Several pierced through, even going into SĂ©verine's arm underneath, but she ignored any pain that caused her, charging forward once it was done and bashing the horror backwards with her shield. It found its back pressed against the wheel of a wagon behind it, and SĂ©verine's flail immediately came around for a heavy swing, crunching into its face and removing most of the lower half of it, leaving the jaw hanging by a few tendons. Not counting on that being enough, SĂ©verine spun and brought the flail around for one more arc, this one cutting upwards. That took care of the other half of the horror's head.

A few stubborn enemies remained, only defending themselves now. At a glance, none of the bound hostages had survived, most in various states of dismemberment. The screams that had initially accompanied the battle now were just tired grunts of murderous effort, and pained moans of the wounded or dying. One of SĂ©verine's templars writhed on the ground, clutching at their throat where a shadow had sliced it open. Another had somehow lost the lower half of their right leg. Some of the scouts were coming down from their elevated positions to try to help them, while the rest still wore down the last of the caravan's guards.

The sickness hanging in the air hadn’t done Zahra any good. Nor the others, she assumed. It felt as if her strength were leeching at a disproportionate pace—less so the further Leon pushed that hulking bastard. She’d seen them from her peripherals. A glimpse of clanking metal and cardinal crystals, before her attention was drawn back to the Shadow groaning in front of her. A crooning noise that sounded more like a wet inhale waggling from lips, peeled into a slavering mouth peeking from below his dented helmet.

Sweat wept down the back of her neck. Dripped down her spine, and dripped off her chin. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was just sweat. The damned thing had swung his crystal-arm into her parry hard enough to jostle against her cheek. It didn’t hurt. Not at that moment. Freckles of red were stained across the forearms of her leathers, indicating that something had happened. Was it her blood? The fleeing civilians, cut down so mercilessly? His. She wasn’t sure anymore. The grounds they walked on were slick with blood. A feeding ground for the soil.

She tossed herself to the side, avoiding another wild swing and managed to right herself before he attempted to jab its other arm in a straight line. She smashed the back of his head with the pommel of her blade as he stumbled forward, carried by his own momentum. If she didn’t end this soon, she’d be the one writhing on the ground. A tough lesson she’d learned before, again and again when she faced Marceline.

As soon as the Shadow began to turn on his heels in order to face her, Zahra plunged one of her blades through his exposed neck and dropped the other one she’d been holding. She leveraged both hands into the cross guard and bodily swung off to the side, tugging on the blade to pull him down to the ground. The tendons of the Shadow’s neck pulled taut against the bending blade, gushing sluggishly. It did not, however, move after it fell onto his face.

Leon and the Red Templar knight had by this point escaped the range of arrows and the crush of the surrounding melee entirely. By the time Zahra laid eyes on them again, both were obviously bloodied. Leon had lost his helm, revealing gouges on his face, three of them in a vertical line. The one between his brows had clearly been bleeding into his right eye at some point, only to be smeared away across that side of his face. The same side of his nose was mangled; it looked like the cartilage underneath had barely survived the impact, but his skin was ribbons. The last had split his upper lip, which was the source of much of the blood running down his chin and onto his chestplate.

Several hard impacts had put considerable dents in his armor; clearly, the knight's blows landed far more heavily than any normal person should be able to produce. The fact that the seeker hadn't simply dodged them suggested that they landed very quickly as well. The observation was borne out: he moved with both more speed and more strength than the commander of the Inquisition's forces, stepping in past Leon's guard, deflecting the punch meant to punish him for it, and landing a blow that thudded with a sick sound across the seeker's bare cheek.

Leon moved with the impact, but it still snapped his head to the side, leaving four deep, bloody gashes in the left side of his face. He snapped it back himself with an uncomfortable, wet sound, lips pulling back from red teeth. The expression on his face looked hardly human itself, a narrow-eyed, heavy-browed rictus of animal fury. Something shifted, too, in the way he held himself, though it was hard to pinpoint. He roared, and burst forwards, colliding with the knight, who was clearly unprepared for the sudden reversal in tactics.

His first blow landed heavily on the joint between the knight's shoulder and arm-plates, dislocating his left arm with a squelching pop. But Leon left no pauses between his strikes, the speed at which he moved increasing in tandem with the sheer savage force of the hits; he tore the knight's helmet free of his head, landed a punch directly to his throat, and slammed an armored elbow into the back of his neck when he doubled over. The wet crack that followed was evidence enough that the spine had broken there, but Leon did not back off, instead seizing the knight's head in both hands and twisting it until it was facing nearly completely backwards. Planting a foot against the templar's shoulder, the commander pulled, the motion sharp and sudden, and the knight's head came free of his body, stringy ligaments of muscle torn unevenly at the ends and dripping a cascade of blood.

Leon's shoulders heaved like a bellows, air moving in and out of his lungs with the heavy rapidity of overexertion. For a moment, he scanned the field, almost as though looking for something else upon which to visit his rage, but then his body abruptly gave out, the knight's head dropping from numb fingers. The seeker's violet eyes, wild with something unindentifiable, rolled back in his head, and he toppled to the ground with a weighty thud.

The last of the surviving Red Templars took a final downward stab of a sword from one of SĂ©verine's bunch before he stilled on the ground, and then the path and the red-lyrium laden caravan fell silent. Or at least, mostly silent. A few among the templars were still trying not to die from their injuries, and the scouts rushed down from their vantage points to help them get clear of the field. SĂ©verine unbuckled her shield, approaching one of her men and holding out the arm.

"Get this off me." Her words were rasped harshly, as though she was in more pain than she was letting on. The templar immediately sheathed his sword and took a strong grip on her shield, allowing SĂ©verine to rip her arm free with a muted cry. The red lyrium shards remained in the shield, leaving her left forearm to bleed freely. Despite that, she sighed in relief. "Templars!" she called. "Help your Commander. Get the wounded clear of the lyrium. Lia, send word back that the fight's over. Wounded coming back to camp, and we need a crew to dispose of this."

"Ser." Lia nodded, taking off at a run.

SĂ©verine accepted a bandage from a templar, using it to bind the wounds on her arm. She removed her helmet, wiping away a layer of sweat from her forehead and looking back towards the line of bushes that had originally concealed their ambush. "Estella! What's the status of the hostage?"

“Um, he's..." Stel's voice sounded weary, wearier than even a battle like that should have made it. For a moment, her face appeared above the line of a thicket of underbrush; apparently she had indeed transported him back to near where they'd begun the ambush. Even from this distance, it wasn't hard to tell how waxy her complexion was—she looked a great deal more ill than Zahra felt.

Her attention was diverted back downwards, though, and she made a small noise of distress, audible only because of the relative quiet that had fallen once more over the area.

“He's dying."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus was sorry he missed the action in the Emerald Graves, and at the same time very, very glad.

He'd heard some of it firsthand from Khari and Zee already, and the rest was covered in the reports he glanced through. From the sounds of it, nothing that happened there was pleasant. A Venatori ambush with nothing gained save for two individuals added to their cause, an ambush of Red Templars that resulted only in death, not the knowledge that was originally sought after, and a manor haunted with a rare and elusive demon. Rare demons seemed to be just the kind of thing the Inquisition was running into more and more. He didn't need to think hard to know that Loneliness would've found a way to worm through him, if he'd been there to give it a chance.

But he hadn't, and apart from a few casualties among their templars the Inquisition forces made it back in one piece. It seemed clear that it would be the last of their important operations for the year, with the way the snow was coming down regularly now. The scouts and spies would continue ranging out of course, trying to keep tabs on their enemies and their movements. They were not likely to stop moving for the winter. Both sides would bide their time and make subtle movements, and when the time was right, they would make their plays. He had a feeling the coming year would be both long and bloody.

The first of the Inquisition's moves after returning to Skyhold was to call together their leadership along with their Inquisitors to discuss what was deemed the most approachable issue from the Emerald Graves: that of the Venatori General, Marcus Alesius. The two new arrivals apparently had a deep well of knowledge of him, and considering the Inquisition's recent run-ins with the magister, the knowledge was deemed of utmost importance.

Romulus didn't expect he would be saying much, just listening intently as the information was shared between parties. He found Lia waiting outside the doors to the war room; she offered him a smile and nod as he passed, apparently in a good mood. He returned the nod and headed inside, closing the door behind him.

The others were already assembled, though a few looked to have only just arrived, situated at various points around the war table. On his left were the two new arrivals, the Dalish elf Ithilian and the woman, Amalia. He suspected she was Rivaini, like himself, and he looked perhaps a fraction of a second longer than he was comfortable with at her oddly colored eye. The commander, spymaster, and ambassador stood across the table, and Romulus took up a position on the table's right, next to Estella.

Estella seemed rather relaxed; she was wearing a slight smile despite the nature of the upcoming discussion. It was also she that initiated it, once everyone was comfortably settled in place. The smile faded then, and she folded her hands together on the table in front of her. "I understand the two of you have been pursuing Marcus for quite some time," she offered, glancing between them. "Almost anything you can tell us about him would be more than we already know. We have a few general ideas about his temperament, and his reputation in the Imperium, but not much more than that."

Amalia inclined her head, acknowledging the statement quite neutrally, it seemed. She was layered heavily against the cold, the only visible skin on her person that of her face and the last couple digits of each finger. Even her palms were covered, wrapped in a pugilist's fashion. "He guards his secrets as jealously as any Magister. Much more than even some of his peers. He is also a very skilled liar." She spoke slowly, deliberately, with the manner of someone who had already decided what she was going to say. Probably after a great deal of consideration. Likely not a bad liar herself, though it was doubtful she was deceiving anyone now.

"I know much of his history, but those details are unlikely to be of interest. Of his present plans, we know less." She paused, glancing at Ithilian for a moment before turning her eyes back to the arrayed members of the Inquisition. "He has taken a recent, sudden, and obsessive interest in elven ruins. The oldest ones he can find, as far as we can tell. I don't know why, but I do know that he only gets like that when he has a personal stake in the outcome. He is not the kind to fervently bend knee to anyone else. Not even this Corypheus."

Rilien, standing to Estella's left, folded his arms into his sleeves. “It is your belief, then, that he does not feel any particular loyalty towards Corypheus or his cause?" The angle of the question was easy enough to see—the tranquil made no effort at all to conceal it.

"His loyalty is to himself," Ithilian clarified, every word he spoke pulling at the rather ugly scar that worked its way through his lip. "And his own power." Most of that side of his face was a ruin, honestly, the entire eye gone, the scarring running up partway along his skull, revealed more by his hairline, which looked like it was starting to recede. Perhaps it had some time ago. Romulus was surprised he didn't elect to cover the eye. Whatever had been done to him, there hadn't been a very skilled healer on hand to mend it.

"The ladder to the greatest personal power finds its base in Tevinter," he continued, "so I would say his allegiance is there, so long as that remains true. Still, to work with Corypheus and his followers... the Venatori are fanatics, but Marcus is not. He's just out of other options. We've ruined his other paths to power, one way or another. And this is his last, the one that ends with him dead."

Amalia nodded subtly. "He has an angle," she added. "Do not doubt that. His own ambition will not allow him to remain subordinate to someone else indefinitely, and would not have allowed him to enter into the arrangement without some plan for how he would exit it. Discovering exactly what that is will be difficult—has been difficult."

"Is it a resource problem?" Leon broke into the conversation there. It wasn't an unreasonable guess. The Venatori under Marcus's command now were many, and Amalia and Ithilian but two, however well-suited they were for what they were doing.

"An access problem." the fingers of Amalia's left hand tapped her right bicep where she gripped it. "We can't reach the base of the ladder. We would have difficulty going unnoticed in the Imperium, and even if we did, Marcus would have made sure it was impossible for us to access his home in particular. He has training in infiltration as well as magic, and he is equally skilled at defending against both."

Estella frowned slightly. "You think he's keeping something relevant there?"

"Almost certainly. He's in charge of an extensive network of subordinates even outside the Venatori, and too paranoid to keep any of that information where he believes Corypheus or those loyal to him could find it. So it remains in Minrathous."

"Wish I knew more about the trips to my people's ruins." Ithilian grimaced, just a subtle change from his resting facial expression. "But my skills have always been in hunting prey, not the mysteries of the past. Left the magic to the mages." Romulus almost spoke up at that. They certainly had a few experts on elven ruins and elven magic within Skyhold's walls. However, it stood to reason that if Marcus was failing to find what he wanted in these ruins, it would be extremely difficult to learn what exactly that was. If he was as careful as he expected of a deadly magister, then there was a good chance his subordinates didn't even know what he was after. Or at least very few of them, not the average ones they would be able to capture with the most ease.

"We might be able to get through some places in the Imperium," the elf said, staring at the representation of Tevinter on the map before them. "But Minrathous would be a death sentence. I can't navigate an urban forest, not when half of the trees would whisper to the Venatori." He glanced up at the advisors, the Inquisitors. "I suspect it would be the same for your Inquisition. Worse, even."

"Not necessarily." Romulus found he'd spoken before he even realized, but the thought had occurred to him as soon as Minrathous was mentioned. A certain letter he'd received, a long time ago, back when he was still trouble by false familial revelations and looming futures of Blood of Andraste. "We do have one ally in Minrathous. Someone capable of working discreetly against the Venatori, possibly arranging us an entrance. If we're willing to make use of her." His eyes shifted between the others when he said it.

“Interesting." Rilien pronounced his thought on the matter in the same flat way as ever, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “I do not know how close Magister Viridius could get us, given Marcus's abundant caution. Perhaps we should give her the opportunity to tell us herself what she could do." It was clear enough that he, at least, was not above or against making use of Chryseis's position, but given his obvious pragmatism, that wasn't surprising.

"This Magister Viridius is an ally of the Inquisition?" Ithilian asked, directing the question at Romulus. By his tone, he was skeptical of the idea.

Romulus hesitated for a moment. "... Of a sort. Her name is Chryseis Viridius. My former domina, until I came to the Inquisition. She has since declared herself an ally, but has yet to really prove it." Her way in recent years had been to show interest in doing good, for Tevinter and the world, but often in her attempts to secure her own power for a good cause, she ended up committing evils seen as necessary. Looking into Marcus and those he could call upon in Minrathous would be a personal risk the likes of which she normally placed on his shoulders. Honestly, Romulus wasn't fond of contacting her at all, but as of now he didn't know of a better way to get into the city, or to acquire knowledge of Marcus's defenses.

"We heard of you from the Venatori, and on the road," the elf said. "Lots of things. Gets a bit hard to keep straight at some point. But if you think this woman won't just lead us into a trap, I've got no issue with it."

"I don't think she would." Romulus shook his head. "She has no love for the Venatori, not after the things they've taken from her." Her father, much of her influence, her favored tool. The question was simply if she'd be willing to take the risk on the Inquisition's behalf, and what results it would actually produce. Romulus looked to Leon. "I'll write to her myself, see what she's willing to do for us."

"An inquiry couldn't hurt, I suppose." Leon scratched at the light stubble on his chin, glancing at Romulus for a moment before turning his attention to the two newcomers. "It would likely take a while for anything to come of it, though. Did you have plans for the meantime? You could remain here, if you liked."

Amalia moved her eyes to Ithilian. It was hard to say exactly what was being communicated there, but it was clear enough that something was.

The elf was thoughtful for a long moment. "We've probably been keeping to ourselves for too long. Had we known the Inquisition could be counted as friends, we probably would've come sooner. But your reputation is rather mixed on the road. Lots of stories about this place already."

Estella exhaled softly. "I've heard a few of them," she replied, a hint of wryness creeping in to her tone. "That doesn't surprise me. But you're here now, and welcome to stay."

"I just have one request, then." His eye sought out Leon. "Lia said she expects the scouts to be needed in the Emerald Graves still to track Red Templar movements. I'd like to ask if she can remain here for a short time. A few weeks, most. I haven't seen her in years, and she is family to me." He said the last part with no doubt at all, and then his scarred lips curled up in a hint of a smile. "I'll not let the time be wasted, either. Her people were noticed too easily in the Graves. Seems there are a few things we can still teach her."

Leon didn't seem to need a particularly long time to consider that before he nodded, smiling mildly. "Of course. I'll see to it that she's rotated back here for a while. There are others who can take care of the work in the Graves in the meantime." He paused, dropping his hand away from his face and holding it out for a shake to each of them in turn. "Amalia. Ithilian. Welcome to Skyhold."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari shifted, her back leaning a bit deeper into the plush upholstery of the armchair. The way it was shaped made it kind of difficult to pull her legs up and cross them underneath her, but she did it anyway. It made her feel a little less like she was sinking into the furniture. Normally, she would have thought chairs this roomy were kind of excessive, but she could definitely understand why Leon had to have big furniture.

Letting her hands fall into her lap and trying not to fidget with them, she glanced up. The commander himself was sitting at his desk, probably wondering just what the heck this was all about. SĂ©verine was there, too, but apparently they hadn't been discussing anything too urgent, because they'd let her in anyway. Now she kind of felt like she was intruding. Despite all appearances to the contrary, she didn't particularly relish the feeling. Maybe this wasn't really relevant enough to bring to someone with a million other things to be doing, anyway.

Sighing heavily, she decided to try and keep it short. “Uh, so." She was off to a great start on the relevance. There was a curl brushing against her neck, the rough ends of the hairs irritating and ticklish at the same time. She shoved it behind a tapered ear. “Back in the Graves. You... kind of almost put me in charge of a group." Really, he'd probably just meant to appoint her as the navigator, but she'd made it sound like being put in charge in her own head, and it had made her really uncomfortable.

“But... basically when we got to the ruin, Ves just... did all that. Told us how to arrange ourselves, where to go, when to move and all that." She shook her head, dislodging the damn piece of hair, which promptly fell back against her skin. She tucked it back again. “Not that I minded, honestly. He's... better at that, than me." Or Saraya was, but from where Khari sat, that distinction didn't make much difference, and she wasn't going to mention Saraya in front of SĂ©verine anyway.

She grimaced. “I don't know how to do any of that stuff. To be a leader or someone who tells other people what to do. In any situation, really, but especially in a situation like that. But it made me realize that I probably should know. Strategy, and formation, and pretty much anything besides 'put the people with armor in the front and the mages in the back.'" Khari's brows furrowed; she fixed him with a stare that was probably a little harder than she meant it to be.

“I used to think because of how I fight, because I have to get mad, I'd never be able to do any of that. But you know how to do all of it, and I've seen you. If you don't get mad like I do, you do something close." And that was a crucial similarity. It invalidated her excuse. “How do you do both?"

Leon leaned forward at his desk, hands together and chin braced on his knuckles. He listened attentively until Khari had explained everything, then canted his head slightly to the side. If he found the question unusual, he made no sign of it, though a vague look of discomfort flitted over his face for a split second when she mentioned his own approach to battle. When she finished speaking, he let the silence linger a few moments more, then expelled a breath through his nose rather heavily.

"There's no one rule or trick," he said, leaning back in his chair and letting his arms fall to the rests. It creaked slightly under his weight. "One part of it is, as you put it, knowing tactics, though I'd say there's much more to being an effective leader than that. The other half is managing what you need to in the thick of things, yes." He blinked at her, his expression forming into a slight smile. "But there is no reason a berserker can't lead on a battlefield. Your style wouldn't be like everyone else's, but that's not necessarily a bad thing." He shrugged. "Most of the real strategy happens before the battle actually begins. After that, you do have to be able to stay aware enough to decide when to change your tactics, but that's not quite the same thing, which is why I can do it, and you could as well."

She hadn't figured it would be simple. But Khari was well-aware that this was an area in which she was dangerously deficient. Chevaliers were expected to be capable of command; one of the most obvious functions of the job was serving as an officer in the Orlesian army. Back when she'd been thinking of nothing but getting there in the first place, she'd sort of figured she could work that part out later, but now... she wanted to be able to do the job, in its entirety, even before she was allowed to do it.

Besides, it couldn't hurt the Inquisition, and her current preoccupation with helping it, if she knew all of this. Maybe if she'd been more strategy-minded, she'd have been able to see through Ser Durand's deception. Or notice the trap they triggered in the Graves had a hidden component, or any of a bunch of other important things. It was one thing to keep training until she was the best weapon she could be. But she also had to know how to use the skills she wanted to have, or she risked being manipulated again. Put to someone else's use without her knowledge, like a fool. And she didn't want that.

Pulling in a deep breath, she slapped her hands onto her knees and leaned forward. “Teach me. Please." She grimaced, but didn't drop her eye contact with Leon. “I want to be better at this. I want to be better at everything, but this is something I don't even know how to learn, never mind how to do." He was busy and she knew it, and maybe that made her selfish for asking. But this was important, and she didn't want to ask anyone else. It had to be Leon; he clearly understood what problems she was likely going to run up against trying to do this. And he, she thought more than anyone in the Inquisition, really was a leader. Not just a person in a position of power, but someone who knew how to command.

For a moment, Leon's eyes rounded. But a moment later, he laughed. Not loudly, more like a breathy chuckle than anything. He shook his head faintly, then spoke. "I'm not sure what I expected. Perhaps I should have known you'd ask." Something clearly amused him about either the request or the manner in which she'd made it, but he didn't explain, so it was hard to say exactly what. He reached up to rub at the back of his neck with a large, callused hand, studying her. "It's going to be a lot of reading, at first," he cautioned. "And some of the books are dry. I'm sure Ser SĂ©verine can attest to that—the old strategy manuals are no trainee's favorite work. I know I used to prefer everything else but latrine duty."

He half-smiled, making it unclear just how serious he was about that. "But... if you're willing to put up with boring reading and tasks that probably won't make sense to you at first, then... yes. I'll teach you." He paused, moving his attention to Sev.

"And you, Captain? I'm sure the advice of someone who's moved up a command structure as you have would also be valuable to Khari, if you don't mind lending a bit of it. Perhaps some of mine would be useful to you, as well? You aren't obligated, of course."

SĂ©verine had been observing the conversation thus far with interest, not at all looking down on Khari's request to learn. Not visually, anyway. Though from what small experience Khari had around the Orlesian woman, she wasn't really one to hide her judgements or feelings behind a mask, metal or otherwise. She sat with legs crossed beside Leon's table, which carried a few maps of what looked like the Emerald Graves, recently drawn. There were marks along the roads running through the forest, dotted trails marking possible routes of the Red Templars, circled spots pointing out caves, ruins, ravines, other shelters both natural and otherwise that they might make use of in their operations.

Given that, it seemed likely she and the Commander had been discussing the events of the Emerald Graves before she arrived, but whatever it was, it wasn't urgent enough to send her away. "I might be able to offer a few things. Templar training is nothing to scoff at, after all, even if I did bumble my way through most of it." She became thoughtful for a moment, possibly going over what she might be able to contribute. "I've found I can command capably enough. Tell soldiers where they need to be, what they need to do, what they might have to die for..." Her expression became quite sober by the end of that. "But in my experience there's a great difference between commanders and leaders. I've met many commanders, but only a few real leaders."

She tilted her head towards Leon. "And that's something I've yet to even begin learning."

Khari hadn't even figured there was a difference, but now that she thought about it, there had to be. “Well... I probably need to learn both, so all the help is appreciated." She offered Sev a grin, relaxing back a little, though her hands remained on her knees. “And I'll read all the boring books you want, honest. Lay 'em on me."

She might not have had any ambitions to be a templar, but she sure as hell wasn't about to turn her nose up at learning anything templars learned, either. Good strategy was good strategy, and she was sure that some of the anti-magic things they knew would be helpful even for someone like her, who'd never taken lyrium in her life and didn't plan to.

Leon nodded, still smiling a bit himself, and stood, picking his chair up rather than letting it scrape against the floor. He went to the bookshelf next to his desk, scanning it until he found what he wanted. With an index finger, he tugged at a smallish book with a blue leather cover, and a slightly larger one, in plain black binding. The first was unmarked, but when he handed them to her, Khari could see plainly that the black one was a copy of the Qun.

"You can start here," Leon said. "The blue one is a treatise on warfare that Kordillus I wrote for his son. The second, as you can see, is a translation of the Tome of Koslun. The third Canto, in particular, is essentially a guide to battle strategy. Don't take either of them as absolute truth, of course, but there are valuable lessons in both."

He paused a moment, then stepped away. "I believe I've heard you play chess. Do you have a set?"

The Qun, huh? She wouldn't have expected that, but it made sense when he explained it. Few people were as good as the Qunari at organized warfare. “Something tells me this isn't standard templar curriculum." Khari snorted and waved the book at him with false admonishment. But she thought it was actually a good thing. It meant she was learning what Leon thought it was best for her to know. And the other book, the blue one... that was just going to be really interesting. Kordillus Drakon was one of the most effective military leaders in history. Anything he had to say would be worth reading.

“And I play, yeah. Pretty well, too. I don't have my own set, but I bet Cy'd let me borrow his. Why?"

Leon shrugged. "It's a good way to get a sense of someone's existing strategic strengths and weaknesses. I'd like to play you both at some point, if that's all right. We'll set up some regular time to meet once the two of us dealt with the rest of this." He gestured at the table SĂ©verine occupied, and whatever had been keeping their attention before Khari entered. Probably the fallout from all that stuff with the Reds.

"In the meantime... I think you have some reading to do."

Khari stacked the books in her lap, then gripped them in both hands and stood. She was doing a pretty poor job of containing her enthusiasm, probably, but she didn't care, and she doubted they did either. Offering up a toothy smile, she nodded once.

“I think I do."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The heavy glass bottom of the flask thudded against the wooden surface of the desk; Leon grimaced at the taste of the potion and swallowed it quickly, shaking his head. That proved to be a mistake—the throbbing pain there flared with the motion. A soft grunt escaped him; he exhaled heavily. He knew for a fact that Rilien's painkillers weren't addictive; there was nothing in them that would cause a dependence of that kind. But it was still disconcerting that he now had to take double the dose he'd started with for them to be effective.

Leaning back in his chair, Leon rested his head against the upholstery, staring up at the ceiling of his office. He should be working on the training schedule; the templars were due to run a full mock battle outside of Skyhold within the week. He also needed to think about what he was going to have Khari do next as part of her training. That at least would be fun, if he could gather the energy to do it.

But that had been harder and harder to do of late. Particularly since the incident in the Emerald Graves, he'd had considerable difficulty keeping his focus, as though the effects of his tincture were wearing off very, very slowly. It was becoming difficult to function in his administrative capacity even as the continual wear on his body promised that he wouldn't be able to function in his battlefield one for much longer, either. Something had to change, or he was going to have to recuse himself from his duties sooner than anticipated.

There was one avenue left to try.

By the time he managed to rise from his chair, the painkillers had taken effect, and he felt roughly functional again. Unsure how long that would last, Leon elected to act quickly, throwing his heavy cloak over his shoulders and heading out onto the battlements. The quickest way to Cyrus's tower was along the walls, and he took the route at a swift walk, the mild exertion keeping him warm despite the heavy chill outside. When he reached the atelier's door, he knocked twice.

"Cyrus? Are you in?"

It took a few moments, but the door opened; Cyrus arched his brows in a dull version of surprise. “Commander. Come in." He pushed the door open and stepped back.

It looked quite different in here from the last time Leon had been. The worktable that had once dominated the room had been pushed against the far wall. Several books occupied it, but the haphazard piles of notes were gone. All the drawings and schematics that had papered the chamber had vanished as well, the stone stark pale grey in their absence. A pair of armor racks had been added: one held what was clearly a practice set, the other the mail and light plate Cyrus had worn into the Graves. His swords leaned against the wall in the same area. The bookshelves were mostly the same, as were the instrument cabinets, but it was quite a bit... neater, than it had been.

Pia occupied one of the armchairs, curled up in a black-furred ball. She did not stir when Leon entered, nor when Cyrus closed the door behind him.

“Is there something I can do for you?" Cyrus paused, then gestured slightly at one of the armchairs. “I don't have much to offer but a place to sit. Afraid I just finished afternoon tea a few minutes ago."

"That's quite sufficient, thank you." Leon took the seat he was offered. He wanted to say it wasn't necessary to call him Commander, but he had no doubt that Cyrus knew that, and had chosen to, anyway. It left him feeling slightly wrong-footed. The back of his neck was stiff; he raised a hand to smooth over it, trying to loosen the knot at the same time as he collected the words he wanted.

It didn't get any easier the longer he thought about it, so he tried something else. "Are you well? I haven't seen you around much, but that may be because I don't leave my office as often as I'd like." Even when he did, though... he didn't get the impression that Cyrus socialized much. The reasons would have to be very different than they used to be, though. There was little evidence of long research hours to be seen here anymore.

A soft sound left Cyrus at the question. It sounded almost like incredulity. Sighing, he picked up the sleeping cat and sat in the chair she'd occupied, replacing her on his lap. She made a vague, sleepy noise and went back to her nap while he rubbed at her ears. “I'm not sure 'well' is the right word, but I am... functional. Unlikely to become any more of a liability than I already am. That's the important thing, I suppose." The twist to his mouth was bitter, but nothing about it gave the sense that the bitterness was directed at Leon in particular.

"I'm afraid I must disagree," Leon countered. He studied Cyrus for a moment, crossing an ankle over his knee. "You're a human being, Cyrus, not an automaton. It's not only your function that matters." But then... didn't he treat himself essentially the same way? It had taken him this long to even seriously consider seeking the other man's help, not because his condition had begun to interfere with his health, but because it interfered now with his ability to function as he believed he should.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Cyrus kept his eyes on Pia, petting her in long strokes from her head down her back to her tail. He shook his head minutely. “It's better if I don't think about it that way right now." His voice was quiet; he still refused to make eye contact. “If all I have to do is function, I might succeed." The second half of the statement went unspoken, but it was clear enough anyway.

He pulled in a breath, chest and shoulders rising with it. “But that's enough about me. I'm sure you don't have time for social calls with the local hermit, which means you need something. I already said I owe you whatever you like, so all you have to do is ask." He had said it—implied that it was a debt owed, for the time Leon had burned the red lyrium out of his blood, and saved his life in so doing.

If this worked, it would be a rather symmetrical repayment, though Leon had never intended to request it as that. He didn't like debts, either owing or being owed. But it didn't seem like a good time to try and push that line; Cyrus wasn't in a particularly-good mood, it seemed, and he wasn't oblivious as to why. Glancing down at his knuckles, Leon tried again to gather the words he wanted, flexing his fingers against the armrest of the chair. "Do you remember, at Therinfal? When you asked me about the tincture I drank before we fought the Red Templars?"

Whatever topic of conversation Cyrus had been expecting, this was not it. He raised his head, arching both brows and finally making eye contact again. “That was a while ago now, but yes. What of it?"

Leon sighed heavily. Cyrus didn't know everything Rilien did, so it seemed better to give the full explanation. "It's Reaver tonic. A type of blood magic. A warrior is given an alchemical mixture that includes the blood of some dragon or near-dragon species in a ritual, and it... enhances their strength and the like. By... a significant margin." He vaguely remembered the sensation of ligaments tearing and snapping beneath the pressure he could apply. The sudden loss of resistance as the red templar's head came free of his neck.

He could almost still feel the echoes of it, the rush of exultation that had flooded him during and after, the very draconic feeling of glorying in his own carnage. Or he had to assume it was draconic. He'd never felt any such thing before he'd submitted to Ophelia's ritual. Quite the opposite.

Cyrus nodded slightly. “I've heard of this, yes. I would not have expected it to be something a holy man did, though. I'd have thought the Chantry would abhor the use of blood magic in its highest military order. The blood of such people is of some academic interest in Tevinter. It has unique properties, depending on the sort of dragon involved." Though he spoke of the matters he knew best, his tone lacked any particular enthusiasm, and his expression didn't change much.

"The Chantry will tolerate a lot, if they don't have to know about it officially." Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes it felt like the right hand kept secrets from the left, in that particular body. "And... it was the only real option. There's no good use for a Seeker that can't bring himself to do what's necessary." He paused, pursing his lips. "And I couldn't. Not after my vigil. I couldn't bring myself to kill. I still don't know why." He'd never had to try, before; and he'd enjoyed sparring a great deal. There simply hadn't been any warning signs that he'd be so completely incapable of dealing death. But his failure on that count had been catastrophic.

“So they flooded your system with a dragon's strength and a dragon's aggression, and that did the trick." Cyrus leaned back a little, tongue clicking against the side of his teeth. “That is quite... ruthless of them." He blinked. “And this has something to do with your frequent ingestion of potions and the physical infirmities at its root?" He didn't indicate how he'd known that, but it was clear enough that he wasn't merely guessing.

Leon supposed a trained alchemist would know the physical signs of potion use, especially regular potion use. It may well be that he could hide those signs from some, but Cyrus was, quite possibly, the most intelligent person he'd ever met. It didn't especially surprise him that he'd noticed. With a nod, the Seeker elaborated. "The usual way of doing things only requires the reaver initiate to take the tonic once. For the duration. The magic sits in the blood and bone after that until their death. There are rumors that some part of it even passes to children." Not that he had to worry about that.

"But my case is different. It... wears off, after a while. I don't know why, only that it means I have to continually repeat the ingestion. It has the health effects you've described, and others. And they're accelerating. If I don't find some way to fix this, I'm going to die within a few more years at most." He grimaced. "Rilien is doing what he can, but the underlying problem doesn't seem to be alchemical. I'm using dragon blood, and I always have. Nothing weaker has the right effects. At this point, all he can really do is treat the symptoms as they arise."

Cyrus tilted his head, silent for several long moments. He seemed to be processing the information, parsing it carefully, letting it sink in. His brows furrowed. “I am... sorry to hear that, Leon." Another silence; his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, before he blinked and clarity returned to them.

“I can't promise anything. Perhaps if I still... well. I'd be able to test more, discover more. It sounds like the underlying cause, whatever is interfering with the tonic, must be magical. While I've no doubt that your pacifism is a powerful and inherent part of your personality, it should not be able to overcome the effects of such a tried and tested method of making a Reaver a Reaver. But I'll look into it as much as I can by mundane means." He appeared to regret his inability to do more, if the slightly forlorn expression on his face was anything to go by.

“In the meantime... may I suggest that you try to contact your teacher? She may be able to offer more insight into the specifics. And if you can think of any... strange or unusual magical happenings in your history, do inform me of those as well. I don't believe such a resistance would germinate on its own."

Contacting Ophelia was going to be tricky; Leon didn't even know where she was, and she'd be almost impossible for even Rilien's agents to find unless she desired to be found. Still... it was worth the attempt. "I can't think of anything immediately," he admitted, "but if I do, I'll be sure to write it down and tell you." He stood, inclining his head. "Thank you, Cyrus. I don't have great hope for a solution, to be completely honest with you, but... it seems like a waste not to at least try and find one."

Cyrus's eyes fell to the floor, but he lifted them back up a moment later, smiling thinly. “I suppose you have a fair point. I will do my best to help you."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
This was not Khari's usual kind of spar.

But in a sense, it had been almost a foregone conclusion from the moment they'd met, back in the Emerald Graves. She liked to think she'd learned enough to recognize a master of the art when she saw one, and Amalia was no doubt a master at this whole fighting thing. Ithilian, too, but she also liked to think she knew the difference between someone who might indulge her masochistic tendency to challenge people far above her skill level and someone who would tell her to piss off. And as intimidating as she looked, it was Amalia of the two of them who would indulge.

One thing she was already much better at than she had been an hour ago was falling down hard and springing back up again quickly, even when she wasn't able to divert her momentum into a roll or anything. Amalia, in the opposite move from Mick's usual, had her sparring with no armor, just the clothes on her back, a rapidly-dirtying blue tunic and an ordinary pair of thick trousers. Despite the season, her face was red with exertion, sweat beading on her forehead and sliding down her face to drip off her chin. She had no weapons, just herself, and Amalia was punishing her for not knowing how to make better use of that fact.

“Oof!" She hit the ground hard on her back, failing to curl around herself in enough time to swing out of it the way she was trying to learn here. So she had to roll sideways and scramble to her feet the old fashioned way instead, taking several hasty steps backwards to avoid the fist flying for where her head was just about to be. She nearly fell again, steadying herself at the last minute. Her tongue darted out to wet her chapped lips; Khari tasted a coppery tang where the lower one had been split by Amalia's opening sucker-punch.

She swallowed and closed her mouth before she charged again; she'd already accidentally half-shredded the inside of her cheek when she'd failed to set her jaw the right way before and fell. So far, Amalia had made no attempt to follow her to the ground; either she wasn't the grappling type or simply chose not to. Either way, Khari wanted to force them there—it was the only chance she had to do anything that wasn't getting her ass handed to her. On her lunge, she made a grab for Amalia's waist, trying to tackle her into the snow.

Amalia's hand caught her arm before it could hit her and throw her balance off, and she pivoted smoothly, wearing Khari's momentum out before taking control of it. When she was facing exactly the opposite direction she'd been heading a moment ago, she felt the strange weight of Amalia... rolling over her back, it had to be, landing on Khari's other side. Khari's arm was now crossed uncomfortably across her own back, and Amalia used her grip on it to keep her from regaining her balance, even as she swept her feet out from underneath her.

She moved away while Khari ate snow again, though, as uninterested in following up as she had been throughout the whole match. It was the only way in which her utter ruthlessness was softened. She did not shy away from causing Khari pain, but she also did not hit her when she was already down, nor did she seem to be using every advantage she gained. Instead, she made them obvious, then backed off without a word, letting Khari stand and try once more.

"Again." That was, in fact, the only thing she'd said since they started, but she'd repeated it enough times to lose track of, at this point. Her expression was stoic; it was clear enough that she was used to doing this for hours, because her stamina didn't seem to be flagging. Her dark complexion showed some red from the exertion, but the clouds her breath formed were steady and regular, and she wasn't sweating nearly as much as Khari was.

Khari grinned back at her impassive face. This woman was brutal, and incredible at what she did, and fighting her, even like this, was exhilarating. She knew a lesson when she saw one, and though Amalia wasn't making her observations obvious, she was giving Khari plenty of opportunities to recognize her own mistakes and correct them. It was a mental challenge as well as a physical one—she was coming to appreciate the value of those lately.

She dare not spare the moment it would take to glance at their small audience, instead dropping her stance a little bit, holding her arms loose at her sides and beginning a slow circle, placing her feet carefully in the snow they were churning up beneath them. Mick, Ithilian, and Leon were all here, probably pretty amused by how it was going. But Khari didn't mind that. She'd never minded that kind of thing. Tilting her head to the side a little, she narrowed her eyes. “How 'bout you come to me this time?"

Amalia obliged, her motion sudden and explosive. The scrape of her boots against the snow when she lunged was just about all the warning there was; she struck fast, thrusting the heel of her hand for Khari's solar plexus. When it was blocked, she didn't waste time trying to turn matters into a contest of strength, instead pushing off the arm used to block and reversing her direction, pivoting behind Khari and wrapping an arm around her neck in a tight hold centered at the crook of her elbow.

The intent of it didn't seem to be to knock her out, though; Amalia's legs wound tightly around her waist afterwards, and she threw them both backwards into the snow, rolling them over and locking Khari's legs in place with her knees. The arm retreated from its chokehold, pressing in a solid bar on her shoulder blades instead. She was, for the moment, pinned.

There were about a dozen ways someone with a knife could have killed her in that course of movement, and probably a few more she was missing. Point taken. Khari tried to throw her opponent off her, but Amalia was solidly-placed, and wouldn't dislodge easily. Still... her arms were free.

Khari shuffled them to her sides, pressing her palms into the ground and shoving upward with all her strength at once. It worked a little better than she expected it to—Amalia was solid, but she definitely wasn't heavy, and she didn't quite seem to be expecting Khari to know how to handle a situation like this one. She managed to scramble to her feet again. Grappling probably wasn't going to help much, after all. Not if she knew a chokehold like that.

No sooner was she up than Amalia was directly in front of her, the index and middle fingers of her right hand resting on Khari's forehead, just at the fingertips. "Your tenacity is impressive," she said, the sentiment apparently genuine. A very small smile touched the corner of her mouth, lifting it just a little. It softened her whole face, which could have been quite harsh otherwise, between the scar and the mismatched eyes and the hard, almost masculine lines of her bone structure. "While I've no doubt that you have more passes still in you, I think it best that we stop here for today."

She let her hand fall away and took a step backward, inclining her head slightly.

Khari's eyes rounded slightly. “Today? You mean you'll do this again sometime?" She tried not to grin too widely at the thought, and probably failed. She was covered in dirt, melted snow, still-frozen snow, and sweat, so she probably made for quite the ridiculous image, hair askew and all, but she couldn't have cared less if she tried.

Amalia blinked. For a moment, she looked slightly surprised by something, though it wasn't clear what. Then her expression became thoughtful. "A glutton for punishment, aren't you?" From anyone else, that would probably have been a joke, but the serious tone with which she said it made it seem more like an observation than anything. "I... perhaps. It will depend on how circumstances develop. But I am not opposed in principle."

"She hasn't had a good sparring partner in a while," Ithilian said, approaching the pair from the side. He'd watched the match seated on a bench nearby, dressed warmly but not seeming too distressed by the cold. "I'm not much competition, and the Venatori go limp too easily." The degree to which he was joking about either subject was hard to tell.

“Still not sure she does." Khari admitted as much easily, then shrugged, her smile inching wider. “But if she beats on me enough, she might get one out of the deal. I'm fun that way, right Leon?" She raised her voice just enough to include the commander in the conversation, and Mick as well if he wanted.

Actually, come to think of it... “The Commander here only fights with his hands, too. I'd pay good money to watch them have a match." She was completely serious about it, too. Having fought and lost terribly to both of them, Khari couldn't say with complete confidence who'd win. Just looking at them, Leon was the obvious choice, but Amalia could clearly be ruthless on a par with Rilien if she got serious enough, and that might be enough to make up the difference. Plus, she was fast as hell.

"I think I'll defer," Leon replied. "I'm more fond of my dignity than you are of yours, Khari." Still, it was obvious enough that he was thinking about it, or had been thinking about it, and the way Amalia's eyes narrowed just slightly was a fair indication that she was, too. Neither of them commented further, though.

"I do not think I have met someone who fights like you before," Amalia said, directing the words to Khari. "It is not entirely dissimilar from the sten, in the beresaad." She paused, then her tone picked up a note of slight amusement. "But smaller."

Khari scrunched her face. Rather than genuine offense, however, it was more to keep herself from laughing than anything. “Convenient, right? I'm like a travel-sized bear. No one sees it coming." She bared her teeth in a grin, rubbing her hands together for both warmth and effect. Truthfully, she'd take that for a compliment. The Qunari were among the most formidable warriors in Thedas, physically and tactically. Her close read-throughs of the Qun had convinced her of the second part. The first needed no further proof than their success.

Speaking of which... “Amalia. That's Qunlat, right? This guy made me read the third Canto, so I've picked up a few of the original words, too." She poked Leon in the arm with her index finger. She knew both of them were people Stel knew from Kirkwall, people Lia considered like family, but really other than that she hadn't learned much at all. This was her first time really talking to them since the Graves. It was kind of a weird pair, a Qunari and a Dalish; both of them after a Magister. That part wasn't so hard to believe.

That actually seemed to surprise Amalia; her eyes flickered from Khari to Leon and back again. She crossed her arms loosely over her body. "It is. I am Tal-Vashoth, but the name is..." she shrugged. "I never found one I felt better for me, and so it remains."

A slight pause followed. Perhaps the follow-up was obvious enough. "And your name is Dalish." No doubt that wasn't the only thing. It seemed to be an invitation to elaborate on the strange nature of her fighting style, but Amalia didn't seem inclined to press too hard about it, which might have been why she never actually formed the question itself.

“Yup." Khari let the end of the word pop a little, her smile fading until it was something a little wry. “Haven't forgotten all of it, but... I'm not too good at the sneaky-arrow bit. So I learned other stuff instead. Leon helps, but that part's mostly Mick these days." She tipped her head towards the man in question. “Chevalier stuff."

"How to stab things without being stabbed in turn, mostly," Michaël clarified with a grin. The man had watched the spar with apparent interest from a distance. Perhaps making mental notes on what to include on her own training, or devising new ways to make her sore. "The theory is simple in comparison."

He then chuckled to himself lightly, and continued. "Of course, I am sure you are acquainted with the Chevalier stuff yourselves," he said, drawing the words out to tease Khari a bit. "You two were friends of Commander Lucien's, yes? He... may be the best example of what a Chevalier should be," he said to both Ithilian and Amalia.

"Still are," Ithilian said, studying the chevalier with his one remaining eye. "Of a sort. My daughter worked in his company before she came to join the Inquisition. We haven't spoken recently. Too busy on both sides, I'm sure."

Amalia tilted her head at Khari. "If your goal is to be as he is, you've chosen a difficult road. But also one with obvious merit."

She nodded once, then grimaced slightly. "Perhaps we could move our discussion indoors." She didn't outright say she was cold, but it was a fair guess that she was.

Khari nodded easily. “It's lunchtime anyway. Let's all get something to eat!" She clapped her hands together and turned on her heel, headed for the mess.

She almost couldn't think of better company.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
On the Firstday of the year 9:43 Dragon, the Inquisition marshaled the elite of their forces for an operation on the snow-covered, frozen-through lake below their home at Skyhold.

All of the Irregulars had been called into action, and a number of personal friends and allies. Rom normally would've reluctantly made his way out into the snow, bundled head to toe in furs and cloaks, but the operation in question sounded promisingly fun, in large part because it was going to be directed by Khari. Some other kind of exercise the young Dalish had practiced in their spare time, he suspected. If that was the case, he was absolutely interested, and made his way out the gate with almost a spring in his step. It was hampered a bit by the deep snow.

The surface was a little more packed down on the lake's surface, but still soft from the fresh layer made by last night's snowfall. A small crowd had assembled below, some of them easily recognizable from a distance, like Khari from her red hair or Vesryn from his lion's pelt cloak. He looked to be one of the later arrivals, but not the last. Out on the lake a sort of large playing area had been established with Inquisition flags marking separate zones, which appeared to have been altered somewhat significantly since the last time Rom had seen them. The snow had been sculpted quite intentionally, from the looks of it, laid out to resemble uneven terrain punctuated by walls of varying heights and angles, placed somewhat irregularly. There were even some pillars made out of ice jutting out of the landscape, a few straight upwards, and others leaned or collapsed. Most likely, magic had been needed to achieve that particular effect.

He made his way over to Khari, waving to a few of the others in greeting on his way. He stopped next to her, a grin working its way onto his face. "Happy Firstday to you. What's all this?"

“Happy Firstday!" She grinned back. Presently, Khari stood near to the center of the field, next to Leon. They'd been talking about something that seemed to have caught her interest; her enthusiasm was palpable. “We're playing something called capture the flag. Leon's teaching me how to be a strategist, so I'm having a match against him today."

She turned her attention to the commander for a moment, resting her hands on her hips. “So... are we gonna give everyone the rules now? Looks like most everybody I invited showed up." The last few did seem to be trickling in now, among them Lia, Ithilian, and Amalia even. She'd apparently asked quite a number to be here—at a glance, it looked like thirty or thirty-five people.

"I think we can do that, yes." Leon clapped his hands together loud enough to draw attention, then hopped up into a low snow wall to make sure everyone could see him. Not that he really needed to worry much about that in general. "Happy Firstday, everyone. I'm happy to see all of you here to help with our exercises today. For those of you who don't know yet, we're going to be playing a game of capture the flag. The team captains will be myself and Khari—for today at least, we're the commanders, and you're the armies, as it were." He paused there, smiling mildly.

"If you've never played before, the game is really quite simple. One half of this field belongs to each team. Crossing into enemy territory puts you at risk—if you are captured, you have to enter the designated prison area. Capture occurs if you're brought to the ground or incapacitated in some way, but do avoid any actual knockouts, of course." He pointed to two opposite corners of the fields, delineated by rough squares bounded by snow walls about as tall as Rom was.

"If you can breach the prison, you can free your allies by touching them. The final goal, of course, is to capture the enemy flag and bring it back to your own side." Another pause. When it was clear everyone followed, he continued. "Of course, it goes without saying that offensive magic is not allowed, but barriers are fine. One per caster at a time, though, and if it gets broken, you have to keep it down for ten seconds. Imprisoned mages may not cast. Please do follow the rulings of our designated referees when they arise." He gestured slightly behind him, where Lady Marceline, her assistants, and Zee's navigator Nixium stood.

"Now if that all makes sense, go ahead and gather here so we can split the teams."

Khari hopped up on the wall next to Leon as everyone else gathered closer. They had apparently decided already that she was picking first. Crossing her arms over her chest, she cast her eyes over the assembled members of the Inquisition. It was an impressive group, to say the least, warriors, scouts, mages, and people who slid freely between groups. It was unlikely there were many poor choices, but it was also easy to see that this was part of the strategy of the game as well.

It wasn't more than a few seconds before her jade-green eyes met his, though. She flashed her teeth in a wide smile. “I pick Rom." Not even a bit of hesitation in the decision, either.

He grinned back as he walked over to join her side. "Smart choice." From the sounds of the rules, he would be very good at this game, since bringing people to the ground was something he knew how to do quite well, and there were few enough people here that he felt would be difficult to get into that state. Half of them were going to end up on his team.

Not Amalia, though. The Tal-Vashoth woman was first picked by Leon, and Rom couldn't help but feel that was in direct reply to Khari's pick. Judging from what he'd heard of how her spar with Khari had gone, Amalia was going to be the toughest person to pin down here. Well, except perhaps for Estella, who was next picked by Khari. Teleportation seemed just a bit unfair, especially now that the other Inquisitor seemed to have gotten a solid understanding of how to do it at will with her mark.

The picks continued, back and forth. Asala to Leon, the chevalier Mick to Khari, Rilien to Leon, the Dalish Ithilian to Khari. The one-eyed elf shared a look and an amused twist of his lips with Amalia as he made his way onto the other team. Vesryn was picked next by Leon, giving a sweeping bow to the audience as he joined his side. He'd pulled the lion's head of his cloak up over his hair, looking rather ridiculous, but he seemed to enjoy it. Indeed, the steadily growing crowd on the hillsides surrounding the playing area seemed to enjoy it as well. Rom wondered if this wasn't going to become a regular diversion for the Inquisition. He could already see it potentially becoming quite competitive.

On and on the picking went, until all of the players were divided. Khari's team received an extra member, their 16th, due to the uneven amount, but Rom suspected the tiny advantage wouldn't amount to much. He largely tuned out most of the initial round of trash talking going one way or the other, instead making his way out onto the playing field with the others on his team to survey the landscape. There was going to be a lot more to this than just speed and hand to hand ability.

He could see Lia quietly pointing something out about the other side's terrain to Ithilian next to her. The older elf looked to be indulging her enthusiasm as best as he was able. Aurora and Astraia, also picked to be on Khari's team, stood nearby undoubtedly talking tactics as well, though an unmistakable grin was present on Aurora's face. Estella and her fellow Argent Lion Donnelly were seemingly not too concerned with strategics, already shoving playfully at each other a bit. Clearly, at least some of those present were glad for the reprieve the game represented.

It was easy to pick out a few of the more familiar faces on the other side as well. Cyrus stood with his arms crossed immediately next to Asala, squinting at Rom's side of the field and speaking to her, it looked like. Probably about how to make best strategic use of her magic, or something similar. Vesryn busied himself by packing down a snowball, surely the first of many. Leon was speaking to Amalia, it looked like, though he wasn't facing them, so it was hard to say for sure. Her face indicated a certain degree of amusement; her eyes periodically scanned the opposite side of the field. Rilien was there too; it wasn't long before Leon called his whole team towards himself.

Zahra had taken a stand next to two of her crew-mates, Nuka and Garland. Though, there was a sour look on her face as she gently shoved him away from her, planting one of her hands on her hips. Perhaps, exasperated that they’d been chosen on the same team. The bearded carpenter had taken to leering at her, excitedly discussing what sounded like some sort of strategy. Apparently, Nuka was having none of it. The dwarf’s arms were crossed over her chest as she scanned the perceived battlefield. From Leon’s side, Sparrow had placed herself near Amalia and Rilien. She, too, seemed to be scanning the field. Her smile was far more somber than Aurora’s, though still present. There was a sense that she was trying to appear much less enthusiastic than she was.

Once everyone was in place and more or less organized, Khari clapped her hands together. “All right everybody, strategy time!" The group gathered in a loose circle relatively quickly, more than a few of them looking pretty interested in how they were going to be approaching the game.

“First thing's first: we have an even number, so everyone pick yourself a partner." She clapped Rom on the shoulder with some exuberance. “There's a lot of sneaky types on the other team, and you can hardly defend if someone tackles you from behind, so watch your partner's back and trust them to do the same for you." There was a bit of shuffling around as everyone complied.

“All right. Lia, Ithilian, I want you guys on high ground. If they try and flank us or pull anything funny, signal us. If it's important to not shout it at me, just run it to me or something. You've got discretion if you need to come down, but we need information on their movements. Leon's a crafty bastard." She crossed her arms. “Stel and Donnelly, you're the prison rescue team. If we lose more than four people, try and get them out. Stay with the main group otherwise."

With a moment's more consideration, she glanced at her mentor. “Mick, you and Pierre are in charge of guarding our prison. We're gonna try and get their mages out of the game as soon as we can, so we need to make sure they stay out. Astraia, Zee, you guys are guarding the flag. Everyone else is with me—right in the thick of it. Mages first. It's not even really worth going after the flag until Asala's out anyway. Probably Harellan, too. Make sense?"

Zahra’s mouth twisted into a grin as she nodded her head, moving to Astraia’s side. There was no doubt that she’d do everything in her power to make sure that their flag remained out of grubby hands. “Aye, Commander,” she gave a mock salute, accompanied by a sly wink, “Sorry—always wanted to say that.”

"Would Leon even let them cross the border, do you think?" Estella considered that for a moment, and then her eyes lit with understanding. "Oh. Our first move is a kidnapping, then." She nodded, half-smiling. Her partner Donnelly was full-out grinning, clearly eager to get started.

"Can we do that?" Astraia asked, lowering the scarf from her face and glancing at the assembled crew of women overlooking the playing field, those that would be officiating the match. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands without her staff, but instead chose to crouch in the snow, poking her fingers into the snow for balance.

Rom shrugged. "We can until they tell us we can't." She laughed quietly back at him. Rom certainly had no qualms with playing a little dirty, and obviously Khari didn't either. This was no war, after all.

Their plan settled, the team prepared to engage the enemy. Lia and Ithilian had soon passed from sight when Rom looked away for a moment, but he didn't doubt they'd picked out separate locations high up on their side to use as concealed lookout points. Good for surprising those that wandered too close as well as keeping track of the playing field. Astraia and Zee hung back, while the rest formed up in a loose group along the center.

A few moments later, the game was officially underway.

Khari's strategy, unsurprisingly, involved leading from the front. She charged across the line in the middle of the field with intent, sidestepping Widget's attempt to grab her by the legs and bring her down immediately. Leon's side looked to have a few more people in the field team than they did, which meant fewer in other places, but from where they were, it wasn't easy to see who was where.

What had been a charge was forced to a halt, the teams fanning out and trying to choose their targets wisely. In enemy territory, they'd have to be more careful—they could hold down their foes or run around them, but taking them out for longer than that wasn't possible on their own turf. Khari was eyeing Cor, who stood directly in her way, arms out to either side, knees bent.

She almost certainly didn't notice the fact that Cyrus was trying to flank her, edging closer as if to get within lunging distance.

Rom, however, was doing his job as Khari's partner on the field, and made his move on Cyrus just as he committed to the flank attack on Khari. There wasn't any chance to get him thrown in their jail since they were on the enemy side, but Rom could at least get Cyrus thrown in the snow. He wasn't a weak opponent in the slightest, but the opening advantage Rom had in the engagement allowed him to get leverage underneath Cyrus after a few moves, at which point he lifted him up end over end and dumped him on his back in the snow.

Dashing away a few steps, Rom glanced to make sure Khari had handled her own end of things. "Not sure this push is going to work..."

They were certainly meeting with a formidable defense. Leon's group had been more cautious, and sent fewer people over the center line. Most of those that had crossed returned shortly anyway, a sure sign of a fake-out, designed to close the attackers in and prevent them from escaping. Not easy, as Cyrus had discovered, but certainly a strategy that took into account Khari's tendency to aggression.

The defenders weren't tentative on their own ground; Leon himself was quite the opposite, taking Reed to ground before evading a bodycheck from Hissrad, one of the few people on their team who could nearly match him for size. He wound up locked with the Lion hands closed around the Qunari's backswept horns, both of them struggling to keep traction in the snow. In the end, it was Hissrad who fell, Leon pinning him to the ground with an armbar. With a low chuckle, he rose again, jogging obligingly to the jail.

On the other side, one of Khari's mages in Aurora found her advance halted by one of Leon's in Harellan. The two were locked up in fisticuffs, which Aurora appeared to be quite a deft practitioner in, and brought to mind Amalia in her movements, but Harellan seemed able to counter her at every turn. Still, Aurora was enjoying herself, if the happy grin spread across her face was anything to go by.

One of Leon’s more brutish mages, Sparrow, was sneaking behind the lines towards Aurora’s flank. Slugging through the snow in furtive, careful steps. Quietly. What she intended to do was anyone’s guess, but it appeared as if her goal was interrupted when a roar ripped through the sound of brawling at their sides—it belonged to a much shorter individual, Khari’s wee dwarf plowing through the snow as if she were parting through the tides.

Snow flew from her hands, as she closed the distance and flung herself bodily into the white-haired woman. From the widening of Sparrow’s eyes, she certainly hadn’t expected it. They tumbled into the snow. Somehow, Sparrow managed to roll away from Nuka’s hands; regaining her feet as soon as the dwarf had. Now, they circled each other. Hands held out wide, eyes focused. Snow stuck to their clothes and hair, but there was a sense that they were having fun.

To the side, past the grappling pair, Brialle was moving much quicker through the snow. Perhaps her lithe frame had to do with it, or else she had more tricks up her sleeves than she’d shown the others. A soft hum sounded and disappeared just as quickly.

Overall, the defenders' tactics left them in a good position—several of Khari's players were taken prisoner within a relatively short span of time. In addition to Reed and Hissrad, Leon managed to bring down Garland, and Cyrus just barely caught Thalia on her way back over the line to their side. Nuka, despite valiant effort, wound up a prisoner as well, when Sparrow got an assist from Rashad.

Khari looked unsure about ordering the retreat when a cry went up from behind. It was only then that two conspicuous absences made sense: neither Amalia nor Rilien had made an appearance on the field, and they seemed odd choices for guarding either their flag or their prison. Apparently, they'd made an early attempt to take the other flag, and Astraia and Zee must have been having some trouble holding them off.

“Shit. Back over the line, guys, we can't let them get the flag!" Khari broke away from Cor and charged back, knocking Rhys to the side to make way for the withdrawal.

Fortunately, the intervention of Ithilian and Lia prevented the attempted theft, but neither Rilien nor Amalia was captured as a result, only repelled. The prisoner count was looking very good for the other team. Their next move almost certainly had to be evening the odds a bit; Khari's attention swung to Estella and Donnelly. “If we keep them busy, can you get past Ves?"

Estella exhaled a soft breath, halfway to a laugh, from the sound of it. "We'll see what we can do." She paused, exchanged a look with Donnelly, then grimaced. "Just, uh... make sure we don't have to get past Leon, Amalia, or Rilien." They veered off after that, ducking behind a snow wall and disappearing from sight.

With a heavy numerical advantage, Leon clearly felt comfortable taking the offensive. He and the majority of his field team crossed the center line. The commander wore a smile edged with a fair bit more confidence than he usually displayed. He opened his arms out to either side, arching an eyebrow at Khari in obvious invitation.

Rom was tempted to laugh. He might've, if the invitation hadn't spelled serious danger for their team here. "If ever there was a time not to accept a challenge..." He left unsaid that this was probably it. If Khari was going to be bringing Leon down, however unlikely that was, it wasn't going to happen in time for them to save their flag. It was the quickest people they needed to keep engaged, not the strongest. With their numbers thinned momentarily, Ithilian and Lia had made their way down from their positions to shore up the defense. Lia swooped in quietly to take out Cor from behind, sending him off to their prison with a grin.

"Their defense is weak now, Khari!" she advised, though what exactly should be done about that was left to their leader. Their own defense was hampered and not going to last long, not until Estella could get back with their imprisoned friends.

“No mercy!" Khari grinned. “Bring 'em all down!" She looked very tempted to engage Leon, all caution to the contrary, but she did eventually avoid him, moving to head off the light-footed Brialle instead.

They fought more to avoid being overwhelmed than anything, often finding themselves in two-on-one situations where they had to just prevent themselves from getting pinned down. Eventually the opening became clear: Leon's side was weak in defense, only a few kept in reserve. "This might be our chance," he said to Khari beside him, shoving Cyrus away to create some space. Their defense would crumble quickly without them, with even with them it wasn't going great, and it was hard to say if Estella and Donnelly would be successful in time, or if they'd succeed at all. Best to make a show of it rather than crumble slowly.

They made a break for it, taking off out of their own zone and into enemy territory. Rom could hear Signy call out their move from somewhere on his right, but with any luck there wouldn't be more than one or two people capable of responding to the attack. Before long both the flag and the prison came in sight.

They arrived just as Estella and Donnelly were making their move. Or rather, Estella was. Donnelly remained just out of Vesryn's line of sight, meaning that Estella was clearly the decoy. She jogged in a half-circle, not attempting to conceal her presence, waving jauntily at the other team's prison guard.

"So, Ves." She smiled, pulling to a stop several feet beyond his immediate reach, but close enough that it was more or less a taunt in and of itself. Settling her hands on her hips, she tilted her head to the side. "How do you figure this is going to go?"

"Well, the jail's getting pretty cramped, but I think we can find a spot for you," he smiled mischievously back at her, a fat snowball already in hand. He had a few more ready to go behind him, a personal arsenal he'd been working on since his arrival there. "A lovely suite for your extended stay." He lobbed the snowball at her head, not hard enough to hurt if it actually hit, and then made a lunging reach, trying to ensnare her arm.

"Sounds quai—" Estella yelped, ducking the snowball, but not quite twisting far enough away to avoid the grab. That, however, might have been quite intentional, because she stepped in towards him without needing to be pulled, hooking one of her feet behind one of his and trying to bring them both to ground.

That was Donnelly's signal, clearly; he sprinted from behind cover and towards the jail cell, ducking inside and touching Hissrad's shoulder first.

The prison warden didn't seem to care all that much that his charges were escaping. He and Estella had both gone to the ground, and despite the fact that she was already out once she was down and not pinning Vesryn, his greatest concern seemed to be shoving snow in her hair while laughing. The templar captain SĂ©verine made a swift run away from her defense of the flag to help slow the escaping prisoners, leaving only Asala there on guard. Rom took that as their cue to move in. It was the best chance they'd get.

“If you can pin her, I've got the barrier." Khari split off from his trajectory slightly, as though to go around slightly and approach from the side. With only one barrier, Asala'a options would certainly be limited.

"Huh, well... Help?" She asked impotently. A quick glance around would reveal no one within distance to swoop in and save, in spite of her frantic glances to find evidence to the contrary. Once they began to encroach however, Asala decided to apparently go on the offensive, her hands lit up with fade energy as she called on a barrier. Instead of enveloping herself in one of her bubbles, one sprang to life around the flag while she took a step backward. There, she settled into a martial arts stance, knees bent, hands extended, and elbows loose.

It lasted all the way up until Khari and Rom took one more step toward her, where she immediately abandoned it, and began to run around the bubble, trying to keep her distance from them. "Two against one isn't fair!" she whined as she ran.

Khari snorted. “Two against one and a barrier, you mean." She seemed less inclined to care about chasing Asala and more about breaking the barrier to get at the flag, which was probably wise if they only had a limited amount of time before defenders would be rushing back towards it again. She threw herself into the bubble shoulder first, bouncing off mostly harmlessly, then grunted and tried again. The hit was harder that time. No doubt enough of them would do the job, but they might not have time for so many hits.

"Khari," Rom said, grabbing her shoulder when she reared back for another strike. Asala's barriers had stood up to more than punches, and he doubted they had the time to beat them down. Instead, he gestured for her to circle around the flag to the left, while he took the right. Asala's barriers were stronger, but she was not faster than either of them, and would probably find it harder to keep a shield up while being tackled to the ground.

“Right." Khari stepped back from the shield, then immediately went left, picking up into a sprint with her usual indefatigable energy. Her arms, she spread out to either side, watching Asala intently to try and pick out the direction she'd flee in. The grin on her face suggested that she was not intimidated by Asala's full foot in height advantage.

And obviously, she did not want to test Khari's ferocity. Instead of trying to get around her, Asala turned tail and ran away from her, letting out an exaggerated squeal as she fled. Laughter punctuated each yelp, however, so at least she was having fun.

Rom was more efficient than ferocious, diving to ensnare Asala's legs and bring her down. Immediately he scrambled for her hands, pinning them to the ground and making sure she had no easy way to continue casting her barriers. He could hear heavy footfalls coming their way, though, obviously not Khari's. Turning to look, he saw SĂ©verine rushing back, apparently having done all she could with the escaping prisoners. Rom met Khari's eyes, wild with excitement. "Get the flag, go!"

She made a lunge for it, snatching it up from where it had been staked in the ground, pole and all. It wouldn't make a bit of difference if SĂ©verine managed to catch her, so she bolted, sprinting at full tilt towards the center line. Following her trajectory, he could see a commotion on their side of the field. Even as Khari just barely brushed by the templar captain's outstretched hands, their own flag was airborne, Amalia tossing it deftly to Rilien and immediately throwing herself at the closest of those giving chase, which looked to be Aurora.

They went to the ground, and Rilien was across the line three strides later, flag in-hand and victory conditions met. Khari stopped only about three yards from the line, brandishing the flag in her hand with some humor at Leon.

“You sneaky bastard. We were this close." she gestured to the roughly ten feet separating herself from the line.

Leon smiled in his usual mild fashion. "That you were." He didn't seem like he'd been particularly concerned, though. "Now... what do you think I'm going to say about your opener?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella was nearly soaked through from melted snow, flakes of it yet clinging to her clothes and in particular her hair. Ves's fault, of course. But the game had taken a fair amount of effort out of everyone, so she was far from alone in her bedraggled appearance. Those were offset by the clear enjoyment on most of the faces present; in addition to being physically demanding, the game had been a lot of fun, something she thought they all sorely needed. Though her team were not the victors, she was feeling pretty good, all things considered.

She wasn't sure exactly who suggested heading to the Herald's Rest afterwards to warm up by the tavern's fires, but most everyone seemed to think it was a good idea, and so they began their trek back to Skyhold proper, passing under the gates with most of the conversation still revolving around the game. Khari and Leon seemed to be taking that most seriously; probably he was giving her actual feedback on her strategy. That was what it had been for, after all. Estella couldn't help but smile to herself at the thought. Khari was really... it was almost like she could see her friend finding herself, and growing into that person she was going to be someday. She hadn't ever really seen something like that before. It was pretty incredible.

The main gate closed behind them, meaning that the tavern was in sight. Estella tried to dust a few more snowflakes off herself; the group of them would be tracking a lot of water into the pub, after all. She squeezed a fair bit more out of her ponytail.

"I think hot food and a fire are going to be just about perfect at the moment," she mused. She was walking closest to Ves and Cy, so they were probably the only ones who heard. Not that she particularly required a response to that.

"Add drinks to that and it might just be enough to recover from my wrath," Ves added teasingly. He'd taken the lion's pelt off his head, the cloak draped over his shoulders normally now. He hadn't exerted himself quite as much as most of the others, the majority of his efforts going into playfully harassing Estella. Apparently his team had been more than enough to carry him to victory.

"The wrath of Lord Snowball," Romulus added from behind them, having overheard Ves's louder voice. "A terrible thing to witness."

Vesryn turned to walk backwards, grinning in surprise. "Was that a joke from the Lord Inquisitor?" He glanced at Estella, lowering his voice. "It's a sign, I think. Going to be a good year." He turned back around, walking with a spring in his step. He'd pointed out a few Inquisition soldiers on their way back up, who had taken to using their shields as makeshift sleds. Some were more effective than others at it, but Vesryn had been certain his own tower shield would outdo them all. No doubt he'd want to try it before long.

"And here we are." He made sure to be the first of their three to reach the door to the Herald's Rest, pulling it open for her and Cy. "After you..." The look in his eye had become mischievous again, giving away that he knew something she didn't.

The Herald’s Rest looked entirely transformed—as if they’d stepped into another tavern altogether. It certainly wasn’t anything Estella remembered. Someone had gone to great lengths to decorate every nook and cranny; including the rafters overhead. Long streamers of purple and blues hung from the wooden beams. Paper stars were tied to their ends, folded in varying sizes. The wind moved them about as Vesryn opened the door. The light was softer here, perhaps intentionally so. Several decorative lanterns offered a warm ambiance, set in the middle of each table. Flickering candlelight shone a soft ember, though if one were to glance at the ceiling
 small, shadowy stars painted there. Dancing each time the light flickered.

The fireplace had been lit and decorated as well. Though some space had been left in the center, bereft of any furniture. There were, however, a pair of chairs and lutes, set off to the side. Cards, dice, and several unusual games were set atop one of the furthest tables. Some of the residents of the tavern were moving to designated locations behind the bar, all grins as the door was pushed open.

All of the tables had been pushed together in a horseshoe shape, and as if the Maker had heard Estella’s musing wish, they had already been prepared for a feast. Brialle was setting the last of the plates across the tables; expression merry. Clearly she’d disappeared sometime during the festivities. Now, it became clear where she’d gone off to. She brushed her hands off across the front of her apron and gave a little flourish towards the tables, neatly set with an array of silver platters. Cups and plates, as well as folded napkins were set at each table. Gaudy pillows and soft furs were placed along the benches. The arrangement was stifling to say the least. It was difficult to know where to begin.

The smell greeted them soon after they passed the threshold of the door. The largest table had a platter of still-sizzling round roast in a bed of jewel-sized potatoes, paired with onions, garlic and various herbs, as well as four bowls of cooked vegetables at its side. Another platter took up most of the space: several roasted pheasants and stuffed birds arrayed in a line. To the side, various cheeses and freshly-baked breads; cakes and tarts and small, fist-sized pies. The selection of wine was impressive, as well. Each table had three bottles surrounding the lanterns. Squinting from the door, the bottles themselves looked awfully familiar to Estella. Off to the side, three casks of something sat at the ready.

There was a larger cake, as well. Set across the nearest table, candles already lit. Whoever had done it had taken measures to layer it three times, with white icing as the filling. Strawberries and raspberries were set across the lip.

It became clear what this was: a celebration.

There were only a few things Estella could think of to be celebrating in quite this fashion. And for it to be this day in particular—could it really be? Her hand moved up to her mouth; she turned around, backing a few paces more into the room, only to observe Cy and Zee exchanging some kind of mutual congratulations in gestures. She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat, letting her hand drop a few inches, just enough to speak.

"Is... is this...?"

Her brother arched an eyebrow, clearly somewhat amused by her reaction. “What else would it be?" He tilted his head to the side, his tone softening along with his expression, shifting from the wry to the wholly sincere. “Happy birthday, Stellulam."

Estella made a soft noise, something akin to a muffled squeak. All of this was really...?

She'd never really celebrated her birthday. There hadn't been a whole lot of cause to do so, in Tevinter, and any recognition of the event was usually something quiet, swallowed up easily by the more general festive mood of Firstday. And after, well. Maybe there'd been more to celebrate, but she'd never really told anyone when it was. So she knew right away that the idea had to have been Cyrus's—and surely he was the only one who knew her preferred brandy. But this had Zee's fingerprints all over it, even before considering that Brialle was certainly responsible for the food itself. And the look on Ves's face could only mean he'd known as well, and probably had something to do with it all.

It was kind of funny, that in the middle of this big beautiful decorated room with all the things to look at, she couldn't quite make herself turn around. "I'm... everyone, I... you're going to make me cry," she said, only half-joking. She could feel emotion welling up in her chest, pressing against her heart in a way that was wonderful and terrible and made her feel so full of warmth and love and happiness.

Her lips trembled; Estella did the only thing she could thing to do. She launched herself for her brother, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. She could feel him return it just as strongly, his arms around her shoulders. They were still dripping water on the floor and all, but it bothered him no more than her. "Thank you, Cy." she mumbled it into his shirt, then let go with one arm to motion the other two over as well. "You're not getting out of this either. Blame yourselves for helping."

"Best Firstday ever?" Ves asked, making his way over to them as the others took up the door, everyone piling into the tavern's warmth. He worked himself into the hug, pressing his lips briefly against the wet hair on the side of Estella's head. "I think so. Happy birthday, you two."

A laugh sounded as Zahra entered through the door. Her footsteps sounded jaunty. There was a little skip in her step as she approached them. Though it was the expression on her lips that said it all. Like a kitten who’d gotten into all the milk. She weaseled her way into the hug and settled a hand softly against the back of Estella’s head, “Happy birthday, Stel. You too, Cy.” She patted Vesryn on the back with her other hand and grinned broadly, “Knew you could do it, Ves. Well done.”

“All right, all right. This is all very touching, but the rest of us can't eat till you sit down, Stel, so park it." Khari, all big grins and false huffiness, pointed to an empty bench near the center of things, just big enough to seat the four of them still standing.

Cyrus snorted under his breath, breaking the hug first and gesturing the rest of them to precede him. He sat on Stel's left, between her and Zee, leaving the right side for Vesryn. True to form among friends, there wasn't really any standing on ceremony after that, and everyone happily dug in. Cy poured a snifter full from one of the bottles of brandy; up close there was no mistaking that it was the honeyed kind from Vol Dorma. He pushed it towards her with a knowing smile. “Remember the time we drank an entire bottle of this next to the pond in the Chantry garden?"

"I remember," Estella replied archly, "but I'm quite surprised you do." He'd done most of the drinking, after all. They were fifteen, and he'd stolen it from Cassius, and it was more his idea than hers to even do it, but that was sort of the way of things back then.

Glancing across the table, she noted that Asala didn't have any sort of cup next to her. "Do you want to try some, Asala? It's my favorite—it's sweet enough that it won't burn too much, if you're not used to drinking." She took up the half-empty bottle and set it down halfway across the table, so Asala could reach it easily if she so desired.

“Of course, she would,” Zahra’s grin only widened as she stood up and reached over the table. She filled Asala’s cup with the brandy and set the bottle back down on the table. Like always, it didn’t seem as if she would take no for an answer. There was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes as she plopped back down in her chair and filled her own glass with red wine, watching her from her peripherals. Her expression hadn’t simpered in the slightest. “There’s no better day to let loose. You know, have a little fun. Unless it’s a little too strong for you.”

It sounded awfully like a challenge.

Asala pursed her lips and stuck her tongue out at Zee in response to her challenge. The glass in front of her, however, she gave a more tentative gaze before she took a hold of it. She held it up in front of her for a moment, before looking at everyone else who had gathered around and shrugged. "Cheers," she said, taking a drink of the brandy. The reaction was subtle at first, but still noticeable. Her shoulders hitch slightly and there was a twitch to her head as she guided the glass back down to the table. She tried to hide a small cough before she nodded. "It's good," she smiled through another twitch.

Estella raised her brows a little—it probably wasn't entirely wise to take Zee's advice in this particular case, but she knew that their raider friend wouldn't do any real harm, so she elected to keep her silence about it.

As the food gradually disappeared, a few of the partygoers stood, mingling more freely amongst themselves. Not long after, Rilien and Brialle both took up the lutes next to the chairs. It seemed minimal conferral was necessary before they struck upon a song they both knew, and music filled the tavern, a light sort of tune that made for easy dancing. Eventually, Larissa made her way up toward them too, adding her practiced voice to the song. No few of the guests took the easy hint, while others lingered in their seats.

There was just enough brandy warming Estella's body for her to turn to Ves. "What do you think?" she asked, half smiling. "Am I clear to dance in public, or would that be far too embarrassing for the both of us?" She knew she'd improved considerably, of course—the words were too light to be completely serious.

"I think if they don't like your dancing, they'll just have to deal with it." Ves looked pleasantly surprised that she'd asked first, and pushed his chair back. It had been adorned with his white pelt since he sat down, the combined heat of the tavern and the brandy and the bodies prompting him to dress as though it were summer. She'd never known him to flush from embarrassment, so it was likely the brandy that colored his face as he stood and offered his hand down to her. "Shall we?"

She nodded, fitting her hand into his and rising to extract herself from the bench. They slid easily into the small knot of other dancers, and Estella didn't let herself think about how well she was remembering the motions, or how clumsy she was or was not being. It was her birthday party, dammit, and he was right. If she was dancing badly, everyone else could just deal with it.

Around them, others joined the floor; Lia and Astraia to one end, Khari and Cor not trying very hard to follow any recognizable pattern in another. It looked like either Aurora had asked Donnelly to join her or the other way around, because they were in the mix as well. Donnelly was far too red in the face for it to be entirely because of alcohol, but he was grinning like a fool. Estella almost laughed at him, but she kind of knew what that felt like, these days.

“I don't think I need to ask if you can dance." Surprise of all surprises, Cy was the speaker, his tone more playful than she'd heard in a while. He swept a deliberately overly-fancy bow at Zee of all people, his smile entirely facetious. “So I suppose what is left to ask is whether you'd do me the honor, dear Captain."

From the looks of it, Zahra had a smudge of red across her cheeks as well. A mixture of wine, and brandy and whatever else she’d extracted from the ridiculously large kegs pushed up into the corner of the tavern. She inclined her head at him and arched a sly eyebrow as she took up his hand in hers and rose from her seat. A laugh was ready on her lips. Perhaps, because he was right about her knowing how to dance. Or else, he’d surprised her in some other way. Drunk or no, her movements were languid. Graceful, even. “With pleasure.”

Surprisingly enough, she allowed him to lead her on between the other dancers and twirled to the beat of the quickened notes. Brialle and Larissa’s dulcet voices rose around them, as they sang something merrier. She danced as if no one was watching anyway. All wild hair and toothy grins. Though it appeared as if she were still being attentive to Cyrus’ lead.

When the first song ended and the next began, the partners rotated freely. Estella wound up with her brother, and then Cor, and then Khari, which made her grin. They found themselves next to Zee again, who had apparently dragged Asala onto the floor at some point. On their other side, a perplexed-looking Leon was attempting to mimic Sparrow's steps. Estella was sure that if he was used to any kind of dancing, this wasn't it, but he was catching on.

Asala appeared to have been trying to attack the drinks that Zee had poured her, as she had vibrant flush to her face, and her steps were anything but sure. However, the blush stripped away what inhibitions she might've had, since she was laughing and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. On one pass, she was close enough to hear her speak. "You have... the prettiest hair," Asala said cheerily, having plucked a lock from Zee's shoulders and running her fingers through it.

Apparently, this was not at all what Zahra was expecting. A spluttering cough sounded. If it was at all possible, her ears reddened a more mottled shade. Her cough transformed itself into nervous chuckle as she spun her in a circle. Perhaps, to cause a bit of distance, before dragging her back in and taking up one of her hands, eyes alight. “Y-yes, well. Thank you, kitten.” Whatever momentary lapse of composure there was soon disappeared as she lead them into a more sprightly dance, tossing her head in another one of her telltale laughs.

It wasn't long after that someone—Leon, it seemed—produced a deck of cards from somewhere. He waved them slightly at the assembled. "Anyone interested in playing? I'm open to suggestions for games."

Estella glanced at Khari, then shrugged. "How about it?"

“Sure!" Khari, slightly red under her freckles and vallaslin, likely wouldn't have minded just about anything at the moment. Linking her arm with Estella's, she walked them over to the table, which a few people were hastily clearing off. “What are we gonna play?"

“Wicked Grace is the standard in these situations, is it not?" The sly look on Cyrus's face suggested that the input was meant more to provide him some amusement than to encourage adherence to any sort of tradition. “Who are the contenders, then?" He made a show of glancing around.

“How devious,” The cooed statement was more of a tease than anything else as Zahra approached the table and plopped down in one of the benches. Elbows already placed on the table. It seemed as if she were already volunteering to play as well. She smiled and arched one of her eyebrows, “I take it you won’t be joining us?”

Off to her right side, and a few seats down, Sparrow had already seated herself and was scouring the table for the other contenders. There was a slight tilt to her lips, barely a smile, though from her posture, she seemed confident in her ability to participate. She hadn’t said a word. Perhaps, that was the beginning of the game she planned to play.

Marceline on the other hand seemed to float toward the table, taking a seat on the other side deftly. Unsurprisingly she had a wine glass in hand, and she held it close to her mouth as she eyed the other contenders. A rather predatory look had fixed itself on her face, though she was smiling, but for what it was worth did seem to be enjoying herself, if the tiny stain of wine on her collar was anything to go by. "It has been a long time since I last played Wicked Grace, so forgive me if I seem rusty," she said with a quick flutter in the corner of her lips. Michaël however, backed down shaking his head as he found a seat within watching distance.

Asala on the other looked like she thought about it, but before she decided anything turned toward Cyrus with a little sway. "Wicked Grace?" She asked.

Estella wasn't quite close enough to hear whatever words her brother used to explain the key points of the game, but her face soon lit up in a blush, and she shook her head intently. A moment passed however and she glanced at the table, and she spoke again, loud enough for Estella to hear. "I think I will watch, thank you."

"I'm in," Romulus declared, rejoining the group now that the dancing was done. He looked quite at ease with the idea of playing cards. Perhaps it was something he'd gained experience in back in Tevinter.

Vesryn no doubt had experience as well, as anyone that had spent time in a mercenary company would. "Well, at least I won't have far to go after I've lost my clothes to you all," said Vesryn, picking his spot at the table and plopping himself down into it. "Shame, really." It seemed he had experience both at winning and losing, and it was hard to tell which one he was looking forward to more, judging by the gleam in his eye.

Estella situated herself at the table as well, next to Khari, settling into her chair while Leon shuffled his deck and dealt everyone their hands. It looked like there were going to be eight players in total, then: herself, Leon, Ves, Romulus, Khari, Zee, Sparrow, and Marcy. She wasn't exactly surprised that Cy was electing not to participate, but she didn't comment on the choice, preferring not to risk making him uncomfortable about it.

When her first two cards were in front of her, she slid them facedown to the edge of the table and turned the corners up for a quick look. Not great, but not bad. She could make something of that—the game was mostly about bluffing anyway.

The turn started to the dealer's left, with Khari.

Along with the cards, everyone had received a small stack of chips, the necessary skill buffer before clothing items started to go. Khari looked at her cards, picking them up rather than leaving them on the table, but she held them close to her chest. Picking up two chips from the top of her pile, she gave them a little toss into the middle, starting the bet off relatively conservatively.

Estella matched the bet, more interested in using the first round to gauge strategy and the comparative strength of everyone's Gracefaces rather than winning it outright. Rilien had taught her to play, after all, and he always had an eye to the long game.

Romulus folded immediately, apparently having received quite a dreadful hand and not feeling like attempting a bluff. Ves, however, went for a raise, doubling the amount that Khari had thrown in. "Don't be shy now, little bear. No glory in that."

“No glory in losing, either." Khari apparently wasn't going to be so easily goaded this time around.

"This is not the best game to play, if one is indeed shy," Lady Marceline mused, as she too folded.

Sparrow made a small noise in the back of her throat as she folded as well. A sigh sifted from her lips as she arched an eyebrow and watched the others. Her expression bore a fine resemblance to a mask; comparatively calmer to the aggression she’d shown on the battlefield. Though, she kept one of her elbows on the table, fingers loose.

Zahra tossed her head back in a laugh, fanning her face with her cards. It was difficult to tell if she had a good Graceface, a decent set of cards, or was just enjoying herself. Her eyes were alight as she, too, raised the bet by one, pinching the chips from her little pile and pushing them forward, “Let’s be honest, that’s the best part of the game.”

The first hand went to Estella, when her cards proved superior to those few who'd stuck out the betting rounds. It was enough that she pulled forward a sizeable number of chips. Over the next few, she built her lead, and learned quite quickly that the ones to watch for were Leon, Lady Marceline, Romulus, and Sparrow. By what she guessed was the halfway point in the game, she had a stack of chips about triple the size of the one she'd started with. Leon had about broken even, and looked a little relieved by the fact when the game temporarily paused for cake and he actually took stock of the others.

Romulus had won and lost, but his losses were almost always modest, and his wins were substantial. It left him with more than he started with, but not as much as Estella had accrued. It was enough that he was starting to look quietly pleased with himself, though he was able to keep any tells related to his hands well in check. He spent most of the break observing the other piles of chips, or lack thereof in the case of those that started losing clothing.

Ves was among the first of these, having already lost his boots. Instead of his socks he'd elected to lose his shirt instead, claiming that he put quite a great value on the warmth of his toes. Truly, he looked more entertained by losing than the successful players did by winning, and before long he'd put the lion's pelt on his head again, the paws of which settled somewhere over his abdominal muscles. He was obviously enjoying himself, and the effect he knew he could have on others, whether it was wanted or not. He did actually seem to be trying, he was just... rather recklessly brave with his cards when there was no reason to be, and made bluffs that were all too easy to call.

Estella had stopped looking at him directly, which was thankfully easy enough given that he was next to her, but that just made things difficult for other reasons. Fortunately, she was good at nothing so much as narrowing her focus when she needed to, and compartmentalizing. Both were talents she was making good use of presently.

Khari was down to one sock, but she obviously had very different priorities from Ves when it came to which articles she was willing to lose, as her shirt remained quite in place. The fault in her strategy was simply that her Graceface—like her face at every other time—was very readable; she actually knew quite well when to fold and when to hold, so to speak.

Cyrus seemed to be highly amused by what unfolded in front of him; he'd insinuated himself between Estella and Khari, and only a few well-placed elbows had stopped him from giving hints to the opposition.

Zahra’s expression had twisted itself with each bluff called and article lost—she’d been accumulating a pile of clothes at the foot of her chair, rather than any chips she’d been so confident in winning. She didn’t seem to particularly mind losing her clothes, but appeared more frustrated at the fact that she’d been caught trying to steal from the discard pile. Her Graceface hadn’t held up nearly as well as she may have hoped for. She’d lost her boots and socks and was in the process of unfastening her vest, revealing lacy undergarments, mumbling something about another bloody awful hand and cursed cards.

Sparrow was doing much better than her nearly naked neighbour. In fact, it didn’t appear as if she were missing anything at all. Estella may have spotted her remove one of her boots
 but aside from that, she’d been slowly gaining on her. The expression on her face hadn’t changed, though a pinch of amusement crinkled at the corners of her eyes.

Marceline had not been lying when she said she had been rusty, losing a number of her chips due to playing overly cautiously. However, as her wine glass steadily drained, she grew bolder, and it didn't help matters that she seemed to have slid back into the groove of it by the intermission, having begun the process of winning her chips back. The fact did not seem to be lost on her, as she began to exude an air of confidence, or perhaps it was just her Graceface. It was always hard to tell with Marceline, but for once, she did seem to be enjoying herself, laughing easier as the flush on her cheeks grew.

Asala on the other hand, had spent her time wandering around the table and taking peeks at everyone's cards. The sway she'd obtained had gotten worse, as she held another glass of whatever Zee had deigned to pour her. She'd apparently gotten over the bite of the alcohol, or maybe had enough that it didn't matter any more. Either way, the liquor had done its job of getting her to open up and act without any of her lingering reticence. Eventually, she came to hover behind Vesryn, her attention divided between his cards and the lion's pelt on his head. At least, until the pelt won out, and she began to lovingly stroke its head.

"If you lose," she started, swaying slightly in the breeze, "I want to wear him. If you lose. But I believe in you." She added with a beaming smile.

"Ah, but first I would have to bet him," Ves replied, tilting his head back so that his eyes could peer up at the drunken Qunari from between two of the lion's teeth. Apparently he didn't mind being pet by her, or at least he was more skilled at concealing those reactions. "And there are some things I'm not willing to leave to chance." He grinned, though, and pushed the pelt back from his head. "Who am I to deny that face, though? Go on, try not to get any of that brandy on it." He shrugged off the pelt and handed it up to her. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to undress me."

“Think you're doing plenty of that all by yourself, Ves." Khari rolled her eyes at him in an exaggerated fashion, taking a large gulp from her tankard in the meantime.

She appeared to think the next round was one worth staking her luck on, though, because her remaining sock went in the initial round, followed by her shirt, something which she didn't appear to have any real reservations about. The cloth bands she used to bind herself weren't even half as racy as Zee's undergarments, to be sure. Her training had clearly been good for her; she grinned a little and flexed her bicep, patting the swell of muscle with her other hand. “You're welcome, everyone." Her tone was quite sarcastic, but either the drink or a considerable amount of self-confidence meant she did at least seem to be quite unashamed.

For just a moment, Estella's blank visage cracked; she snickered. Romulus shifted more in his seat than he had since the game started, but by the time Estella could direct her gaze in his direction, he'd fixed his eyes firmly on his cards.

Rather surprisingly, Asala didn't blush at Ves's remark, and seemed to have handled it smoothly. She accepted the lion's pelt giddily and threw it over her head, her horns spaced just right so that they framed the lion's snout. She spun a bit in place, letting the rest of the cloak flutter, before she settled down and continuing to pet the paw that was draped over her chest. She adjusted for a moment before she finally looked back down to Vesyrn. "It is not me you should worry about, Ves," she said, before tossing a gaze toward Estella and her pile of chips.

After that, her neck sunk into her shoulders as she giggled to herself, and began to make her rounds around the table again, probably on the lookout for more clothing to steal.

The round continued, a few people losing additional chips or articles to the betting. When everyone left turned over their cards, Khari cursed. Her hand was only the second-strongest, meaning Romulus took the round. “I'm out." She declared it firmly. “I like you guys a lot, but not enough to take my pants off." She eyed her tunic, and then Romulus, tipping her head sideways and grinning at him.

“Do best friend ever privileges get me my tunic back, or are you gonna leave me out in the cold?"

Romulus was either surprised that he'd won, or more likely just flustered at the situation he'd been caught in, which was probably obvious to almost everyone in the room, save for those that had consumed copious amounts of drink and the particularly oblivious. "Uh, yeah," he laughed awkwardly, taking his secured chips and pushing the tunic back in her direction.

"Well, probably best for me to quit now, while I'm ahead," Ves said, smiling slyly at Estella. "It seems my attempt to throw you off your game was unsuccessful. Remarkable focus you have there."

She cleared her throat, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, careful to meet his. He hardly needed her to confirm that he was testing her concentration. He knew it already, the smarmy rakehell. "Is that what that was?" she replied with feigned obliviousness, tone light and airy. "I hadn't noticed."

Zahra hadn’t fared well at all. The neat pile of clothes had become an unruly mess kicked to the side of her chair. There was a pull to her thick eyebrows as she leaned closer to the table in what may have been an attempt to hide her breasts, arms crossed over them. She’d already peeled off her pants, though she’d been lucky enough to have been knocked out of the game before she entirely embarrassed herself. Whether it was the warmth of brandy in her belly that made her not care at her state of undress or some sort of unspoken habit, she didn’t seem all that disturbed.

“I’m out,” The captain waggled her eyebrows at them and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug, “The flirting at this table is palpable though. Very entertaining.” It appeared she didn’t mind so much. The losing bit. Her grin had already begun pulling up the corners of her mouth.

Sparrow hummed a sound of assent before sliding her own cards across the table. A smile stretched the scar across her face, seeming far more genuine, and breaking the composure she’d built so far, “Me too.” Her state of undress was far less discernible, though she bent to pull on her socks and lace her boots. Afterwards, she rose from her seat and inclined her head in a nod before wandering off towards the fireplace where Brialle, Rilien and Larissa still lingered. Possibly discussing music and the like.

That left four: Leon, Estella, Romulus, and Lady Marceline.

Leon put up a valiant effort, but he was clearly not as experienced a player as the others, and his ability to hide his tells only served so well against three people who understood the strategic components of this particular game very well. He recused himself after the loss of his shirt, which Estella returned to him right after, given the apparent discomfort it caused him.

She couldn't really fathom why, but perhaps he was self-conscious about the number of scars he had. That, she could certainly relate to.

Getting from three to two took much longer, at which point Romulus lost out by a narrow margin and took his leave from the table. Lady Marceline was a crafty opponent, but Stel had played this game against someone with literally no tells, and had refined her Graceface to compete. Though the margin of victory wasn't wide, it was more than enough to ensure that even her boots remained on her person, and Lady Marceline conceded about an hour after the game had begun.

At that point, she stood, recognizing the signs of the party winding down. Most of the guests had things to do in the morning and had understandably left during the game, and the tavern was beginning to look a bit like a ruin. Estella caught sight of Asala under a table and flinched.

"That floor is not going to be comfortable," she mused, glancing at Leon. "Can you help me with her?"

He nodded. "Of course."

Estella crouched next to the Qunari woman, picking someone's sock off one of her horns with a fondly-exasperated sigh. Ves's pelt proved a little harder to extract, but she was sure he'd prefer to get it back intact and relatively clean, so they worked it out from underneath Asala and returned it to its rightful owner.

She doubted Leon needed any help carrying her, but at least she could open the doors. After a few goodbyes, thank-yous, and a gesture towards Asala in lieu of a lengthier explanation, they departed.

After the healer was safe in bed—and turned on her side—Leon left a glass of water and a health potion on her nightstand, along with a note in Estella's handwriting.

Water first, then the potion. You had a bit too much fun last night, but there's nothing to worry about.

And for once, there really wasn't.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon's fingers trembled; he tightened his grip on the stone basin, half bent over it. His hair fell over his shoulders, closing the rest of his quarters off from view like a pale curtain, blotting awareness of anything but the slow, throbbing burn deep in his bones. His breath was ragged, quaking as he pulled it in, held it carefully, and then released as slowly as he could, over and over again. Sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes. A shudder ripped through him, his entire musculature locking up tightly. Leon grunted, tipping forward only somewhat voluntarily, his brow pressing into the mirrored glass mounted on the wall.

It felt like hours before the cramps eased, allowing him to move more or less freely again. Pulling himself away from the wall, Leon dipped both of his hands into the basin, bringing the cold water up to his face and ducking into it. It splashed back into the basin like rain, carrying the salt of sweat and involuntary tears both with it. He repeated the process until he was sure the evidence was gone, then straightened, peering at himself in the smeared looking-glass.

He'd certainly seen better days. A complexion like his did little to hide the bruised circles beneath his eyes, or the ways shadows filled in the hollows of his cheeks easier than they had even a few months ago. He'd lost weight—not too much, yet, not enough to deplete his physical strength in a way anyone else would notice. But enough for him to feel the difference. Enough to wonder how long it would be before everything he'd spent years building, honing, becoming, would all be gone.

Perhaps he could understand how Cyrus felt, after all.

Shaking his head, Leon wiped the mirror clean and picked a leather cord off his bedside table, wrapping it a few times around his hair at the nape of his neck to secure it in place. The episode had woken him from a fitful sleep, but there was little use going back to it now. He might as well just get started on his work for the day. After getting dressed, he climbed the ladder down to his office and settled himself behind his desk.

Not long after he'd gotten started, and earlier than usual, came a knock at the door, more a formality than anything, as the source of the sound soon showed herself inside. SĂ©verine had been making regular visits to Leon's office, at least if he was unable for whatever reason to show himself in her more frequented parts of Skyhold, to the point where she no longer needed to check with Reed for admittance. Social calls as much as more official discussions, as it turned out. The Knight-Captain did not have an abundance of friends still, and had found that she could not, or perhaps would not grow overly close with the templars she served and fought alongside. The reason for that seemed obvious enough, as nearly half of those she'd selected for the first ambush against the Red Templars did not survive their wounds.

"Thought I'd rouse the men for training early today," she said as she closed the door behind her, explaining her early arrival. The breath she expelled visibly fogged in front of her. She wore a heavy coat belted around the abdomen, with the templar insignia stitched into the back, thick gloves, and tall boots. She looked far from having just woken. "Should keep them on their toes, stop them from drinking too much for a while."

Peeling off her gloves, she took a few more steps into the office before she actually looked up to see Leon, at which point she stopped, her second glove still clinging to her fingers. "Are you feeling well, Leon? You look... paler than usual." She was not one to soften her words or their delivery, or hide what she felt, which in this case was concern.

Leon was hardly surprised, though that didn't make it pleasant news, exactly. He sighed, setting his quill aside. "Not especially," he admitted. "But if it's only my complexion, a bit of time out there should help." Not the underlying problem, but at least the appearances. His very Ander skin tone did not stand up to cold without a considerable amount of redness, after all. He'd have to spend some time warming up before he began teaching Khari topographical tactics today.

Sitting up and back a little, he gestured for her to take a chair. She knew, of course, that she was welcome to any of them she wanted. He did it more out of habit than anything. "How did it go, then?"

"About as well as I expected." SĂ©verine folded her gloves together, tucking them halfway in a coat pocket as she made her way forward and settled into a chair. She didn't look entirely satisfied by his answer regarding his well-being, but she accepted it for the moment. "There was a lot of violent cursing, some of it more joking than the rest, but all of them did their parts, and know I wouldn't drill them extra hard without cause. They all know this lull is only temporary, and that they'll be fighting a monstrous enemy soon enough again."

She opened a pocket on her other side, withdrawing a parchment, which she unfolded and set on Leon's desk, pushing it towards his side. "Scout's report from the Emerald Graves came in, as expected. Thought I'd bring it to you myself. The important part of it is that we have targets to hit again... if that's the course we want to take." She fell silent, allowing him to read.

He straightened out the crease in the parchment, scanning over the report carefully. It would seem they'd managed to locate several Red Templar hideouts, places where they were concealing their shipments. giving them the appearance of more mundane goods, to pass unnoticed on the roads, no doubt. Each base of operations had its fair share of hostages; they'd included rough numerical estimates, though he knew they'd be very rough. The scouts would have prioritized nondetection, for fear of getting the people they meant to count killed.

Reaching up, Leon placed his thumb on one side of his jaw and rubbed at the other with the rest of his fingers. There was a rasp; he'd intended to shave that morning but then forgotten after his uncomfortable awakening.

"I'm not sure it is," he murmured over a sigh, setting the report back down and meeting her eyes. "If they were ordinary men, then perhaps the risk would justify itself. We could send in our own elites, secure the hostages first, and so on. But this..." He dropped his hand back to the surface of the desk, drumming his fingers on the surface of it. "Each base we attack is condemning more people to death, both innocents and our own. What we gain by comparison seems to be very little." They couldn't even claim to have acquired much by way of information, and knocking out one base would just ensure another was built somewhere else, if they did nothing to weaken the core of the operations.

SĂ©verine didn't look like the line of reasoning had the greatest effect on her, but also quite troubled by the whole thing. She propped an elbow on the chair's armrest and frowned, tilting her head against some of the fingers on her right hand. "I wonder if it isn't the most misguided of my mentors speaking now... but I don't know if I can stomach simply waiting here, while the traitors hide behind shields of noncombatants and prepare to strike. Where, when... we don't know." The mentor she spoke of was undoubtedly Knight-Commander Meredith, extremely action-oriented woman that she was. Creating problems that were not there as well as fighting the ones that were.

"I can't help but feel that these people are condemned to die by our inaction just the same," SĂ©verine continued. "And what we gained for the first strike was minimal, but I have to believe there could be a lead to something in one of these bases. Where the lyrium's end destination is, who is organizing all of this, something we can use." She looked to be trying to contain the eagerness in her tone, but as was normal, she was not very good at it. "They can't have the numbers to strike anywhere, as the Venatori seem to. There has to be something decisive coming. Something strong. I don't want to be callous towards potential loss of life, but... I can't help but think of what could be lost if no sacrifice is made."

"We don't have the numbers to strike anywhere, either," Leon reminded her gently. "Troops are a very limited resource for us, and these bases are bound to be better-defended than a moving caravan. They will have built them into the landscape, entrenched themselves as much as possible. If we aren't careful, it will turn into a war of attrition, and we will lose it. And then be that many men and women down when they do make their decisive move." He could see the merit in her eagerness to take action, to do something productive, but that could backfire just as easily as not. He'd prefer to balance the necessity with time. The hostages had some of that left. If the Inquisition struck, they would not.

Sacrifice might well turn out to be necessary. He wouldn't shy from it if it did. But it was too easy to throw that word around when it wasn't truly warranted. "We need better intelligence first. If we can identify one or two bases that seem particularly prominent or centrally-located, the chance of good information goes up. Then we can marshal our forces for a decisive strike. Until we know more about them, about the heart of their operation and their strategic plans, I think the knife will serve us better than the hammer. Before this is a job for us, I believe it is a job for Rilien."

She sighed, deflating a little. "You make a very good point. This is why it's good that I have to come to you first. Too headstrong for my own good." She shook her head. "Intelligence first, then. If they're not required elsewhere, perhaps we can get a stronger scout presence in the Graves again? I seem to recall Lia mentioning she was taking personal time. If that's at an end, her services would be more than welcome."

"An excellent suggestion," Leon replied, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He didn't think she was necessarily wrong to think the way she did. Just headstrong, as she said. It was something that would serve her well, though, if she tempered it a little beforehand. "And I think we could ask her visitors to go with her. They are both exceedingly suited for such matters. Perhaps that will allow them to discover information we could not." He paused, making a note of it to make sure he remembered to get it taken care of as soon as possible, then glanced back over at her.

"I'm guessing you would like to lead the future excursion? It wouldn't be a poor idea at all."

"I would. I need to," she said, clarifying that like to wasn't a strong enough way to put her inclination. "Our last attempt was... well, it was a defeat, wasn't it? Despite destroying the caravan. We lost templars, we gained nothing, and you were wounded as well." The last part seemed to bother her equally as much as the rest. "None of our own will join the Red Templars, not now that they know what becomes of them, what they're enslaved to. But they need to know that they can beat them, that their faith in the Maker isn't for nothing. They need to know that I can beat them. I suppose I do, too."

SĂ©verine lifted a hand to her lips, almost as if to nervously chew on a nail, but she refrained, shifting uncomfortably. "Over the course of the winter here it managed to spread throughout my templars what... who I am, I suppose you could say. Where my loyalties were in the past, and with that the rumor of things I have and have not done." She exhaled a frustrated breath, tucking a stray few strands of black hair behind her ear. "I should've told them myself, but it didn't seem to matter here. Cullen never thought it mattered, even when I was still in Kirkwall."

"It doesn't matter to those of us that know you personally." Leon thought she probably knew that, but he felt it was important to say anyway. "But... yes. Things can matter more, or differently in a position of leadership than they do when someone else is in charge." He knew that far too well—it was among the reasons he was at such pains to keep his condition under control and as invisible as possible. "Showing them you can be relied upon is imperative. I'll make sure you're in charge when the next strike happens." And that he was not.

"Thank you," she said, earnestly. "I will do everything I can to achieve the best outcome. For everyone." She took a long breath, perhaps considering something else, but then she stood, slowly donning her gloves again. "I should be getting to work, then. I'd like to be moving out before midday. If I don't see you on the way out..." she paused, forming the words for a moment, "I'll try keep what you've taught in mind. And take care of yourself, please."

Leon offered a characteristically-mild smile, and nodded. "I'll do my very best. Good luck out there."

Against the Red Templars, it certainly couldn't hurt.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
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The Old Gods will call to you,
From their ancient prisons they will sing.
Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,
On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,
The First of My children, lost to night.
—Canticle of Silence 3:6
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Lady Marceline had called a meeting with the Inquistors, and the other advisors, all of whom were now gathered in her office. The reason why should be clear to them, as it was not secret that the Inquisition had at large received an invitation from none other than the Crown Prince himself. The immaculately penned letter hung loosely in her fingertips at present as she leaned against her desk, her other hand hovering in front of her mouth, hiding it as she absently chewed her lip. It'd be easy for them to tell that she was at least a bit anxious, but this was a matter of great importance to both the Inquisition, and to herself personally. It would have been difficult for her to hide no matter who she was.

A time and place for peace talks for the Orlesian civil war had finally been decided, and a possible end to the war that had been tearing her homeland apart for the last few years was only a about a month and a half away in the Winter Palace, in Halamshiral. Lucien had asked the Inquisition, and their Inquisitors, to act as a sort of neutral party.

However, it would be a formal event and there was no doubt in her mind that it would resemble more of a fĂȘte than a peace conference. The Game would be in full effect, as all those present would attempt to win and edge and advance their station and renown. It was the Orlesian way, with the theatrics and glitter to the hide the blades at each others throats.

"Where do we even begin?" Marceline asked, glancing to her sides where Rilien and Leon both flanked her. There was a lot to prepare for, and they had a month and a half to do it.

"...might I suggest the beginning?" Estella blinked, glancing at her fellow Inquisitor for a moment, then at the others, starting with her brother and ending with Ser Rilien. "I'm guessing everyone here who has an approach to dealing with the nobility has a slightly different take. I, for one, could use a refresher in the basics." She smiled benignly. "Perhaps some demonstrations of the kinds of things we might have to deal with, what questions might come up and that sort of thing?"

Leon looked thoughtful. "I doubt we have time for exact rundowns on every little thing, so it's probably best to go for the gist, yes."

“Personally, I think the how-tos of the things we'll have to do are most important." Cyrus shrugged from his place at Estella's side. “Greetings, fielding likely questions, how to act around people of different stations. Some of us occupy markedly different ones now than we used to, particularly our illustrious leaders. Perhaps it would be good to know what to apologize for and what to stand firm on." He paused a moment, then smiled slightly. “I can certainly model an insufferable aristocrat, if anyone would like to practice being face-to-face with one."

Ser Rilien met Romulus's eyes directly. “How many events of a similar sort have you attended in the past, Romulus?"

The Inquisitor's eyes widened ever so slightly at that, either with incredulity or perhaps some form of fear that he clearly did not experience on a regular basis in battle. He made what looked to be an uncontrolled glance towards Estella, tearing it away towards Leon, finally coming back to Rilien, though they did not rest there for long. "None, I'm afraid." After that his eyes fell a bit lower, wandering around and searching for something to fixate themselves on. "I'm, uh... I'm no Bard, I was never trained for that sort of thing. If there were guests, I mostly just stood with the others, and only acted if called upon. Which I rarely was."

Marceline chewed her lip some more. She had noticed how he acted with her when she was around. In hindsight, she perhaps should have done something about it earlier, and she cursed herself for not acting upon it until now. Still, they would all have to put the work in to ensure that the Inquisition put in a good showing at the Winter Palace. She made a conscious effort to stop the chewing of her lip, and let her hands fall loosely to her sides, before finally resting them behind her back. Estella she had confidence in, she had proven herself time and time again to be an apt player. Romulus on the other hand... They would have to see to it that he was up to speed by the time they reached Halamshiral.

"Romulus," Marceline began, as gentle as she could manage, "First, you'll have to maintain eye contact when you speak," she said, gesturing toward her own eyes, though she let the sympathy remain in her face. She could not imagine how he was feeling, up until a few years ago, his role was quite the opposite than his present occupation. It would be difficult to break that in only a month and some days. "Keep it in mind and work on it. Some of the sterner nobility will either see it as weakness or as an insult."

"Do you remember how any of these guests, or even Chryseis had acted in these situations?" she asked.

"She was different for every one," he answered. He was attempting the eye contact; frequently his eyes darted up to hers, but they could never remain there. A few seconds later they'd fall to somewhere else, down or sideways or to the window or the desk. "It depended on if they were an ally, an enemy, or someone she hadn't pegged as either. She had no friends. She was..." He let his eyes fall fully, probably in thought, parsing through memories of a very unpleasant and prolonged period of his life. "Never herself. Sometimes I didn't recognize her, or have a clue if she meant half the things she was saying. They spoke, they ate... Chryseis rarely hosted social gatherings, and I never went with her to any at other places." The last part he said as though he thought the idea was a little ridiculous.

“Chryseis and the Imperium aren't the best examples of what to do here, I think." Cyrus sighed a bit, and shook his head. “If you don't mind my saying so, Lady Marceline, neither Romulus nor anyone else needs to be learning how to 'wear a mask,' so to speak." He frowned slightly, the way someone might if they'd smelled something that didn't agree with them, particularly. “Better to be themselves in a slightly more polished fashion, I think."

Rilien nodded. “We would do well to appear above the fray in any case. There is no need for elaborate ruses. Only the necessary motions and a few choice deflection tactics."

"I completely agree Cyrus," Marceline answered, "Certainly manufacturing a mask is not what we want," she continued, sparing a glance for both Romulus and Estella. Not that they even had time to attempt to do so, even if they wished. "I do wish for you to be yourselves, as much as possible," she said, nodding to Cyrus in agreement, "but I want you to be confident in doing so-- or at least, feigning confidence."

"Maybe we can practice together?" Estella asked the question, turning to orient herself towards Romulus. "Like Cyrus said. Suppose I'm a noblewoman, and you're the Lord Inquisitor. If I approach you, I'm going to introduce myself, probably because I'm very interested in learning more about the Inquisition. So..." She smiled a little wryly, then dropped into a well-practiced curtsy, not entirely unlike the one she'd demonstrated during Lord Mathis's visit.

"And here I'd say something like. 'Lord Inquisitor. It's an honor to meet you. My name is...'" She trailed off, apparently not having thought quite that far ahead. "'Fiorella Costanza, and this is my husband Sabino.'" She gestured for Leon to approach and stand next to her, which he did obligingly, his smile a tad droll. He bowed properly, though, clearly intent on actually helping.

"It is at this point, you would return the bow and formally introduce yourself as well. Remember, however, to make eye contact and to project confidence," she directed. Of course, saying these things were simple in comparison to actually doing so, but with enough practice, hopefully it would come. She did not expect anyone to excel at anything for the first moment.

Romulus nodded uneasily, having already turned to face Estella and Leon. He looked like he felt a bit foolish, but he performed a stiff, unpracticed bow all the same. The eye contact was made, though being faced with two people made him unsure where to keep them, and he keep bouncing back and forth between the two. "Lady, Lord," he said, managing to look at the correct one for the corresponding titles. He paused immediately after, though, unsure. "Is it Lady and Lord that I use, or...?" He trailed off, apparently deciding it could be answered later, and turned his eyes back on Estella and Leon.

"I am Romulus, I'm... the Inquisitor." He blinked a few times, reddening. "You already know that."

Estella's smile brightened. "So we did," she agreed, with gentle humor. "I was just telling Sabino the other day that having you here can surely only be good for the talks. I wish they were handling things a little more directly, but I think you get used to all of the Orlesian trappings after a while." She affected a sigh, then moved her eyes slightly behind Romulus, as if only just then noticing something.

"Ah, but it seems you've brought a friend. Might we have an introduction?" From where she was looking, she could only intend to mean Cyrus.

He took the cue with some ease, stepping up beside Romulus as though a member of his party or entourage. “Typically, the person with rank in a situation introduces anyone with them, which is you. Unless one of us were already known to Stellulam, in which case of course the mutual acquaintance does the introducing. A name alone will suffice, unless there's something else they really need to know, such as an important title. But they'll probably assume Lord or Lady for the humans, at least." He nodded towards Estella and Leon, his tone as mild as his sister's. “Try introducing me?"

"This is Cyrus," he said, turning just his upper body towards him and doing nothing whatsoever with his hands, which remained firmly clasped in front of him. "Uh, Cyrus Avenarius. He's... um." He struggled for a bit, obviously thinking he had more to add, but not sure what it was before he'd blurted words, and then looked at Estella, clearly confusing himself. "He's your—uh, Estella's—the Lady Inquisitor's brother." He grimaced at himself, his eyes falling away from all of them. "This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"

"Well, that certainly was," Marceline admitted, though she smiled as as she spoke. she let her hands fall away from behind her and she took a more relaxed posture as she approached them. "But it was only a start. It will come in time. Time and practice, I promise. You need not impress anyone," she continued, inflecting a comforting smile. "We do not intend to throw you to the wolves unprepared, as it were."

"I don't think it was that bad, honestly," Estella replied. "You should have seen me the first time Master Horatio brought me along to a formal event. I was a wreck." She shook her head, relaxing her posture and placing her hands on her hips. "To answer your earlier question, Lord and Lady will do for almost everyone. There are forms of address that make finer distinctions, but you won't have to worry about those. The only exceptions are Commander Lucien and the Empress, and I promise you that he won't care in the slightest whether you you address him properly or not. The empress is either 'Your Radiance' or 'Your Imperial Majesty.'"

She brought a hand up to her mouth, dragging the pad of her index finger along her lower lip. "But really, I think the essentials are just the things we practiced just now, answering intrusive questions gracefully, and then dancing. It's not impossible to learn in a month and a half. And if I'm saying so, it must be true." She half-smiled in a typically self-effacing manner, but there was some humor to it.

"You aren't the only one that needs to learn, either," Leon mused. "We certainly won't be sending you in there by yourselves; I expect most or all of the Irregulars will participate. Perhaps it would be good to set up group lessons on this sort of thing? It would be easier if everyone learned the same things in the same ways, I suspect." He paused a moment, a look of clear amusement flickering over his face. "I can only imagine how much work Khari needs before we can set her on the nobility."

Estella snorted. "That's a very different sense of 'bear mauls the wolves,' I think."

"Oh Maker," Marceline replied with a small laugh.

“I'll help." Cyrus held up a hand, though not in an entirely-serious fashion, from the fact that he turned it into a jaunty mock-salute. “As mentioned, I have experience being exactly the sort of deplorable snob we have to worry about. And hence dealing with others of the same sort."

Rilien, too, nodded to indicate his willingness to assist, turning a flat gaze to Marceline. “It seems appropriate to conduct such business here, given the space. Perhaps a few times a week until we depart for Halamshiral?"

"I agree," Marceline nodded, "I will have everyone aid us as well," she added. Between her, Michaël, Pierre, Larissa, and Félicité , they should have more than enough hands to focus their studies.

"With that settled... Romulus, would you care to try again?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella had only seldom been to Halamshiral during her years in Orlais with the Lions. Usually if they were in the region, they simply stayed at Lydes, Commander Lucien's home, which was the next dukedom west, so to speak. Despite this, though, she remembered it well. Aside from the cities of Lydes and Arlesans, it was the only major Orlesian settlement without an Alienage, though the reason was a little more insidious in this case: the entire place was mostly populated by elves, and so the majority of the city was theirs to mixed results, while the walled-off High Quarter contained the estates belonging to nobility.

It wasn't entirely unlike Kirkwall would have been, if Lowtown had been mostly elves and melded with the Alienage. There were better and worse parts, but it did tend quite heavily to worse. The path in off the Imperial Highway was quite neat, however, the cobblestones relatively smooth under Nox's feet.

She rode at the front of the Inquisition's formation not because of any particular desire to do so, but because she was the one who knew the way. The other Lions in the army had volunteered to be in charge of the supplies, and thus they were about a day behind, meaning she was the only one who knew how to get to the seldom-used Drakon estate within the city proper. It wasn't too far from the Winter Palace, but after a while, all the fanciest houses started to blend together, she supposed.

They were not alone in entering the city today; another group was slightly ahead of them, a noble of some sort and his household, she supposed. The area was rife with evidence that more had passed this way; where usually there were merchant carts on the street, they had all been cleared away to create the widest possible thoroughfare, and a crowd had gathered along the pedestrian paths to watch the travelers arrive. Someone was flying the Inquisition's banner in the formation behind her, she was sure. They must have been, because the crowd was thickening with onlookers, and she could occasionally hear calls of her name or title, or Romulus's, or just general murmuring with the word 'Inquisition' interspersed.

She resisted the urge to pull up the hood on her cloak and blend back into the column of riders. The feeling of so many eyes on them—on her—would almost certainly never cease to make her profoundly uneasy. The best she could do was refuse to let it show.

If the eyes were making Ves uncomfortable, he certainly wasn't showing it. He rode beside Estella in his armor and lion cloak to brace against the air, which was still crisp and quite cool as winter waned. His smile was controlled, but appearing entirely earnest. Not giddy or overly excited, but obviously in good spirits. He offered brief waves and nods to those that caught his eye, or those that greeted him first. Few if any knew his name, but it wasn't hard to see he made about as much if not more of an impression on the elves that heavily populated the city than the Inquisitors themselves. Certainly more than Romulus, who rode somewhere behind them, quiet as a mouse.

"I do believe we're the oddest assemblage of individuals they've ever seen," Ves commented quietly, just for Estella to hear, or any riding particularly close behind her. He offered another wave, flashing a charming smile. Champion of the Inquisition, indeed.

Khari seemed to be enjoying herself, too; a glance back proved that she was the one bearing the standard, the pole of the banner fitted into a special cup on the left side of her saddle. She waved back at anyone who seemed to be waving at her, or even in her general direction, though her anonymity was such that it was hard to imagine anyone knowing her name in particular.

“We're still the oddest assemblage I've ever seen." Cyrus's words were laconic, drawling. He didn't look precisely comfortable, but he sat his saddle with good posture, not making quite the same attempt to stay beneath notice as Romulus was.

"Agreed," Marceline noted, tossing him a sidelong smirk. She rode in the saddle of her own personal black Orlesian charger as comfortable as ever, the eyes of the crowds ineffective against her.

Asala however, was a different story. She had her shoulders up to her ears in an attempt to make a shell of herself, and also rode beside Leon, probably in hopes of hiding in his shadow.

Zahra seemed most comfortable in this situation, which wasn’t all that surprising given her aptitude for soaking in attention. A smile wriggled itself on her face as she reigned her buckskin steed closer to Asala’s flank and leaned forward in her saddle, propping an elbow on the saddle-horn and resting her chin across her knuckles. She seemed pleased by those who cat-called names, the Inquisition, or whatever else as they passed. Faces peering up at them. Waggling fingers pointing. “No need to hide, kitten. They’re just curious. Big goddamn heroes, and all that.”

Their progress took them over Halamshiral's main thoroughfare and eventually to the gates of the High Quarter. They loomed tall, thick bars of wrought iron set in pale sandstone, pulled, she'd once been told, from quarries far to the west, where it was mined in the desert before transport. Carved into each of the square pillars on either side of the gate were reliefs of battle-scenes, moments from history long ago, gilded with gold and silver.

The gates were already open for the procession in front of them, and they were able to pass through without difficulty. The change in their surroundings was immediately obvious: there wasn't a house here Estella could ever dream of owning. They all bespoke old money and taste; only the most prominent and old families were allowed estates in Halamshiral, those with the title of Marquis or above, basically. Most of those were walled off too, but not so much that the chĂąteaux themselves weren't visible, planted upon each plot of land amidst elaborate gardens and increasingly-embellished architectural features.

She led the Inquisition towards the center of the Quarter, and then around to the left. The house she was aiming for was at the end of the row there, as imposing and grand as any of the others, its edifice primarily a matter of tawny stone blocks with graceful columns in the traditional Orlesian style supporting the entryway. It was large enough to have a few modest cylindrical towers amidst the complex silhouette of its roof, which was a cool, grey-blue slate. The best feature of the house itself was probably its many windows, the panels of glass inset into the stone and polished to a brilliant shine. The grounds were well-kept; the path towards the entrance was flanked by lawn, which gradually faded into flowerbeds and weeping willow trees, only just beginning to bud at this time of year. It was more subdued than ostentatious, but whoever kept them did not allow the house to overpower the grounds it rested upon.

They were greeted at the gate by a small group of people, most of them apparently servants, from the simple, tidy manner of their dress. But among them was a very familiar face.

Estella felt an immense sense of relief first, followed by a warm wave of affection. Nox was still moving when she swung off his saddle, hitting the ground lightly and running, dignity be damned.

Commander Lucien was exactly as she remembered him. Certainly a very tall man, his presence amounted to so much more than his height and his build. He carried himself with a certain kind of unshakable, quiet confidence, one that rolled off him in waves, like a warm ocean current and about as comforting, to her at least. He kept himself well, of course, dark brown hair trimmed to fall no further than his shoulders, a slight wave in the texture that did not lessen the impression of fastidious neatness. He wore his beard very close to his tanned face; it was only dark, even stubble at the moment. The armor he'd chosen was simple enough: chain and a few plates in gleaming, polished silverite. The cloak at his back was maroon, clasped at his left shoulder with a silver pin in the shape of a Lion, identical to the one she wore.

He opened his arms easily at her approach, and she jumped into them without a moment's hesitation. The soft oof he made was surely only for effect, and the fact that he ruffled her hair hard enough to muss it only for his own amusement.

"Well hello, Estella." He laughed softly when her arms tightened for a moment before she stepped away, both of them smiling. "It's good to see you." The words were a common sentiment, between comrades long parted, but his tone and bearing brought a distinctive, personal warmth to them that few others had.

"You, too," she replied, sure she couldn't quite manage the same but trying her best anyway.

His grey eyes narrowed a little, pulling at the thin white scar that bisected one eyebrow and continued on the cheekbone below. He moved his attention up to the others, then, where the house's servants were already assisting with the horses, leading them away towards a stable tucked off to the side of the property. "Made new friends, I see. Welcome, Inquisition. For as long as you're here, I hope you'll think of my house as yours." He swept a bow before those assembled, then straightened back to his full height.

"Accordingly... please call me Lucien."

"My house looks lovely, indeed," remarked Ves, striding up steadily and getting his first look at the Commander of the Argent Lions. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lucien. Vesryn Cormyth, at your service." He offered his arm out, apparently preferring something along the lines of a warrior's clasp to a handshake or salute. "I've heard many great things."

Lucien grasped his forearm without the faintest hesitation, grip firm but clearly not uncomfortably so. "I'm always concerned to learn that people have heard things. Living up to the reputation my friends give me isn't easy." With a slight nod, he let go of Ves's arm. "It's good to meet you as well, though. Nice to put faces to the names I've read about." He paused a moment, then glanced at the others.

"Might I ask which one of you is Romulus?"

He looked to have already been making his way towards the front, but upon having his name called Romulus drew up before Lucien. He'd been rehearsing greetings for just these moments, Estella knew, but something about actually standing in front of Lucien was obviously throwing him off. "I am, Commander. Uh, Lucien." He subtly grit his teeth for a passing moment, clearly displeased with himself, but pushed on. "My thanks for the invitation, and for allowing us a place to stay within Halamshiral."

Lucien's warmth didn't falter in the face of a little awkwardness. Estella knew it had faced far worse and survived, after all. "On the contrary," he said, "I am the one who owes the thanks, to you in particular. As events have been relayed to me, you helped my people on the day of the Conclave, and without that help, I'd have lost my lieutenant. My friend. Words aren't enough, but I hope you'll accept them anyway." He held out a hand, in much the same manner Ves had, his smile smaller but no less genuine than it had been.

"It was..." Romulus looked like he wanted to add something else, perhaps refute the need to thank him. It was nothing, or it was complicated, or he didn't have a real choice or say in the matter. Whatever he was thinking about saying, however, he kept inside, and instead grasped Lucien's arm, not nearly as enthusiastically as Ves had, but deliberately all the same. "You're welcome. I hope I can be of some use again here."

There was an odd, high-pitched noise from somewhere back in the crowd, soft and nearly impossible to hear. The source was difficult to identify, at least until a bright red head of unruly hair appeared next in the queue. Khari was wearing an easily-readable combination of excitement, awe, and nervousness splashed across her face, but the first clearly won out, because as no sooner had Romulus let go of Lucien's hand than she was there, wide-eyed and grinning.

“Hi." Her voice was strangely breathless, and she seemed to realize it, clearing her throat and smacking a hand against her sternum before trying again. “I'm, uh—you're Lucien Drakon. This is—this is amazing." She thrust out a hand, her face slightly too red for the chill alone to explain.

Lucien looked, to Estella who knew his expressions well, like he was trying to contain a bit of laughter. Admittedly, she was too. Khari, usually so full of bravado and confidence, was clearly more than a little flustered, but then Estella had expected about as much. He represented in a very obvious way essentially everything her friend wanted to be. The best example of it, in Estella's admittedly very biased opinion.

But he took Khari's arm exactly the same way he'd taken Ves's and Romulus's, patting her elbow once with his other hand. "So I am," he agreed amiably. "But now I'm at a disadvantage: you know my name, and I've no idea what to call you."

“Oh. Right. Khari—I'm Khari." She still looked a bit dazed, but at least the question returned her to some form of clarity, enough that she was able to remember to actually let go of his hand and allow the others to introduce themselves.

Cyrus did so with considerably less fanfare; Rilien needed no introduction at all, of course. Leon was next, the only member of the group Lucien had to look up at to any degree.

Zahra had been preoccupied the entire walk to his home. The grandeur of his estate. Things she probably hadn’t seen before, certainly not in a place like Halamshiral. It appeared as if she were sizing him up. Perhaps, quite literally. Seeing how Lucien was still much taller than she was. Her footsteps were far more assured than Khari’s, and her grip was about the same, mimicking the others by snatching up his forearm. She stared up at his face, and grinned wide, “Captain Zahra Tavish at your service, as well. Always nice to have a warm welcome. In a beautiful home.” A thick eyebrow raised as she released his arm, “We won’t make a mess. Promise.”

"Glad to hear it," Lucien said easily. "A pleasure, Zahra."

"Commander," Michaël greeted, a cheerful smile on his face. "It's good to see you again," he added, taking his turn to offer a handshake.

Marceline stood off to the side of her husband, Pierre standing next beside her. "Your Highness," she greeted amicably, dipping into a curtsy, while her son bowed.

Lucien looked slightly disappointed to be addressed so formally, but he recovered swiftly, graciously dipping his chin to Lady Marceline after he'd shaken Michaël's hand. "Nice to see you three again," he said, shaking his head. "Though it's almost like meeting a brand-new person every time I see Pierre, I must admit. You were what? Twelve the last time?" It seemed to be a basically rhetorical question, in any case.

With the introductions complete for now, Lucien took half a step backwards, gesturing at the house behind him. "I imagine you all might like to rest after your journey," he said, half-smiling. "As there's about a fortnight left until the Empress's fĂȘte, there is plenty of time to do just that. I reiterate that the grounds are open to you. If you've a wish to go out riding or use the practice ring on the property or wander the gardens, there's no need to ask. Both myself and my father will be in and out over the next two weeks; please feel free to ask either of us, or any of the staff, if you find yourself in need of something you lack. Your rooms are all in the south part of the house; I'll take you there now."

The southern wing of the manor proved to be every bit as rich and well-kept as the rest of it. The Drakons clearly favored furniture and furnishings selected for their craftsmanship. Most of it was deceptively simple, but made of materials like Antivan teak and the Imperium's marble, absent the gilt and flourish in favor of neatness and precision. Of note was the art—Estella recognized a few of the paintings she passed as Lucien's work, but others were definitely not, and she knew that for all his talents, he did not sculpt or throw clay, though whoever had chosen the decorations had an eye for such things as well.

The rooms proved more than spacious, grander by a considerable margin than most of those at Skyhold. She chose one near the end of the hall, what was left when everyone else had found a door. Pausing in front of it, she turned back to the man who had been her Commander.

It was peculiar, standing here with him now. She was an Inquisitor, and he in this moment clearly a Prince, and it was at once the same as and very different from being a Lieutenant and a Commander in the same mercenary company. Both of them had been runaways in one sense and exiles in another, and he'd always given her hope that she wouldn't have to be those things forever.

Now... Estella wasn't sure what to make of now.

He looked like he understood. Because of course he would—he was Commander Lucien, and he always did. He expelled a deep, slow breath, and reached forward to place a large hand on her shoulder. It didn't produce even the slightest hint of the fear it once had, only comfort. He squeezed, and she leaned into it a little, letting a tiny smile twist her mouth.

"Everything's changed," she murmured.

Lucien hummed, shaking his head. "Not everything." He eased his grip on her shoulder and patted it once before letting his hand drop. "Welcome back, Estella."

Even if it was only temporary and they both knew it, the words meant a lot to her. She swallowed thickly, then dipped her chin. "Thanks, Lucien."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
On one particular night, Zahra had chosen to stay in the Drakon residence to spend time with the others. She had already familiarized herself with the residence and trekked out into Halamshiral’s streets. There was much to see. Much to discover. Whether it was in the winding streets outside, or through the many gardens encircled around the Quarter, there was no denying the appeal it had to the explorers in their midst. Halamshiral was alive, a thumping heart—not as bustling as the other cities, nor as packed Val Royeaux, but certainly Orlais’ shining gem. Just as brilliant and lavish. Graceful, even.

Zahra had always liked Orlais. Every city teemed with life, intrigue and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Had she been born in such a place, she thought she would have lived much differently. Perhaps ended up elsewhere
 she’d thought about if before. A fool’s wish. One that belonged to a young fisherman’s daughter. It no longer swayed her. If she’d been born anywhere else, she wouldn’t have connected paths with Aslan. That would have been the greater tragedy. Still. It was nice to imagine. To think how it would have been running down the cobblestone streets with the sun beating against her back. Billowed, lace dresses. Manners. Masks. Naught a care in the world but women’s gossip and societal collusions.

The end of the journey. Halamshiral’s literal translation. Curious as to its origin, she’d asked Khari about it. She’d seen many elves on the way in. However, no alienage. It didn’t exist here. Segregation was still apparent as there were two quarters. One for humans and another for the elves. Strange. She’d posed many questions if only to learn about the city. As well as coming up with any excuse to drum up a conversation with Lucien. She wished to learn about him as well. He was a renowned Chevalier. A knight. A gentleman of some stature. Certainly respected enough to warble Khari into fidgeting mess. Pirates were hardly savvy of such individuals, so it only piqued her interest further. Besides, there was no guarantee that she would ever return here, after all. Best to absorb whatever she could.

She’d managed to rope Leon, Cyrus and Lucien into a game of cards. With less grave consequences. Certainly no loss of clothes. Disappointing in a sense. One could learn many things about a person that way. They were armed with half-full cups. A few bottles sat next to them. Graciously brought up from Lucien’s own collection. Where some had already retreated to the southern wing to get some rest, they’d settled themselves in one of the lounges closest to the front door.

The salon wasn't overly stuffy or formal, either. Like most of the rest of the house, it was... elegant, but in a simple sort of way, where quality stood in for gilt lavishness at just about every opportunity. The floor, some kind of warm, red-toned dark wood, was covered with plush rugs, mostly in what seemed to be the family's color scheme of green and silver. A fireplace was mounted on the far wall, precisely-cut grey marble stones fitted together almost seamlessly, with a wrought-iron grate in front. One entire wall was a bank of glass doors that opened onto an outdoor patio; the doors were cracked to let in the fresh air from outside, which occasionally stirred the light, silvery gossamer curtains.

Given the hour, most of the light was provided by the modest chandelier suspended over the very center of the room, kept alight in a pure, blue-white color by what had to be an enchantment rather than an actual flame. To one side was a spinet, unused for the moment; the wall opposite the balcony had laden bookshelves and a cabinet from whence their host had produced the deck of cards they played with.

Lucien wasn't a bad card player. Not so good as Estella, but roughly on a par with Leon at this particular game, anyway. They played arranged on the armchairs and couch settled comfortably around the fireplace; the upholstery was soft, dark green. Fustian velvet, comfortable and easy to recline against. The entire room seemed built for the ease of whoever occupied it, but then perhaps the wine was helping with that, too. From Lydes, where his real home was, Lucien had said, and left it at that.

"Settling in all right, I hope?" He asked of the group, making a small tsking sound and discarding his hand in favor of a new draw.

Cyrus sat beside Zahra on the sofa, leaving the chairs for the other two. He'd pulled one leg up under him, the other planted firmly on the floor, and slouched slightly into the back of the couch. He sat forward long enough to discard one and draw two, though. “Hardly difficult, but yes. Thank you." He reached to the end table on his side of the sofa and picked up his wineglass, taking a liberal swallow before setting it back down. Though the mood was hardly raucous, it seemed to be doing him some good; he looked more sanguine than he had in a while, though he did occasionally shoot the spinet indecipherable glances.

Of course, he had the right of it. Who wouldn’t enjoy the pampering of Lucien’s household? While only as temporary as their stay would be, she certainly planned to make the best of it. Skyhold had its own charm. Friendly faces, warm food and a stifling assemblage of an army that rubbed elbows together at nearly every meal. A family. After this was done, they’d return home and greet the mountains; plan important things. Focus on saving the world. This wasn’t a vacation but it was the closest thing she’d felt to being one.

“I approve, on all counts,” she fanned the cards out in front of her face, leaning slightly back in her chair so that Cyrus couldn’t peek at her cards. Not that he needed to. Even without a belly full of rye and an adorable kitten mewling in the background to distract her, she wasn’t faring well. She didn’t mind. Not really. Lucien’s reserve had warmed her nicely. She’d finished two glasses of it before trying to focus her efforts on gaining on them in this round, to no avail. “I’m glad you weren’t as intimidating as Khari described. I half expected a giant the way she went on. Suppose you are quite tall.”

There was a twinkle in her eyes; amusement. She’d never heard such a sound come out of the wee lass at the sight of him. She’d definitely remember it for some time to come. A fond memory. She discarded a card and arched an eyebrow at Leon, grinning wide, “Though not quite as tall as our Commander.”

Leon rolled his eyes. "I am often reminded that I'm unfortunately-sized, yes." He didn't seem to much mind, though, from the slight smile on his face. After his turn, he reached into a pocket and extracted what looked like a pipe and something to put in it. "Do you mind if I smoke, Lucien?"

The Orlesian man raised his eyebrows for just a moment before shaking his head. "Not at all. I might join you, actually. I've got a few spares around somewhere. Zahra? Cyrus?" He laid his cards down on the table and stood, moving to the same cabinet as before and opening the left door of it.

“Yes, please." Cyrus inclined his head before returning his focus to his cards.

A simpering smile replaced the grin as Leon produced a pipe. She, too, settled her cards down on the nearest table, and inclined her chin at him, “Oh, please. It’s been ages.” When in Halamshiral, do as they might do.

Nodding, Lucien reached into the cabinet, extracting the pipes and a small tin, along with what looked to be a short charcoal stick, probably for lighting. No sooner had he done so, however, than a quiet knock interrupted them.

"My lord?" The voice wasn't tentative, though its owner did sound slightly perplexed. "A letter was just delivered to the front door. It seems to be addressed to one of our guests."

Lucien blinked. "Come in, PĂ©pin."

The door opened, admitting a slightly-built elven teenager, his dark brows knit over his eyes. In his hand there was a parchment envelope, with some kind of seal on the back Zahra couldn't see from this distance. PĂ©pin didn't hesitate before approaching Lucien, making easy eye contact and speaking unhaltingly. "It's addressed to Captain Tavish, sir," he explained, glancing once at Zahra. "Whoever left it knocked until I came to answer, then ran for some reason. We should probably be careful with it—I didn't feel any powder grains inside, but..."

With a slight grimace, Lucien nodded. "I think it's probably all right, then, but we'll be cautious. Thank you."

The servant bobbed his head, taking the words as gentle dismissal, and handed the letter over before departing. Lucien brought it back to the table along with the other items, setting it down and sliding it over the table to Zahra.

"Do you recognize the writing, by chance?"

Upon closer inspection, the letter itself appeared to be composed of fine paper. Something not all that unusual in Halamshiral, Zahra was sure. Certainly not a fare she was used to seeing or using. Though it was slightly crumpled, as if it were left in a hurry. From a person who’d run away. Not all that surprising. A wax seal was pressed in the middle. It bore a sigil she did not recognize. The front of a dragon’s face with a serpent wound around its neck, cresting just over the top of its head. Deep, royal purple in color. Nearly black.

It did, however, have her name scribbled in small, crushed lettering at the top right corner. As he’d noted. She had to squint at it just to be sure. There it was. Zahra. The writing itself appeared somewhat familiar. Though she wasn’t sure if she were just imagining it. It could have been the wine, tricking her. “I’m
 not sure.” Who would send her a letter here of all places? Who would know where to find her? There were too many questions here, and no answers she could make sense of. She may have been known in the Inquisition
 though it was a stretch. One she did not like. It wasn’t impossible. An old contractee?

She turned it over in her hands. Nothing else, save for the name and the seal. Powder grains? Had she been any less confused, she might have asked what kind of letters Lucien was used to receiving. A lump formed at her throat as she inspected it. There was a half-hope that the elven lad had been mistaken—maybe it wasn’t hers after all. She stared at her name, and set her jaw.

“Suppose we’ll find out, won’t we? An admirer, perhaps.” Though she’d tried to wrestle a smile back on her lips, she found herself unable to. She dug at the wax seal with her fingernail, until she could open the parchment and smooth it out over her lap. The writing was familiar. The name just on the tip of her tongue. Unreachable. There wasn’t much there, to be honest. Hardly an entire paragraph. She wasn’t sure why, but she was reading it aloud. Her voice sounded strange in her ears.

“I never thought I’d hear your name again. Word travels far. Especially so here. When I heard you were with the Inquisition it gladdened my heart to know that you still lived. Years. It’s been years. I do not know what possessed me to send this. I do not know if it will even reach you. Even so, I hope it does. So much has changed since you’ve gone, and I haven’t the time to write it all. I won’t waste this chance. You have to go home, Zahra. Father is there. He’s the only one Faraji left behind. He will tell you all that’s transpired. I implore you. With the Inquisition at your back, you can help us. Please. Please.” The lump threatened to strangle her as her eyes raked across the final letters. She stared at it. Hard. “Maleus.”

Her hands trembled. It didn’t make any sense. They weren’t there anymore? Where were they? What was he asking of her? “Yes. Yes, I know this writing,” her voice sounded off. A stranger’s. Hitched. Crumpled like the parchment in her fist. “It’s my brother. I, I don’t understand.”

Cyrus exhaled a cloud of pale smoke, removing the pipe from between his teeth and peering at the remains of the seal. His brows knit together, a deep crease appearing between them. “The sigil—Contee. Altus house. Magisters." He leveled a look at Zahra, the expressiveness of his eyes conveying what his tongue apparently would not. Perhaps because she'd told him in confidence. But the pieces were all there: Faraji Contee. Once negotiated with to be her husband. Now, it seemed, tangled up once again with her family.

Though they were assuredly not quite in the same loop, both Leon and Lucien seemed to have caught on to the fact that this was very poor news. "I've heard the name, once or twice," Lucien said slowly, leaning back into his chair a little and crossing one leg over his knee. "It's hard to filter past the rumors that usually surround the Imperium's nobility and the Magisterium, but... I recall it being unsavory even by those standards."

Leon looked quite troubled, but also thoughtful. "It sounds as though this man has made hostages of your family members. Or perhaps slaves of them, if there was no one to stop him." He grimaced. "Do you know him? Faraji? Have some clue why he'd do such a thing?"

Thoughts whirred through her head. Ones she could not easily banish. Contee. Cyrus’s eye was far more attuned to recognize such a seal. Even if she’d seen it in passing—it’d been years ago. Not something she would remember. Certainly not something she’d found all that important while dodging his presence. She bit her lip and smoothed her hand across the parchment paper once more, finally shuttering her eyes closed with a sigh.

“He was my intended. My fiance. Ages ago. I thought he disappeared. I thought he
 just went back to Tevinter after I left.” It was a foolish girl’s thought at the time, thinking that it would all simply vanish. As if it hadn’t existed in the first place. Isn’t that how things were? She’d never known anyone who’d squirreled themselves out of an arranged marriage, but it seemed as if it were the case back then. Bride missing. Groom goes home. She pressed a hand to the side of her head and reopened her eyes, “I didn’t honor that agreement. Obviously.”

Slaves. The word crushed her. How was that possible? Could someone be powerful enough to unroot an entire family? She knew the answer. Somehow, that made it worse. None of their reactions had done anything to soothe the doubt gnawing at the back of her mind. “I don’t really know much about him,” she folded the parchment and set it back on the table. She didn’t want to look at it anymore. “But he didn’t seem
 capable of something like this.”

Cyrus frowned. “Easy as it is to think the worst of my countrymen, it might not be something quite that bad." Leon had only mentioned it as a possibility, and he seemed to agree that it was one. But then, it was one of quite a number, and perhaps it wasn't the one to fixate on at this stage. “In any case... if your brother is in the city, perhaps our Spymaster can glean more, if not make some kind of contact." He polished off his glass of wine, still holding the pipe in his other hand.

“And we can look for the information you don't have in the meantime, surely. I don't know much, but I've always been very good at changing that when I want to. There's a Magister in Skyhold's dungeon who surely knows more." He paused, tilting his head at her. “What I mean to say is that you're not alone. There are steps to take. If you want... I could help you take them." There was no artifice to his words—if anything, he looked a bit surprised with himself.

Zahra rubbed at her chin to do something with her hands. They felt awkward folded in her lap. She wished to fill her cup once more, drown out the leering inclinations warbling in the back of her head. But he was right. There was no sense filling herself with dread with what could be happening when she didn’t know all of the details. “I think I, I’ll take you up on that offer. Thank you.” She let out a breath and gave him a shaky smile, “But Llomeryn is far away and there’s no saying that the messenger was even Maleus himself. We’ll cross those bridges when we’re able.”

She was already scooping up her cards back into her hands. Less assured but wholly determined not to ruin the night any further. This was important as well. What they were doing here. The Inquisition. It may have been selfish but she wasn’t even entirely sure how she felt. Sorting through those feelings, and deciding what was to be done, would come later. She set about lighting one of the extra pipes Lucien had lying around. “Now, where were we?”

Cyrus paused a moment longer, giving her a look that was clearly assessing. But his expression cleared a moment later, and he settled the pipe back between his teeth. “I believe I was about to beat a pirate, a prince, and a priest at cards. Well... Seeker. Not as pithy if I said that, though."

He reached to his hand, and tossed a matched pair face-up on the table.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
Lady Marceline smiled as she opened the door to greet the last woman to arrive. Asala waited on the other side, a sheepish smile to her own lips and she timidly inclined her head and entered, quietly making her way toward the rest of the ladies. Marceline briefly pondered the thought that she was able to intimidate a Qunari woman for a moment, and what that said about her before she shrugged and shut the door behind her. Some days back she had asked for all the women of the Inquisition's Irregulars to gather together before the ball to help each other get dressed for the occasion. As they were representing the Inquisition, they would need to look their absolute best, and between them she expected they could do that. Some of them required a little polish, after all.

"Asala, there is food and drink over there if you find yourself hungry," she added, pointing toward the table at the far wall. They had plenty of time before the Ball, but they would not only need to get dressed and address the matter of their makeup, but also talk about the night's plans. With Asala finally having arrived, Marceline turned toward the gathered women and put her hands together, glancing between of them. "Now that we are all here, I believe we can finally begin. Unless there are any objections?"

Khari appeared to be eating the finger-sandwiches at a rate they weren't really meant for. Still dressed, as all of them were, in the ordinary, comfortable garments of a normal day; at least she wasn't getting crumbs on anything important. She raised a hand partway into the air. “Uh, yeah... remind me again why I can't wear trousers?" She shot a glare and an obvious frown in the direction of the garment bag she'd brought with her, not making any attempt to hide her distaste. “I mean, if Corypheus is really planning to assassinate some people, shouldn't we be able to move around better when we need to fight?"

Marceline didn't immediately answer. Instead she tossed glance toward Estella, wordlessly asking if she could field it instead. While she could have answered, it would sound so much more convincing if it came from Estella, and hopefully calm some of them down a little. Marceline hadn't missed the fact that some of them seemed a bit nervous about the steadily approaching ball.

Estella blinked, but to her credit she seemed to understand what was being asked of her. "The conventions of attire are pretty silly," she agreed, shaking her head. She was nursing a cup of tea, one leg over the other, only a slight bob in her foot to give so much as a hint that she might not be entirely free of nerves herself. "But one positive is that it's a lot easier to conceal something under a skirt than in what the men will be wearing. Not a whole sword, of course, but not nothing." She half-smiled into her teacup, taking a sip.

"I think you could get away with wearing your boots underneath, too, which is nice." That part seemed specifically directed at Khari. "Just don't step on anyone's toes or they'll be able to tell."

Khari seemed to consider that for a moment, but it was pretty clear that Estella had won her over even before the boots came into it. Probably because of the 'concealed weapons' part. “I guess I did kind of suck last time Ril tried to teach us how to do that. If the skirt makes it easier, I can deal with it." She sighed, stuffing another cucumber sandwich triangle whole into her mouth. They weren't too large, but even so she clearly hadn't quite grasped the concept of foods meant for nibbling delicately, to say the least. At least she swallowed before speaking.

“Okay. So how does this work, Marcy? I thought all dresses were the same, but then someone said something about slips and petty coats or something. What gives?"

It seemed as if Zahra had something else on her mind. It was difficult to tell if she was simply lost in thought or as nervous as the others were with the impending ball looming around the corner. Though, she didn’t seem like the type to be all that bothered by much. Balls, gowns, and pointy shoes included. Behaving herself would be another issue altogether. Like Khari, she’d chosen plainer fare of clothes; comfortable, easy to move in. Her eyebrows were drawn, and her gaze seemed focused on nothing in particular. She had her hands planted on her hips and offered no quips, no tease ready on her tongue. She did, however, turn to regard Marceline when Khari posed another pertinent question.

Marceline chuckled and shook her head, "Some Orlesian women would consider what you just said blasphemy. Most are rather proud of their dresses, and I can most certainly assure you that they are not all the same." Marceline thought about it for a moment before she added, "In fact, it is quite gauche to show up at a function in the same dress as someone else--but that is neither here nor there," she waved off. Glancing between Khari and Asala, who also seemed a bit confused herself, she realized that not all of them knew the mechanics of what went into a dress. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, letting her chin rest on the back of her hand for a moment as she slipped into thought on how to best explain in. She then glanced down at her own dress and shrugged, figuring that a demonstration would help more than just telling them what each bit was.

While it was not the dress she would wear for the ball, the fact remained that it was still a finely made dress would serve her purpose just fine. "The dresses we will wear tonight are not all just one piece, but multiple pieces. So it is not as if we can just put them on and be ready, which is why we need more time than the men," she explained. "That is the case for the dresses we will be wearing tonight, and just like the one I am wearing now," she stated, holding her arms up to give them a better view of the dress.

She then grabbed the shoulders of her own dress. "This part is the gown," she said, "And it goes to about here," she said, reached down to about her waist and picked up the tail. "This however," she continued, reaching for the article wrapping around her chest, "is a corset. They can either be worn under the gown, or over it. Asala," she said, glancing at the taller woman. She twitched at her name being called only for a moment before her attention focused entirely on her. "You need not worry about that. I... do not believe that they make them in your size," Marceline said with an apologetic smile, though Asala seemed relieved instead.

"After that you have the petticoat, or skirt, as Estella mentioned," she said, tugging at it, "And the slip, which goes underneath all of that," she pulled at the white garment that peaked out just below her neckline. "It is... complicated," she admitted, "But that is why I called you all here instead of just giving it to you and hoping for the best. I will ensure that each and every one of you will look your very best tonight."

"Well," Estella said, setting her teacup back down gently on its saucer. "I suppose we ought to get started, then." She stood, making her way to where several garment bags had been set carefully over a chair. Each bore a label, presumably the name of who it was for. "Let's see. Asala, this one's yours." She handed the longest of the bags to the young Qunari woman, then the next to Khari, and the third to Zahra.

"I've done this... a few times, anyway, so I can help with laces and things too if anyone needs it." She paused, tilting her head at the resident pirate captain. "What did you get, Zee? Nothing too complicated, I hope?" A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Huh?” Zahra seemed to almost startle as soon as Estella pushed the bag into her arms. It was gone just as quickly. A momentary lapse. A sheepish smile quickly tipped the corners of her lips up, however, and the faraway gaze sifted into amusement. She gave the bag a little shake, as if she could discern its contents that way and plopped down on a nearby chair, setting it at her feet.

“Let’s have a peek, then.” Royal purple fabric peeped out as she began pulling the contents out into her lap. She held it up to her cheek and laughed. It had certainly been chosen with care, seeing how it suited her dusky complexion. As soon as she pulled out the dress itself, she’d hopped back to her feet in order to hold it flush against her body. The details were exquisite, ribbed with green lace and off-white brocades patterned over a bare back. The middle appeared tighter, and draped down into ruffles below her waistline. It would most definitely need to be picked up to avoid tripping over. “Wow. You’ve really outdone yourself, Marcy. Not that I had any doubts.”

“You do look splendid, by the way.” She tossed her a wink and dug her hand further into the bag. From the sound of rattling at the bottom, there might have been jewelry included to finish the ensemble. She pulled out a matching green slip and the aforementioned corset. It was just as bit as glamorous as the other articles even if its purpose was to restrain and restrict. There was a pucker to her lips, as she pinched the corset between forefinger and thumb, “But must we wear these contraptions? They look
 painful.”

"They're not the most comfortable," Estella agreed, "but if you use them right, they aren't painful. The key is not to pull too tight." She carefully took the corset from Zahra's hand, reorienting it so that it was the right way up and giving her a broad smile. "If you want to start with the slip, we can go from there."

Khari was apparently quite far ahead, in that she'd already shucked off her ordinary clothing and donned the slip that came with her dress. It was quite simple, nothing more than plain ivory satin, which meant it probably wasn't going to show anywhere on the gown proper. Unfortunately, she seemed to have been stymied there. “Uh... how do I even get this part on? I feel like I'll rip it or something if I do it wrong."

She held the length of deep green fustian velvet away from her body like it was contagious. In fairness, it was a bit complicated-looking. The elbow-length sleeves, bodice, and a deep inverted triangle over each side and the back were embroidered with dark golden feather-pattern brocade, while the skirt layered beneath was a more humble, straightforward silk. It still looked entirely too elaborate for her comfort, and the way her face was scrunched was making that obvious enough. She shot Estella a look of clear puzzlement. “Help?"

"There's a joke in here about losing your pants in front of us," Estella replied with some humor, though she did move to assist, to her credit. "Uh, looks like yours is one where the corset actually goes on first, so... put that down for a moment."

In the meantime, Zahra seemed to be faring quite better. Whether or not it was from experience or dumb luck was anyone’s guess. She’d unbuttoned her tunic and slipped it off, as well as her pants; like Khari, modesty accounted for nothing at all. She pulled the slip over her head and pushed back any disobedient curls from her face, snatching up her own corset and turning to watch Estella and Khari expectantly. A soft, inflective hum sounded at the back of her throat.

Khari managed to bark a laugh, the line of her shoulders easing considerably. Tossing the gown rather too haphazardly over the edge of an armchair, she picked up the corset, turned it around several times, then apparently gave up. “Yeah, I have no idea how to work this. Lace me?" She held the whalebone-and-coutille contraption out towards Estella.

The Lady Inquisitor accepted it readily, moving to stand behind her friend and leaning around her so as to settle the band of reinforced fabric around Khari's abdomen. "Lift your arms for me?" When the elf complied, Estella loosely did the laces, then paused. "Uh, so this is the part that might smart a little. I'm going to pull this tight, but once you start moving around in it, it'll adjust a little, okay?" Another pause. "Maybe, uh... grab hold of the back of that chair or something. You're going to want to be braced."

Khari's mouth pulled to the side. “Uhhh... okay?" As Estella had advised, she leaned down at a slight angle and gripped the back of the nearest armchair, setting her feet wider apart for stability. Her braid fell forward over her shoulder in the process, ensuring no hair would get caught—never a pleasant experience, that. “Ready when you are. Let's do it." The seriousness was almost akin to someone gearing up for battle, which was perhaps fair enough, all things considered.

"All right, then." Estella had clearly caught on to the attitude with which Khari was approaching the whole thing, and was quite amused. "On three. One, two—" She pulled before three, tightening the thing while Khari was still relaxed and unprepared for it, her tug efficient and no more forceful than necessary. Deftly, she tied the laces to make sure they stayed where she'd gotten them, then stepped back.

“You said three!" Khari's protest was followed without pause by a grunt, and then a string of soft words under her breath, probably nothing suitable for polite company. At that distance, only Estella and Zahra would know for sure. She straightened, laying her palms on her ribcage and grimacing. “Okay, you're right, it doesn't hurt. But it's pretty ridiculously uncomfortable." She eyed the gown again and sighed. “I think I can figure this bit out, though. Thanks, Stel."

The look on Zahra’s face throughout the whole ordeal had paled considerably. A shadow of a smile and a snort sounded when she heard Khari’s string of choice curse words, spluttered out between her huffing complaint. The way she was holding the corset in her hands, slightly away from her body suggested she no longer wanted the thing bound around her midsection. Certainly not after witnessing that. “I, uh. That looked
 I don’t know. That was a little bit more than I imagined.”

She glanced towards Asala and arched her eyebrows, draping the corset across her shoulder. “Lucky for you there’s no death-trap your size. I’m green with envy.” She was dragging out the inevitable, plucking at the laces dangling from the backing. There was no excuse for her. This was in her size, after all. She glanced Estella’s way to ensure that she still had time to stall.

Estella seemed content to let her, merely offering a shrug. "You don't have to wear one. I certainly won't make you." She glanced at Marceline, though, as if unsure whether her opinion on that matter would be shared.

"To be fair, you all perhaps do not even need them to be that tight," Marceline answered. Like the others, she had also slipped out of her first dress and was now in the process of donning her second. She had already put on her slip, in her case a vibrant purple satin. However, she was currently working on sliding her gown on, with her corset resting on a nearby chair. From the exquisite look of it and magnificent embroidery, it was clear that it was meant to be worn on the outside. The gown she was currently working with was all black, with silver embroidery and white lace along the neckline, base, and sleeves. Her corset likewise sported the same color scheme, however, instead of more purple, there were accents of the Inquisition's russet along the side.

"Just tight enough so that they do not fall off during... strenuous activity,"' she noted with a raise of a brow. She of course, both meant dancing and foiling an assassination plot. There was a chance that some, if not all of them would need all of their mobility to ensure the night was a success, so she was more lax about their dress. "But no, with your physique, I do not believe a corset is necessary, if you would truly rather go without," she said with a shrug. It wouldn't make much of a difference if it was worn under their gown. "Though, you do lose a place to keep another blade," she said with a wink.

She finally slipped on her gown and reached behind her to lace what she could reach before glancing toward Asala. "Can you help? I cannot reach the top laces," she said as she turned and lifted her hair to give the woman access to them. Asala had also donned her slip, a soft gold, though she had not gotten to her gown yet. Instead, she stared at it as it sat in another chair, like it was about to bite her. The gown itself was a lovely white and gold piece, with darker gray accents to match her skin tone. When Marceline asked for her help, she twitched a bit before quietly nodding. "Um. Sure. These?" she asked, as she tugged at the lace.

"Yes, just make sure the top one is tied off with a bow," Marceline added.

Across the room, Khari's struggle with her gown continued. She apparently attempted pulling it over her head at first, before realizing that it was meant to be stepped into and fiddling with the ribbons at the back. “Seriously, why is every part of this so... fussy?" She scowled at the garment as though that would help anything, but apparently decided to slow down, taking more care with the fastenings. Her brows remained furrowed, however, a rather inordinate amount of concentration etched into face as she attempted to learn what was clearly an entirely new set of skills on the fly.

At one point, she yanked her hand back quickly, grimacing at it before popping her index finger into her mouth. At a guess, she must have caught it on one of the hooks meant to keep the ribbons in place. She gave no indication of pain, though, humming around the obstruction in a way that sounded like discontented grumbling more than anything. One of the phrases sounded suspiciously like 'torture device.'

A moment later, she glanced up and caught Marcy's eye. “Uh, so... I was gonna ask this earlier but I never really got the chance. What exactly is the plan? I know how to curtsy and introduce myself and pretend like I give a shit whether someone's a baron or a duke, but I still dunno what we're actually supposed to be looking for here." She blinked. “Am I just supposed to bodyguard? Because I can kinda do that, but that's not really what this is for, right?" She jabbed balefully at the dress.

"Correct," Marceline answered. Were she supposed to be seen as just a bodyguard, then she would have sent off for a suit of armor, but they would all need the mobility that being a patron of the ball gave them. In the meantime, Marceline had managed to get her gown tied on, with a nice bow at the top as instructed, and was now currently helping Asala slip into her own. She gestured which arms go into which holes, and how to step into it, before she began to tie the back on herself. In contrast to Marceline's tall and rather modest neckline, Asala's proved to be rather deeper and wider in order to show more of her ashen skin tone, which worked well with the dress she'd picked out for her.

"But regardless we should still watch out for each other and keep each other safe," she added, glancing around at Asala, who nodded in agreement. She smiled, and continued to work on her lacing. "First and foremost, in the future that Cyrus and Romulus saw, many of the key players of Orlesian nobility were assassinated," she paused for a moment before continuing, "Including myself. This ball presents the perfect opportunity to deal a blow to Orlais by taking out many important figures in a single night. We should ensure that they remain safe for the duration."

Marceline finished the last lace on Asala's dress, who spun once to test it. After it did not fly off she turned toward Marceline and dipped into a curtsy before she grinned. Marceline chuckled and nodded her approval, before Asala went back to her bag. Marceline then glanced at the rest and continued. "Corypheus undoubtedly has agents embedded within the court, so we must also find out who they are, and deal with them as well. However, this may prove to be difficult, if they are adept players of the Game," with that, she went to her own corset and began to wrap it around herself as well. She glanced back to Khari and shrugged. "Care to help?" She asked, indicating toward the laces on corset.

Khari looked dubious for a moment, but apparently any excuse to step away from her own issue was a welcome one. “Okay. Not too tight, right?" She walked around behind Marceline and took the laces in a firm grip, giving a few tentative tugs before she figured out the necessary amount of force to budge things.

“Say when, Marcy, because I sure don't know."

"That's enough," Marceline stated just before it reached the point of uncomfortable. As it was meant to be worn on the outside, it couldn't be loose, else it would be seen as sloppy, but fortunately the extra layers between her and it left enough room that it wasn't too terrible to wear. It was one of the reasons she preferred her corset on the outside.

After that, Marceline continued. "After all of that, we must also ensure that we win approval of the court. The people we meet tonight may have resources they are willing to share if we were to impress. At the very least, we do not wish for these people to dislike us. That would make my job... difficult, in the future," she said with a furrowed brow. She would have to deal with these people later, and it would be easier if they liked them.

"I would also like to see the peace talks reach a favorable resolution, though we are not to directly affect anything. We were invited as an impartial party, after all." Marceline added.

Estella, her garment bag draped over one arm, made a soft noise at that. "Well... impartial, maybe. But I'm not sure that will translate into inactive. Somehow I think that all of this is connected, and anything we do about the assassination plot will probably end up affecting the peace talks as well." She lifted her shoulders, meeting Marceline's eyes. "I can understand wanting to be neutral; I'm just not sure how realistic that is, all things considered."

With a small sigh and a slight shake of her head, she stepped behind a shoulder-height screen, tugging her tunic up over her head and then setting it over the top of the cover.

Marceline sighed and nodded in agreement, "You may be correct." If they were to foil an assassination directed toward Celene, then they would be seen as being on the loyalist side, and vice versa with Gaspard. Even then, if both were to be unaffected, that would not translate into a favorable result, and they needed one. Orlais needed to direct its focus on Corypheus, not on each other. Marceline, however, did not enjoy the idea of the Inquisition being the one who had a hand in deciding who won the throne in the end. But perhaps it was too late to think of such things. "In any case, we must be careful. At the very least, I wish to see everyone of the Inquisition leave the ball intact."

Khari snorted, tugging at the neckline of the dress she'd finally gotten herself into. It was much shallower than Asala's, but did extend all the way out to her shoulders, making it obvious that the elf's copious freckles were not limited to her face. “I think we can all agree about that." She grimaced, then shot a look at Zahra. “How're you doing there, Zee?" Bending, Khari started working her feet back into her boots, apparently taking Estella at her word that it would be acceptable to wear them.

Zahra’s response didn’t come quickly—she was focused on something else in the room. Peeping between her curls as she bent down to retrieve the corset she’d discarded moments ago. Though it may have been imagined, she seemed to be stealing glances across the room. Watching the flutter of gold spinning in a small circle. That is, until Khari swung a look in her direction and she turned away, chortling a quick laugh. She pushed her hair out of her face, “Getting by. This is a lot more difficult than I thought it’d be. Lords and ladies, I don’t know how they do it.”

There was a pause, as she watched Estella disappear behind one of the screens. She arched an eyebrow, “I thought we’d be all cozy with each other by now. Especially after that cheeky game of Wicked Grace.” Fortunately for the one in question, she hadn’t tiptoed over to invade her privacy. Though it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. What with that twinkle in her eye. Instead she hummed over her corset and let out a soft sigh.

"You'll recall that I won that," Estella retorted, flashing a small smile over the screen. "Less coziness involved in that."

Apparently Marceline’s suggestion had convinced Zahra that the corset might be useful as an extra utility. A belt of sorts, rather than a contraption made to make them look thinner. She stepped into it and pulled it up to her ribs, holding it in place with a strained look on her face. Her eyebrows were drawn together. Initially she tried to reach behind her back to reach the dangling laces, but found it nigh impossible no matter how much she stretched and wriggled her fingertips. “I, uh, I think I’ll need help getting this thing on too, if you wouldn’t mind. Gently.”

“Here, lemme." Khari, boots firmly on her feet, moved to help, a little more confident this time since she'd done it once already now. She seemed inclined to follow Zahra's instruction, though, and only pulled until the laces were snug. “I think that's all right, yeah?" She smacked the other woman on the bicep with the back of her hand. “Looking good, Zee. Fanciest pirate I ever saw."

Zahra stretched her arms above her head as if to test her mobility in the cursed contraption. She flashed Khari a thumbs up and grinned at her over her shoulder, “That’s perfect. Torsos intact. I can breathe.” There was a pause, as she knuckled at her nose, and scooped up her dress, slipping into it in much the same fashion as the others had done. Low-cut and baring her shoulders, as well as her back. Perfectly suitable for a pirate. “I’d say I clean up pretty well. So do you. Never thought I’d see you in a dress. Lucky me.”

She appeared as if she had something else to say, but a mischievous smile smothered it down as she retrieved her boots from behind one of the chairs. As if she thought better of it. Perhaps she would say something to Khari at a later time. She pulled her knee-high boots back on and ruffled the frills of her dress, assuring they could not be seen.

"Technically we're not done yet," Estella pointed out, carefully smoothing down her skirt as she stepped out from behind the screen.

The Lady Inquisitor, perhaps fittingly, had a slightly more ornate gown than most of the others, though not by much. The bodice, high collar, and deep, belled sleeves were all deep crimson, delicate lace layered over thick muslin. The lace became the upper skirt, draped neatly over a simple white silk petticoat, creating a striking contrast between the reflective, almost liquid shine of the silk and the fine details in the lace, evocative of swirling flames. A touch of the Inquisition, rendered subtly rather than overtly. Though the collar encircled her neck, there was a gap after that until her shoulders, where the sleeves started up again, saving it from perhaps being too conservative in that respect. The silhouette was clean, free of ruffles or frills, and rather elegant because of it.

She half-smiled at the others. "Hair and all that. Shouldn't take nearly as long, though."

Khari returned the smile with a grin. “Gods, you know you're just like... so pretty it's stupid, right?" She shook her head, which seemed to remind her about the hair comment, because she took her long braid in both hands after. “Dunno if there's much to be done about this." She flopped the end of it back and forth and rolled her eyes.

Estella looked a little pinker than usual at the compliment, but only shook her head by way of response.

At that point, however, their strategics were interrupted by a knock at the door. “If you are all decent, I am entering." The straightforward delivery and utterly flat tone could only belong to Ser Rilien.

Khari shrugged. “I'm never decent, but we're not naked."

With no reaction to the joke, the tranquil opened the door and stepped smoothly inside before closing it behind him. Under one arm, he carried some kind of box; the other hand went to the strap of a satchel he carried over his back. Clearly, his preparations were taken care of; the crisp, sienna-colored tunic he wore was considerably more embroidered than even his usual attire, in the Inquisition's gold, and tan trousers tucked neatly into his boots.

Striding to the nearest table, he eased the satchel off his shoulder and set it down; the heavy sound it made even with such care taken was a giveaway to what it contained. “You will want to arm yourselves. I have included sheaths and straps for various parts of the body; I suggest you take care with the concealment. If you are discovered to have weapons, this will end poorly for us."

“Rather foreboding of you, Rilien. Though you do look rather dashing. Are you dressing the boys as well?” Zahra waggled her eyebrows at him and flashed a smile, even if it wouldn’t be reciprocated. She didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. She was already crossing towards the satchel he’d deposited on the table, snapping it open and rifling through its contents. She took two daggers with their accompanying straps; presumably one for her ankle, and another for her corset.

She hummed and held one up to her bust line. “Now, how does one hide a sharp, pointy object in a corset? Between the breasts? Up the back? I’d prefer not to gouge myself in the middle of a dance.” Modesty did not run in her veins. She seemed to be posing the question to Rilien as well—for whatever reason. Supposing a Spymaster would know these things just as well as a woman would.

"Usually the back," Estella replied. "Most corsets are structured enough that it won't show there, if the blade is thin enough. So you'll want to save the bigger one for your leg." She selected herself a couple of daggers as well, handing a pair to Khari, too. "I'm guessing Asala won't be needing any, and that Lady Marceline has her own." It didn't seem to be a question; more of a statement, and she briefly glanced at the two of them when she made it.

Lady Marceline glanced over toward Estella when she mentioned in her name. She'd taken a roll of fabric from a nearby table, and currently held it in her hands as she looked. Something of a knowing smile graced her features as she rolled the fabric out across the table, and displaying her own miniature arsenal. A number of blades of different sized waited for their proper homes on her person. "Of course I do," she answered and plucked the first up, testing its edge.

Asala on the other hand simply shrugged, her hands raised with palms facing out. "Magic," she noted before punctuating it by wiggling her fingers back and forth.

That reply more than clear, Estella addressed her teacher. "What's the box for, Rilien?"

Khari hiked up her skirt far enough to slide one of the knives into her left boot. The other went into the right, given that she didn't have anything on the outside to hold it with.

Rilien merely held the small box out towards Estella. “Your hair." He blinked, remaining where he was until she took it from him, and then glancing once around the room at the rest of them. “We're departing shortly. It is advisable to be on time. Ser Lucien ought not be more than fashionably late." As abruptly as he'd arrived, the Spymaster departed.

With the caution in mind, the rest of the preparations went quickly enough. Estella took care of Khari and Zahra's hair: to the elf's bright red mane, she only added a small crown braid, leaving the rest of it to fall naturally, if a bit tamer than usual. Zahra wound up with an Orlesian braid, a few choice waves left artfully loose to feather about her face and neck.

Her own, Estella braided back from both temples, gathering at the middle and allowing it to join the rest thereafter. When she opened the box, she smiled to herself: Rilien had either purchased, or—more likely—made an ornament out of what seemed to be mother-of-pearl and silverite, formed into a delicate, almost lifelike lily, which she pinned in one of the braids, just behind her left ear.

Marceline had added volume to her hair and rolled only the ends to give them a gentle curl. Her hair, as always, was immaculate, a point of pride for her, if she was being quite honest. She had managed to get it to a point where it had a nice bounce whenever she moved, which had been her initial goal. Otherwise, she left it be, confident that its natural black color would be more than enough to stand out. She however, did don an expensive silverite necklace, the gemstone of which was nothing other than a jewel of jet. Once she was satisfied, she moved to help Asala with her ornamentation.

Before she had started on her, She'd started the rolls for Asala's. Now, with enough time when she took the rollers out, her long white hair gaining some volume of its own as the curls sprung up. Asala took a moment to swing to and fro, watch as the curls that she could see bounce around her shoulders before she began to giggle. The laugh proved to be infectious as Marceline also found herself chuckling, before holding up a length of russet ribbon. She beckoned for the taller woman to bend down so that she could reach her hair without fetching a step stool. Once Asala acquiesced, Marceline began to tie the ribbon off just to the side of her horn, giving her that final bit of pop she was looking for.

With a bit of cosmetic work for those who wanted it, they were as ready as they were going to get, down to the matching masks, the one thing that would unify all of them as members of the Inquisition. Estella pulled in a breath, then glanced at Marceline. "I guess it's time, isn't it?"

"I do believe so," Marceline answered, tossing a glance at the rest of the ladies. "We should not keep them waiting, then. Yes?" she added, making her way toward the door before pulling the latch, and holding it for all of them to file through. Once they had all filed out, Marceline followed suit, and shut the door behind them.

Eventually they made their way back to the foyer, where they began to descend the staircase to the ground floor, where the men waited for them.

The gentlemen of the Inquisition had, of course, also cleaned up for the occasion, in colors almost as varied as the ones the women sported. In addition to Rilien, Leon had opted for Inquisition hues. Actually, it wouldn't be all that surprising if he'd asked the Spymaster to arrange them. He had never seemed the type to know much about anything sartorial outside of uniforms and armor. Indeed, his discomfort was a bit obvious; he tugged a bit at the white sleeves of the shirt under his doublet, which was russet and gold. He'd opted for the darker umber almost everywhere else, from his trousers to the tie keeping his hair neatly gathered at his nape.

"As I suspected." The amused comment was Lucien's. "The lot of you are going to make quite the impression, I should think." He made one of those himself, really, in the green and silver of House Drakon, with the trademark mask, designed to resemble a dragon's wings. There were only two of them left in the country, and neither was frequently spotted in court.

"Well, this is a sight I'd quite like to remember," Vesryn commented. His doublet of silk brocade was a deep blue, snugly fit across his upper body and fastened asymmetrically up the left side of his chest. His white blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, smooth and shiny, and rather prominently displaying his ears, something uncommon for him given the way his hair was typically left loose. Judging by his posture he wasn't ill at ease at all, even if he'd never been to any event of this particular sort. He softly touched Estella's upper arm as she passed, leaning in slightly to whisper something in her ear with a hint of a smirk. Whatever it was, it flushed her nearly as red as her gown, but she looked like she was trying to contain a smile, too.

The Lord Inquisitor was wearing more of a scowl, at least until he laid eyes on the women descending towards him. His left side was obscured by an inky black half cloak, draping down past his marked hand. His tunic was crisp darkened samite, a dark grey roughly the shade of his eyes. He tugged a bit awkwardly at the belt fastening the shirt in at his waist. His boots as well were dark, and they looked both soft and flexible. In all, it was a clean look, and much less flashy than Vesryn's, for a purpose that seemed rather obvious.

It was about as obvious as the way he gaped at Khari for a moment, before he collected himself, tearing his eyes away towards nothing in particular and clearing his throat. "I feel ridiculous," he muttered. "Does anyone else feel like an idiot?"

“You don't look like an idiot." Khari said it with confidence, shrugging her shoulders, the usual half-cocked grin firmly in place on her face. “We all clean up really fancy, yeah?" Her finery was doing a poor job of likewise rendering her mannerisms any more delicate or refined than usual. She was just Khari, same as always, only shuffling around slightly awkwardly trying not to trip on her hem.

“Goodness knows that's the important thing." Cyrus's tone was arid, but a trace of humor showed on his face. He'd elected for a familiar color scheme—they had to be his family's. Indigo and sable, accented with silver wherever metal or ornate threading was necessary. The cape he wore was in the Imperial style. Paludamentum, they were called, usually only donned by those with some history of military service. Perhaps that was appropriate, all things considered.

Rilien, hands folded into his sleeves, tilted his head. “We ought to be going. The carriages are waiting." As good as his word, he opened the door at the front of the foyer and held it open to allow the others to pass. “Do remember to keep your wits about you. Like us, others in attendance will be much more dangerous than they appear."

A whistle punctuated Rilien's words, issued from behind them. Marceline only had to glance up to find the culprit, Michaël was already replacing the fingers in his mouth with a stricken grin. Had she worn less makeup, it'd been easy enough to see the blush creep into her cheeks, but thankfully the only thing that betrayed her was a wobbly smile that only took a moment to right itself. He noticed it, of course. She knew he hadn't missed it. He never did.

Pierre however, coughed into his hand and turned away. Rolling her eyes at her son for the moment, she turned and gauged the rest of them. "If this is everybody, then Ser Rilien is correct. We should be making our way," she stated, before outstretching her arm. It wasn't a moment later that Michaël was by her side, taking it into his own.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The Winter Palace was really big, and really... fancy.

Khari might have used a different word, like beautiful or something, except it didn't seem that way to her. It was overdone, in a way, gold and ivory and jewels and marble just dripping all over the place. There was hardly anywhere to rest her eyes that wasn't more shiny than the last spot, and this was just the exterior. She wasn't sure she could imagine a place that would make her feel less like she belonged. Considering just how ungainly she felt in all this silk and velvet, well... the impression probably wasn't wrong.

Good thing she didn't give a shit. She was here with her friends, for her friends, and everyone else could go take a long walk off a short pier if they didn't like it. Trying to keep that in mind, Khari trailed a bit behind some of the others, who all followed Lucien as he made his way up the central path leading to the entrance.

It was a chilly night; despite that there were quite a lot of people milling around in the garden. It wasn't completely impossible to overhear the whispers that followed as they passed, sliding through the air like hissing snakes. She could almost feel them on her skin. She thought she could make out words like Inquisition and Tevinter and elf, but that might have just been her imagination filling in the gaps. Grimacing, Khari picked up her feet and marched a little faster.

The building ahead loomed; the edifice actually kind of reminded her of a big cake—layers built in tiers around the same middle point, narrowing as her eyes moved up. The outside was white stone and pale blue slate, the windows arched to points that perfectly matched the open shapes leading out to balconies, verandas, and the like. Even the ivy was disciplined, reaching no further down or out than the groundskeepers wanted. Gold capped all the towers around the central bit, and the middle spire especially. A pennant that had to be five times her height and breadth hung from one of the upper floors down the very center line, its blue and gold giving the entire building a spine. Magelights lit the way up the path, bathing everything in silver and white.

She let out a soft breath, reassuring herself of the weight of the daggers in her boots. She wasn't afraid, exactly, but she was nervous. She knew how easily she could screw this up for everyone, and they needed to succeed. If Corypheus managed to tear apart Orlais, then... well, it would be bad news for everyone.

“I'm not impressed." She muttered that to Rom and Cy, who were closest to her. “I think they could have used more gold, don't you?" It didn't take particular adroitness to detect her sarcasm.

“Don't say that until you've seen the inside." Cyrus adjusted his mask, frowning slightly in the process.

Zahra seemed rather impressed by the sight of it all—the Winter Palace in all its glory. A far cry from anything she might have seen aboard the Riptide, trouncing about on the waves. A further contrast would’ve been the seaside fishing shacks she had once lived in, in Llomeryn or Khari’s flying land-ships jostling down woodland paths. She, did, however seem to grow anxious as they approached. Itched, rather. Her expression was pinched and she appeared to be looking across the crowd of garden-millers. Eyes raking. Searching faces.

She rounded up to Cyrus’s side, and let out a soft sigh. One that she may not have realized she was holding in. “Pulled out all the stops, didn’t they?” She smoothed her hands across the front of her dress and readjusted herself. A sliver of boot oft appeared whenever she took longer strides to match theirs. Short legs, and all that. “Hope the food is just as good.” As they’d been told before, having a glass of wine was acceptable. Anything more would hamper their ability to think properly. That wouldn’t do. Much to the captain’s dismay.

"There are many powerful players in attendance tonight, which means many people to try and impress," Marcy began, glancing over Mick's shoulder toward them. "So yes, I expect the food to be rather exquisite."

"And the wine," Mick added with a grin for Marcy's benefit.

It caused her to chuckle lightly and she nodded in agreement. "Especially the wine."

Khari was definitely not planning on partaking of any of that. They were here to stop an assassination, after all. Plus it was already going to be hard enough not to make a fool of herself. Any other night, maybe she'd have at least wanted to see what all the food fuss was about, but... she was close enough to losing her sandwiches from earlier at the moment anyway. She resisted the urge to sigh; they were approaching the entrance.

It took conscious effort to pull her spine straight, but she did it. Hell if she was going to let anyone here know this intimidated her. Lucien got them past the guards, and the massive double doors swung open to admit the Inquisition.

She nearly reeled backwards. Dazzling was the word she wanted, in the literal sense. Khari blinked several times and tried to find something to focus on that wasn't blindingly-gold. Her eyes settled on Rom, but that was a bad idea for other reasons, so she slid them to Zee instead. Dark purple was nice to look at.

“Okay, you were right, Cy, I take it back." After a bit more adjusting, the entranceway was less overwhelming and she could actually make out some of the details.

Warm light bathed the gold statues flanking either side of the long hallway; the arched ceiling above was supported by two rows of narrow marble columns in pale white. The floor tiles even had gold leaf in them, pressed into more marble and what looked like lapis or something else meant to capture the complementary blue. All the drapes were blue, too, pulled back away from gleaming windows which just reflected more light. Practically everything glittered, including the people. Khari glanced down at herself; apparently the embroidery in her gown was picking up some of it, too, glinting against the darker green. At least she wasn't in yellow like Asala. Marcy's black made a lot more sense now.

“So... what now? We go say hi to Celene or...?" She let her attention bounce between the several people who might have some kind of answer for her.

"For now, we wait to be formally announced," Marcy answered, finally allowing Mick the use of his arm again. "There are certain courtesies we much observe first, unfortunately," she added with an apologetic smile, though it was tinged with a bit of humor. "But until then," she said, looking away and to someone across the hall, "We socialize." She then turned to face the other party and gingerly curtsied in their direction.

That seemed to be a cue, and the group split themselves into more manageable groups. Probably a few people had an idea of how that was supposed to go, but she wasn't exactly one of them. What she did know was that while Marcy handled the first comers, Khari wound up with Rom and Leon. She wasn't sure how this was going to go, exactly—none of them were exactly the best at this court stuff.

“So... socialize, huh?" She tapped the toe of her boot against the ground. “Any ideas, guys? Because otherwise I'm probably gonna go talk to the first person I see, and I feel like that's probably not a great idea."

Perhaps fortunately, Leon didn't have to answer—their group was approached by a couple. They were both perhaps in their middle age, though it didn't show all that well on their deep complexions. The woman's gown was a rather bold shade of orange, like a tropical fruit, accented with green to temper the effect of the room's brightness, perhaps. The man whose arm she had in hers was dressed in the green to match, with an orange sash. His expression was something like fond exasperation; her eyes were lit with some combination of determination, enthusiasm, and curiosity, visible even despite the obstruction of the mask.

"Lord Inquisitor." She greeted Rom first, dropping into a curtsey that seemed to be directed at all three of them. "It's an honor to meet you. My name is Fiorella Costanza. This is my husband, Sabino." She gestured to the man beside her, who put his hand to his heart and bowed.

Khari knew Rom's reactions well enough to know that he almost had to contain a laugh. It was understandable, too; Fiorella had been Stel's default personality to assume in their practice sessions leading up to the event, whenever she'd needed to impersonate a noblewoman for them. If anything, Rom actually looked a little relieved behind the silverite of his mask. "Lady Fiorella, Lord Sabino," he bowed for them, a well practiced motion by now, "the honor is mine. I've heard nothing but good things from Estella. Please, call me Romulus." There had been some discussion as to whether or not to use his birth name, Tavio Abeita, over the one the Tevinter Chantry brothers had given him, but in the end it had of course been left up to Rom, and obviously he'd made his decision.

He gestured to the others with him. According to what they'd been taught, it was on him to introduce his choice of companions. "Allow me to introduce Ser Leonhardt Albrecht, Commander of our military forces, and Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, a member of our force of Irregulars."

"And a pleasure to meet you both as well," Fiorella replied, apparently quite genuine in the sentiment. "I'm flattered to know Estella has spoken well of us—though admittedly not terribly surprised, all things considered."

Sabino nodded; now that the introductions were over, the other parties to the conversation could participate without breach of etiquette. "She speaks of you, as well. Good things, likewise. I'd say welcome, but... I don't think everyone here has a welcoming attitude, if you take my meaning." He grimaced a bit, and shook his head.

Fiorella pursed her lips. "That is true, I suppose. But please: I want you to know that we are glad to have you here. If you like, just call us by our names, and we're here if there's anything we can help you with. I don't think you'll find it easy, being here, but I trust that His Highness has a reason for inviting you. And that you had a reason to accept." For a moment, a flicker of worry passed over her face, but it was soon gone.

Khari, whose nose had been wrinkled for the duration of her introduction, felt her eyebrows hike up beneath her mask. That was awfully kind, but then... they did seem to be friends of Stel's, so maybe that just made good sense.

“Khari." She amended her introduction because they were friendly; she knew why her whole name was necessary here, after all. “And, uh... do you know who exactly's against us here? Or why?" Some parts of it were pretty obvious, but if they had some special information, it couldn't hurt to know, surely.

Fiorella half-smiled. "Your Inquisition is unconventional in the extreme, my dear," she replied, the lilt of her Antivan accent coming through quite clearly. "There are people who won't like that on principle. You did just walk three elves and a Qunari into the middle of the Empress's fĂȘte. A large number will take exception just to that, before your organization's politics are even considered. Don't... be too surprised if some people refuse to speak to you, in particular." She seemed to think the reason for that specifically needed no finer a point.

"It may sound unintuitive, but if it were only rampant racism, you might have an easier time," Sabino added. "But there's also the fact that both of your leaders are from the Imperium, in one fashion or another. They certainly have Imperial names." He paused, expression softening slightly. "It's quite a strong name, by the way. Romulus. Has a bit of weight to it."

"And if we do bring politics into it?" Leon asked, glancing about the room as though to spot a threat. As though any threat would so easily reveal itself here.

With a sigh, Fiorella shook her head. "Well... we are here with the ostensible aim of ending the Civil War. Your Inquisition is already known to have aided the Empress's forces, at one point. But you arrived with the Crown Prince. He's not officially in contention for the throne—that's between Her Majesty and the Grand Duke. But that doesn't stop some people from wondering. From seeing you as a threat to their position, whatever it may be. I don't envy your task, to say the least."

"We'll do our best to navigate our way through," Rom promised. For all his rehearsal of how to act around them, he actually looked mostly at ease. These two were an easy pair to speak with, at any rate. "Any other names you think we should be aware of here? People to watch out for?" If the Empress or the Grand Duke were going to try anything tonight, they almost certainly wouldn't be doing it in person, after all.

Fiorella hesitated, meaning Sabino was quicker on the draw with a reply. "Lady Elodie is still not pleased with the outcome of Lord Julien's trial—Estella was involved in that. She's also generally very unpleasant, but she has the Empress's ear. I would be careful around her. And also... The Grand Duke's sister, Florianne. She's in the inner circles of both parties in a Civil War. If she's not planning something, I'm the court jester." His tone was quite dry, suggesting nothing of the sort.

Khari committed the names to memory, though she really had no idea who they referred to. She might have heard about Elodie from Stel once or twice, but she didn't remember the exact context. Something about her last time in Orlais. Still... now if they met, Khari would know to be on the lookout. Not that she planned on being anything but with anyone around here.

But the conversation had reached the time limit of politeness; Fiorella and Sabino took their leave with one more round of bows—much less formal—all the way around, and Khari heaved a sigh.

“Maybe we'll get lucky and everyone we run into will be like them."

She wasn't counting on it, though.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
So far Rom was managing to stay afloat solely because there wasn't much required by him in the way of conversation-making.

The predictions they'd made in their practice were proving to be right; everyone wanted to meet the Inquisition, more specifically the Inquisitors themselves, which meant that there was barely time for more than introductions before they needed to move on to someone else. The nobles themselves seemed to realize this, most not attempting to take up more than a few seconds of his time. Those that did were more often than not muscled in on by others before they could offer much. Rom was well-practiced in introductions by this point, though Khari's full name became a serious mouthful after the first few times he said it. He hoped she could forgive him for the excessive use of it.

Estella was likewise buried in eager Orlesians hoping to meet her. It was hard to tell, but Rom suspected the Lady Inquisitor was drawing a larger crowd than the Lord, though not by much. She was certainly more approachable, but it could be easily argued that Rom was more intriguing. The stories about him were somewhat wilder and more varied. Not to say rumor about Estella had been anything resembling mundane. He shared a sympathetic look with her when they passed once; it was all he had time for.

He was eager to be moving on, to get all these introductions out of the way so they could get to the real work they were here for. At some point they would be called inside the ballroom to introduce themselves to the Empress, but until then they were supposedly meant to enjoy themselves socializing. Rom had started out focused, taking down names and linking them with the variety of masks he saw, hoping he might be able to remember most, if not all of them. Now, though... he could barely remember most of the names right after they were said. Many of them had such thick Orlesian accents he couldn't even understand them on the first try, and the masks and dresses and doublets all started to blend together after a time.

"Is this the Lord Inquisitor, then?" asked a man in a burgundy doublet, drawing Rom's attention to his left. His mask was gold, or gilded rather, with a supremely pointed nose and eyebrows that gave him the look of being perpetually amused. He leaned against the nearby banister. "I've caught you at last. Lord Jaspar Droz, of Jader." That explained his much less severe accent. Jader was situated right on the border of Ferelden, and saw much wider range in its population.

"A pleasure, Lord Jaspar," Rom greeted with a short bow, the motion almost subconscious by this point. "I am the Lord Inquisitor, yes. My name is Romulus. Allow me to introduce—"

"Ser Leonhardt Albrecht and Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, yes, yes," Jaspar interrupted. "We have limited time, so perhaps we can skip what I've already overheard." He cleared his throat, taking a step away from the banister towards them. "I've been following the Inquisition's work quite closely. A bit hard not to, in Jader. Quite remarkable things you've done."

Next to Rom, Khari shifted a bit; one of her hands found her hip. She'd been struggling a bit as the introductions continued; it was obvious enough that her attention had flagged, but something about the cadence or tone Lord Jaspar used snapped it back into focus on the conversation. “Not that surprising, is it?" She bared her teeth in a smile that didn't quite reach genuine friendliness. Though perhaps one would have to be familiar with her inventory of them to know that. “Tends to be what happens when you put a bunch of remarkable people in an exceptional situation."

"We have done what we can with our lot," Leon added, considerably more modestly. Rom had been able to glean that he had at least some experience with events like this; he'd taught as much as he learned at the etiquette practices, and seemed to have a considerable amount of endurance for repetitive introductions. Though it would clearly be a mistake to say he was enjoying himself, as they'd been urged to do. The natural fact that his height and coloration made him stand out in a crowd bothered him a little more here than it did among soldiers, apparently—he held himself just uncomfortably enough that it was noticeable. "But there is yet much to do."

"Indeed," Jaspar said, nodding, "what the Inquisition intends to do in the future has been a subject of much debate among the nobility." Through the slits in his mask Rom could see his eyes narrow. "You have already demonstrated great audacity, building an army that answers to no nation, occupying a fortress in Fereldan lands, marching your army through southern Orlais when it pleases you..." Though the words were phrased almost as accusation, the tone that accompanied them was entirely pleasant, in the obviously disingenuous way. Somehow it made it seem more acidic than if he were spitting with anger.

"Makes the good people of Orlais wonder what your intentions truly are. You in particular, Lord Inquisitor." Jaspar tilted his head at Rom slightly, examining him. Not for the first time Rom wished he were without his own mask, as he felt foolish behind it. Such a stupid quirk of their culture. "There are many who believe you showed your true colors when you attempted to prop yourself up as a descendant of blessed Andraste herself. As if being declared the Lady's Herald was not enough!"

"I was deceived by a carefully constructed lie," Rom said. "We all were." He was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. The air was not as cool in here as it had been outside, with all the people waiting for the ceremonies to officially begin.

Jaspar scoffed softly. "Of course, of course. A lie the Inquisition seemed all too ready to go along with." His eyes then shifted to Khari, and he hummed in thought momentarily. "Istimaethoriel... no city elf name. I'd not be surprised to see Dalish markings behind that mask of yours. Tell me, elf, did you believe your Herald to be descended from Andraste herself, as apparently all the Inquisition's leadership did?"

“Didn't matter to me when they said he was, didn't matter to me when they said he wasn't." Khari tilted her chin up a little; it wasn't hard to read the stubborn twist to her mouth. Mask or not, she might as well have been barefaced. The honesty practically rolled off her in waves. “He's a leader worth following, with a cause worth fighting for, no matter whose blood he is." She shrugged, but her expression was too hard for the motion to have any of the carelessness it might have otherwise implied. “I don't need any god's authority to tell me that. My eyes'll do just fine."

"Silly of me to expect any kind of piety from an elf, I suppose," Jaspar said, almost laughing as though it were indeed a rather funny joke he'd just told. Of all the possible subjects, this was the one Rom felt the worst about discussing, if only because he still felt he had no decent way of justifying it. His motives had been selfish above all. It hadn't been about the Inquisition or Andraste or the Maker for him, but about the rush of finding out who his family had been, and trying to do something, anything to feel like he belonged to that.

"You are still a High Seeker, are you not Ser Leonhardt?" Rom started looking about as Jaspar continued, wondering if anyone else would come to muscle in here, but he seemed to have chosen his moment well. "As of when the Inquisition came through Jader on this mad quest, the Herald had not yet been named Inquisitor. This leads me to believe you granted him the title after he was proven a fraud. Does this Inquisition make a habit of rewarding heresy? Idiocy? Both?"

"The heretics are dead," Leon replied mildly, blinking at Jaspar with an unperturbed expression. "The Lord Inquisitor killed them both himself, actually." He tilted his head a few degrees to the side. "It was due to him the deception was discovered, and due to him it was ended. The sacrifice of what could have been great personal gain for the sake of the truth over deception and right over wrong is best rewarded wherever it occurs, I have found."

He glanced for a moment at Rom, and then his eyes moved briefly to Khari. "I have been most pleased to discover that ours is, above all else, an organization of faith. Faith that what is best in us and the world will triumph. I have learned a great many lessons in it myself, some of them from impious elves. I find that this fact does not sit so poorly with my own faith in the Maker."

Rom was immensely grateful that he had his friends at his back for this. They'd worded his defense far better than he could have hoped to do himself. Even Lord Jaspar, who seemed so intent on despising him, obviously had to reconsider his next move. In the end, he smiled pleasantly. "Well spoken, Ser. It's plain to see the Inquisition did not come to Halamshiral unprepared. As for your Lord Inquisitor, I will have to reserve judge—"

A bell sounded clearly, cutting through the din of conversation permeating the room. It seemed it was time, then, for the formal introductions to the Empress and the court to take place. Rom bowed his head rather than wait for Jaspar to finish his thought. "It's been a pleasure, Lord Jaspar. I hope you have a pleasant evening." Accepting the nod of the man's head as enough of a farewell, Rom led the way towards the great double doors separating them from the ballroom. He walked closed enough to nearly bump shoulders with Khari. "Thanks for that, both of you."

Leon actually smiled a bit at that. "Not at all. I didn't even have to say anything untrue."

“What Leon said." Khari leaned slightly sideways to knock her bare shoulder into his arm for just a moment. “We've got your back." She pushed a sigh through her nose; observing the flow of the crowd in front of them. “Marcy says I don't get to meet the really important people, though, so I'm gonna have to watch it from a bit further away this time." From the way her mask shifted, she'd wrinkled her nose in a familiar fashion.

“You'll do fine anyhow. If it's really an emergency, give the signal and I'll sneak behind her and make funny faces or something. I'll bring Zee with me." She patted his back once, firmly, before breaking off to walk next to Vesryn and the aforementioned pirate who, along with Asala, weren't really noble enough to merit a direct introduction to the Empress. Zahra’s demeanor belied a remarkably indifferent proclivity. She had been watching. Intently. However, she didn’t seem to like Jaspar’s attitude. Nobles be damned. She did appear to be relieved that she hadn’t needed to say anything at all though. As soon as Khari joined them at their sides, she shifted and made a comment. Barely audible. Her smile was indicative of a joke.

Rom couldn't help but grin, the upward turn of his lips just visible below the bottom of his mask. Unlike dealing with random lords that took issue with the Inquisition's actions, Rom had done a great deal of practicing for meeting the Empress. Likely he wouldn't have to say much, as the formal introductions would be very brief, after which point the Empress would undoubtedly have more pressing matters to attend to. Still, there would be words exchanged, and Rom wanted to make sure the ones that came out of his mouth did nothing to damage the Inquisition.

A small group of guards permitted the Inquisition's party of nobles to enter the grand ballroom, with the others soon following behind, though they were directed to the sides rather than the staircase leading down and through the center of the room. Rom's eyes had just about absorbed all the gold, marble, and glittering surfaces they could handle for one night, but the ceiling in here was vaulted much higher than the entryway had been, the walls draped in banners of royal blue.

A crier noted their entrance, withdrawing the scroll at his back and unfurling it as Lucien led the party down the steps. There they waited for the announcement, which was only a few seconds in the coming. "And now, presenting: His Imperial Highness Lucien Thibault Drakon, Prince of the Empire, Duke of Lydes, and Commander of the Argent Lions. And accompanying him..." A pause, as the crier took in the first few names on the list.

"The Heralds of Andraste: Lady Inquisitor Estella Severa Calligenia Avenarius, and Lord Inquisitor Romulus." He almost wished he had a few more names, so as to not seem as a footnote compared to the others he stood with, but Rom did his best not to seem that way, and stood with straight-backed posture as he had been instructed.

The woman on the other side of the ballroom floor from them, behind a marble railing atop the mirrored staircase, needed no introduction. Empress Celene Valmont I looked radiant as expected, at least from this distance. Her hair was a very light blonde, done up in an elaborate bun to keep it out of the way of the glittering ornament of what appeared to be a large sun affixed to the back of her dress. Her color for the night was unsurprisingly blue, and her mask, unlike many of the others, exposed her nose and much of her cheeks, doing little to hide her somewhat gaunt features. She curtsied to the three that were presented to her.

They returned it, bows from Romulus and Lucien, and a graceful curtsy from Estella. The ballroom floor had been left empty and clear for them to cross, and Lucien started them forward, keeping only a pace in front of the Inquisitors. Estella shot a brief glance at Rom, wearing a small smile. "Shall we?" The question was soft, just a little offering of solidarity.

He was glad for it, and glad that they had been introduced side by side. Nodding, they walked that way, remaining just a pace behind the Crown Prince, who proved to be an easy man to follow. He had a presence that neither of them could hope to match, and Rom had a feeling there were just as many eyes on Lucien as the two newcomer Inquisitors.

"Accompanying the Inquisitors," the crier continued, as they made their way slowly across the ballroom floor, "High Seeker Leonhardt Engelram Albrecht, Commander of the Inquisition."

"Lady Marceline Élise BenoĂźt, Comtesse of the West Banks and Ambassador for the Inquisition, and her husband Lord MichaĂ«l Durant BenoĂźt, Comte of the West Banks."

The pair had entered as one, Lady Marceline's arm wound around Michaël's. She curtsied, while her husband slipped into a deep bow. From the smile apparent on her face, she seemed rather proud of the moment, having been formally introduced, while Michaël at the very least seemed happy for his wife, as his eyes were on her as much as they were on the royalty.

"Lord Cyrus Tullius Aquila Avenarius, Praefectus of Vantania." At this point it seemed the flurry of Tevinter names were starting to wear thin on the Orlesians, and unlike the other two Cyrus was not an Inquisitor or Herald of Andraste. The welcome was not openly impolite, but still of a perceptibly different mood.

Since Cyrus was behind them, it was impossible to know exactly how he reacted to that fact, but it was hard to imagine him letting it bother him much. His initial reception within the Inquisition had been openly chilly—there were still some members of staff who never got within ten feet of him. It seemed unlikely this would perturb him if that didn't.

"And Serah Rilien Falavel, Seneschal of the Inquisition."

Surprisingly, Rilien seemed rather more popular than most; or at least people were interested to note his appearance, from the slight hum of murmuring that passed through the crowd at that announcement.

Though it seemed much longer than it probably actually was, the distance they had to cross did not last forever, and the bows and curtsies were repeated when they reached speaking distance, standing on the other raised side of the ballroom floor. Celene occupied the balcony in front of and above them, alone for the moment, though no doubt her closest attendants were not far.

As befitted her status, the Empress was the first to speak. "Lucien. It has been quite some time since you graced our court with your presence. You even managed to nudge our Lord-General into an appearance, we've seen." The cadence of her words was light, practiced, diplomatic; even the humor seemed pre-planned, lacking the spontaneity of genuine amusement. Were it not for the familiar form of address, it would have been impossible to tell they were related at all.

"Your Majesty," Lucien rose with apparent ease from his bow, but he didn't refer so casually to the Empress as she did to him. "It has been some time; it is my hope that no more such prolonged absences will be necessary." Despite his relative formality, he still managed to sound quite genuine, almost warm.

Celene inclined her head, just faintly. "And such interesting guests you've brought with you. Lady Inquisitor, Lord Inquisitor. We've heard much of the both of you. We daresay you're the talk of Orlais these days. Perhaps the talk of Thedas, in time." An inscrutable smile curled her lips, painted petal-pink. "Tell us, how do you find Halamshiral?"

"I've never seen a city like it, Your Majesty," Rom replied truthfully. This was indeed one of the questions that had been expected. The proper responses, as he'd learned, involved not piling on false compliments and kissing feet. The Orlesians preferred things to be more interesting than that. "It feels like a place where the unexpected might occur around every corner."

The Empress's expression did not falter. "So it is," she agreed. "And we do believe you have brought quite a bit of the unexpected with you, as well." Behind her mask, her eyes narrowed just a fraction. "The unexpected comes in many flavors, Inquisition. Which, we wonder, are you?"

Estella straightened, giving a visual cue that she would field that one. Reading it easily, Celene turned her attention to the other Inquisitor.

"The moment we said, I doubt it would any longer be so unexpected," she replied. "So I'm sure Your Majesty will understand if we can't say."

The sharp look in Celene's face only grew more acute, but it seemed to be in some sense the correct answer, for she did not press, instead moving the topic onwards. "In that case, perhaps we will observe it in action. Welcome to the Winter Palace, Inquisition. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom. We look forward to the night's events." A graceful decline of her chin dismissed them, and Celene herself turned from the group to depart, leaving them to climb the stairs to the left and ascend back to the upper level.

That went well enough, Rom thought. The others were arriving behind him by now, and the attention of the ballroom was steadily dispersing as the guests turned their eyes on each other. Rom tugged a bit at the hem of his tunic, wishing his clothes would start to feel more comfortable. If nothing else, he supposed it kept him on edge. He exhaled a breath now that he was certain the entire ballroom wouldn't hear it and take note.

"I suppose we should be getting to work, then."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon suppressed the urge to sigh. He could feel a headache building behind his temples; he wasn't sure if it was a side-effect of his condition or just the stress and frustration that was trying to negotiate this rather perilous, rather ridiculous territory. Perhaps it was both.

So far, he'd had to fend off quite a lot of people asking for the opinion of a High Seeker on the other notable succession crisis of the moment. He'd made it firmly clear he had nothing to say about who should be the next Divine. It was a matter he'd need to think about eventually, but at the moment, he didn't have the mental energy to spare. He wasn't about to lean the weight of his position in any particular direction until he had.

Giving up on suppression, he heaved the sigh stuck in his chest when the latest gaggle of people moved off. Those had seemed much more interested in flirting with the Lord Inquisitor than anything else. It had rather quickly cracked the practiced demeanor Romulus had assumed for the introductions, to the point that Leon had actively interceded on his behalf. At least they'd gotten the hint once he started looming.

"Feel free to take a minute," Leon told him. "We can run interference for a bit here if you need some air or something." Regaining the centered, measured attitude he'd started with might be a matter of more than a few seconds, after all. That was just to be expected of ordinary, non-courtier mortals like themselves.

He looked very much like he wished he had a hood to pull up over his head. "We're wasting time," he said, through partially gritted teeth. "I don't need air, I just need something to do. Something I'm useful at." Obviously he didn't think that trading pleasant greetings or flirting with random nobility was contained in that category of things.

Leon could understand the frustration, though there was little to be done about it. "Unfortunately there will be no such tasks until someone unearths them," he pointed out. "And that is a matter of talking to people." He didn't like it either, but that was simply the nature of the beast, so to speak.

Pursing his lips, he glanced from Asala to Khari. The former still seemed a little dazzled by their surroundings, but few were brave enough to approach her anyway, though she got quite a lot of distasteful looks. Almost as many as Khari, who was making effort to be included in the conversation at least.

Maybe a group like this would have more success with martial types. In Leon's experience, chevaliers were at least a fraction more direct than their non-military counterparts. "Find us some soldiers, Khari?" She'd know how to spot them, and probably not mind doing so.

Khari blinked, as if snapping out of some thought or another. Not a pleasant one, judging by the downturn of her mouth. Her enthusiasm seemed to return a bit in the face of the job she was being asked to do, though, and she crossed her arms over her middle, humming thoughtfully and scanning the crowd.

A lot of the nobles were rather soft-looking, which made sense given their lifestyles, but every once in a while, there were one or two who looked to have more active pastimes. Disambiguating those from the actual chevaliers in the group would be the trickier part. Khari pulled her lower lip between her teeth and chewed for several long moments, then released it and grinned. “Them. Definitely them."

A jerk of her chin indicated who they were. A small cluster of younger individuals, only three. All of them were more modestly-dressed than average, but they were all also in quite good physical condition, and held their arms ever so slightly away from themselves, as though they were used to working around a sword-hilt or something similar. Two men and a woman, the man placed at the center with a slightly more mature appearance than the other two. They had matching tawny hair and similar-enough facial features to suggest familial relation of some stripe.

“Those are chevaliers, or I'll eat my damn dress." She struck off in their direction, shoes striking the marble-tiled floor with authoritative beats, clearly expecting the others to follow her now that she'd found what she was asked to find.

Their approach was obvious, and there was simply no way any of the three didn't notice it. The younger of the two men actually turned his head in their direction, eyes rounding slightly; he leaned down to speak to the woman, who shook her head and glanced at the other. His face remained stony. He scanned over them with an appraising stare, but then his eyes settled somewhere over Leon's shoulder.

“Well met." Khari, either sensitive to the fact the Romulus wasn't much in the mood to keep repeating the same greetings and introductions or else simply forgetting that he was supposed to, curtsied like she'd been taught. “I'm Kharisanna Istimaethoriel. This is Lord Inquisitor Romulus, High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and Serah Asala Kaaras." To her credit, the formalized words were smooth, like she'd practiced them, too. “We're with the Inquisition."

She paused politely for the return introductions.

A heartbeat passed.

Then another.

The younger man and the woman exchanged glances, both of them shifting their eyes to the eldest. He continued to stare right through the whole lot of them. They might as well have been air.

Khari's brows furrowed. She looked from the two to the one, frown deepening. “Hey. I'm talking to you." Still nothing. Her fists clenched at her sides.

If anything, the pounding in his head was worsening, but this time it was just because he was angry. Leon was extremely practiced in the art of self-control, however, and forced a reasonably-neutral expression onto his face. He knew what this was.

"Sers. I am High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and these are my companions, Lord Inquisitor Romulus, Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, and Serah Asala Kaaras." The words rumbled out of him, the slight harshness to them likely excusable as his bass being sonorous by nature.

Romulus had looked like he was about to speak up before Leon had intervened. Whatever his words were going to be, they certainly weren't going to be a repeat of the introduction. For the moment, he held his tongue to see how they would respond.

Unsurprisingly, there was a response this time. The eldest man blinked, pale blue eyes coming back into focus, and inclined himself in a minimally-polite bow. "High Seeker. Lord Inquisitor. My name is Thédore Blancheflor. These are my cousins: Ser Marine Blancheflor and Ser Jean Blancheflor. We serve in the Lord-General's fourth regiment."

The other two looked considerably relieved at the slight shift in atmosphere, offering a much deeper bow and curtsy than their cousin had.

“Oh yeah?" Khari's tone was low, almost tremulous. But it was quite clear that it wasn't fear that caused the quake. “And what about me and Asala, huh? The Lord-General fine with you just ignoring people right in front of your face? Bet that works real well on the field, huh?"

"Um—" Jean parted his lips to speak, but Marine's hand on his shoulder silenced him. She shook her head, expression uncomfortable. ThĂ©odore didn't respond to her that time, either.

Khari looked about two seconds away from grabbing him by the neck of his doublet and forcing him to acknowledge her existence one way or another.

Marine had apparently caught onto the fact, her eyes moving between Khari and her cousin apprehensively. "Théo..." She let her sentence trail off before it was more than a word.

He turned his whole head to look down his nose at her. "Yes, Marine?"

She cleared her throat. "Shouldn't you...?"

"What? Acknowledge an honorless knife ear and her heathen ashfaced friend? I think not."

That had done it. Khari snarled and threw herself at him, something Théodore seemed to have anticipated, because he caught her outstretched arms in his hands. She still managed to get them in his shirt, yanking down with strength he clearly had not expected her to have. His nose collided with her head and crunched; she released and shoved him backward. Reflexively, he let go, hands moving to his face.

“Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you, you little shit!" Khari glowered at him, lips peeled back from her teeth. “And take back what you said about Asala!"

Asala was the next to move, although she went to Khari instead. Her slender arms wrapped the smaller woman's belly as she began to tug backward and away from the confrontation. "Khari, please. That's enough," she said in her firm, but also gentle way. Her face had a hard line to it, though if that was because of the man's words or because of the effort of attempting to pull Khari away, it was unclear.

Khari didn't resist; arguably, she hadn't looked too much like she was about to strike again, though perhaps safe was better than sorry. Actually at the moment she looked surprised more than anything, as though she'd only just realized what she'd done and was no longer nearly so certain of its wisdom.

Rom watched the pair of them only long enough to make sure that Khari wasn't going to go after him again. At that point he shifted his eyes back to the chevaliers, watching them for the same. Though the night had just begun, he looked more than a little tired.

The altercation had clearly drawn the attention of most of the room; a murmur was sweeping through the crowd, and it sounded distinctly uncomplimentary to Leon's ears. He regretted not being slightly quicker to react to Khari's obvious agitation, but a small part of him wondered if he'd really have stopped her. Necessity would have demanded it, and he'd have answered that, but...

"What's going on here?" The new voice carried a ponderous gravitas with it, and the murmurs were nearly immediately quelled. A man strode towards them, dressed in formal armor, gleaming silverite with a dragon clearly emblazoned on the front. A deep green cloak fastened at his shoulders nearly skimmed the ground behind him. Though his hair was more grey than brown, the flinty color of his eyes was vaguely familiar.

Guillame Drakon didn't look much like his son otherwise, aside from being almost as tall and having a bit of similarity in the nose and jaw. The brow beneath his mask was much thicker, his angles hewn more roughly overall. In his wake trailed a woman in blue, with pin-straight red hair to her shoulders and a slightly pinched look to her features, but the same warriors' build as the three Blancheflors.

"Lord-General." Théodore had managed to set his own nose at this point; he seemed to be tolerating what must have been quite a lot of pain very well. He held the bridge of it between his forefinger and thumb, using his free right hand to salute his commanding officer. "This woman attacked me."

“With provocation." Khari was still not resisting Asala, but she did try to shrug her off so as to be able to stand independently and address the Lord-General. “Bastard wouldn't even look at me, then called my friend 'ashfaced.' Figured he ought to know what happens when you ignore dangerous people right under your damn nose."

"The situation is as described," Leon added. "Please accept our apologies, Lord-General. It was not our intention to begin an altercation." He offered a short bow.

Guy grunted. "Of course not." Crossing his arms, he fixed his attention on Théodore. "The Inquisition has apologized, Captain. Now I'm obligated to do the same on your behalf. Think about that next time you decide to make an ass of yourself in public." His scowl deepened, but he was clearly a man of his word, because he returned Leon's bow with one of the same.

"You have my apologies as well, for the actions of my men." He rose, glancing over the lot of them before sighing heavily and turning on his heel to leave, gesturing the three Blancheflors after him. That took care of the diplomatic motions of resolution, and though the courtiers were still clearly whispering about it, their attention more or less dispersed with his departure.

His aide, however, remained, smiling somewhat uncomfortably at them, particularly Khari and Romulus, whom she seemed to recognize. "Sorry about all that," she added. "I hope this won't damage things too much. Théodore doesn't speak for all of us."

“Doesn't speak much at all, seems like." Khari's tone was sour, but not as harsh as it could have been. Perhaps it had dawned on her what damage she might have done to their cause had the Lord-General not been a reasonable man. What damage she might have done anyway. Pushing out a harsh breath, she offered the woman an awkward smile. “But thanks, Vi. I think if we're not any worse off with you, it's only fair that you're not any worse off with us."

"Seems fair to me." Reaching forward a bit, the chevalier patted Khari's shoulder once before drawing back. "Come see me after all this is over," she added. "I've got some... news you might be interested in. Until then... good luck out there." Dipping her head to all of them, she left in the same direction as the Lord-General had.

Along her way, she passed by a familiar face. "I believe congratulations are in order, Lieutenant-Commander," Michaël greeted with a warm smile. There was a bit of pride for his countryman in his words.

She dipped her head, a slightly subdued smile making a brief appearance on her face. "Appreciated, Ser Michaël."

Once she was gone, his attention turned back toward the others, and Khari in particular. There was a thin frown on his face, mild disappointment in place of his usual jovial grin. It was apparent that he had witnessed their earlier altercation, and he didn't approve, but there was something else too. Almost like he felt like he was in a dilemma. The reason why soon became apparent. "I want to say I am disappointed, and I probably should as well, but... I cannot say I wouldn't be any less angry if someone had insulted my friend too. Asala especially," he revealed with a slight shrug of his shoulder.

Khari seemed resigned to her chastening, such as it were, maintaining a silence that she was clearly trying not to make sullen, though her face hadn't quite lost the glower since the Lord-General's aide left.

"I want you to know, however," he started again, tossing his gaze back toward where the chevaliers had exited. "That there will be many others who share his sentiment, and some will not be as polite," He then turned back toward her, and offered a comforting smile. "It is something to think on, to be sure. But I did not come to lecture you," he said.

"I bring news from Marcy and Cyrus. Apparently there are servants that have gone missing, along with a Herald," he said, glancing at Romulus, before correcting himself, "Not ours, of course. They're accounted for obviously," he said with a smile and nod at Romulus. "They've taken to investigating the Herald, but wanted someone else to look into the servants."

Leon stroked his chin, feeling a frown form over his face. "Missing servants? It's going to be a bit difficult to inquire, considering that most of the areas servants would be in are off-limits." He doubted any of them would want to speak within earshot of twenty nobles about such a thing. They were probably quite expected to remain discreet at any cost. Of course... he couldn't say he cared that much about the limits placed on accessible areas of the building.

"Perhaps this last incident will serve a purpose after all. No one will be surprised if we make ourselves scarce for a few minutes at least. As long as we're back quickly enough, it shouldn't be all that suspicious." Leon turned his attention to Romulus, arching an eyebrow under his mask. "Your orders, Lord Inquisitor?" The question was at least slightly facetious, but only in the phrasing.

He'd been looking for something productive to do. This might just be it.

"Sounds like exactly what we should be doing right now," Romulus answered, without much hesitation. "We're obviously not doing much to help here."

Leon nodded. With the decision made, the issue became approaching it tactically. No doubt the highest concentration of servants would currently be moving in and out of the kitchens. He'd been aware of them for most of the night, but now he tracked their movements in particular. They seemed to all be appearing from back outside the entrance to the ballroom, which made sense—most likely some hallway off the main entry to the castle led to the servants' living and working areas.

"Well, our exit's this way," he said, nodding towards it. Their party wasn't exactly the one he would have chosen for sneaking around anywhere, aside from himself and Romulus. Khari had make quite the obvious point about her discretion already this evening, and there was simply no way Asala would go unnoticed anywhere around here. To say nothing of her ability to get around smoothly, which wasn't the best.

But that might work in their favor; perhaps they could draw or divert attention while the quieter half the team actually ventured into the servants' area. For now, Leon led the way through the crowd, which like most crowds he'd ever encountered, parted easily for him. The eyes followed as they moved, but as he'd initially suspected, the departure didn't appear to surprise anyone. It would take a while for them to be missed.

From the ballroom proper, they headed down an ancillary hallway, still apparently quite open to guests, though much less populated. There, Leon paused; there appeared to be a pair of servants waiting outside the door he thought might lead where they wanted to go, occasionally opening the large door for someone burdened down with trays, empty going in or full coming out. Perhaps they would be willing to speak.

Perhaps that would have to do with who addressed them. He was probably the worst choice, by appearance alone, though not in other ways. Still, he glanced at the others. "Anyone feeling confident enough to lead here?"

"I will," Romulus offered. He didn't look particularly happy about it, but then, that had become his obvious emotional state for just about everything they'd done in the Winter Palace. But it didn't seem that Khari was very eager to try out her people skills again so soon, and neither was Asala, though probably for different reasons. Romulus, then, made his way over to the servants slowly and obviously, making his intent of speaking with them quite clear in the approach. He also removed his mask; there were few enough around to see it done, and the servants themselves only had the simplest of disguises.

"I don't mean to bring you any trouble," he began, speaking softly. "I know you're probably not supposed to speak to me, but I was hoping you might be able to spare just a moment." He paused, finding each of their eyes for a moment, though he did not stare at either for too long. "I'm Romulus."

From the ears protruding slightly beyond their unadorned masks, both servants were elves; the one on the left was perhaps a middle-aged woman, the other a boy probably barely in the latter half of his teenage years, thin and gangly in the limbs. They exchanged a look, and then the woman spoke. "Syl. This is Pol." She pursed her lips, glancing behind him to where the others were clearly still in earshot. "If they can look busy, we can talk."

Leon took the hint immediately, turning himself around and leaning his back against a wall a little further off. Close enough to hear, but not to look like he had anything to do with the servants or their conversation. He also used his body to block a bit of visibility, gesturing Asala over so she could do the same. He trusted Khari to understand that it would be better for her to remain on Romulus's other side, watching in the other direction.

Asala did as instructed, shuffling over next to Leon, and then proceeded to make herself seem busy by adjusting and readjusting the jewelry and ribbon Marceline had put on her. Or at least, what she thought a busy person looked like.

He sighed. "You don't have to do anything in particular, Asala. Just talk to me as you would normally. The important thing is that we don't draw undue attention to Romulus." Which undoubtedly a large group of distinctive-looking people would do if they just stood in a cluster with him.

"Oh," she stated flatly, letting her hands fall to her side, "Right."

"Thank you," Romulus said to the elves, glancing at them both, but he directed his conversation towards the older of the two. "We're with the Inquisition, trying to make sure nothing burns down the Winter Palace tonight, or kills anyone trying to make peace. We'd heard some of the servants are missing. Have you heard anything like that?" He posed the question somewhat carefully. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility, of course, that some of the servants might be up to no good at all, and that might be why they'd vanished. But it was also possible that innocents among them had simply gotten caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and paid the price for it.

"Perhaps," Syl hedged, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. Or perhaps just disclosing the information to a stranger. "Perhaps not. Why would you want to know about that, messere?"

Khari hadn't strayed far from Romulus, and at that turn in the conversation, she abandoned the pretense of staring absently out a window and grimaced. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching her too closely, she returned to his side, her body language about as nonthreatening as it was possible for someone with her energy and vigor to be. She was not taller than either of the other two elves, but her presence was more impressive by several orders of magnitude.

She took off her mask, too, either following Romulus's cue or assuming her vallaslin might win her some credibility. When she did, she sighed, as though the simple action had relieved her of some much heavier burden. Meeting eyes first with Syl and then Pol, Khari dredged up half a smile from somewhere. “Because it matters." The smile fell.

“I've spent all of two hours in this place, and I don't know how you guys do it all the time. I guess you have to. But I know that if I was in this situation all the time, where people just get to ignore me, to treat me like—" Her voice cracked just slightly; she swallowed and continued as though it hadn't. “Treat me like I don't exist. Like I don't matter. I might start to believe everyone thought that way."

Glancing once at Romulus, she met Syl's eyes and pursed her lips. “But that's wrong. Some people do care. Some people do think it matters. And we're a few of them. If your friends are missing, we want to help find them."

Pol's eyes were rounded in surprise by the end of it. He looked half like he might fall over at the sheer certainty of Khari's words, and half like he might not mind if he did. Syl's response was a little more measured, but even she had clearly not been expecting an answer like that. For a moment, her eyes lingered on Khari's face, as if tracing over the patterns on her skin, and then she nodded, a bit reluctantly, but firmly all the same.

"Three," she said quietly. "Some of us, we... we work for a certain employer. Nothing major usually, just... collecting information. She wanted us to keep an eye on the garden tonight—along with everywhere else. But the first girl we sent, Vela, she didn't come back to report on time."

Pol finally reassembled his expression into something a little less awestruck and grimaced. "We thought... sometimes the guards, if they catch an elf alone..." The sentence didn't really need to finish. "So we sent two more to investigate, so no one would be alone."

"They didn't come back either," Syl finished. "I wish I could tell you more, but that's all any of us know. We're not sending anyone else—we can't risk it." Her lips thinned into a flat line. "If you care as much as you say you do, Inquisition, then... find who is doing this, and make them pay for it."

"That's what I'm best at," Romulus said, slowly lifting his mask back up to his face. He checked for a moment behind him, making sure the screen of Leon and Asala was still in place. He then rounded back on the servants. "Since the garden is restricted to us tonight... can you recommend a route we can take? Some way that will help us keep out of sight?"

Pol raised a hand to his mouth, crooking his index finger and biting down on the knuckle. It seemed to be equal parts a contemplative gesture and a nervous one; he hummed a bit awkwardly. "You know how you went through the entranceway to get here? If you hang a left in the foyer, it takes you into this big fancy gallery hallway. It's not empty, but some of the statues are big enough that you can hide behind them and cross the room without being seen if you're patient and quiet. Should be a door on the other side that'll get you to the garden eventually. I'll have it unlocked in half an hour for sure." He glanced between Romulus and Khari, as if to check whether that would serve their purposes.

"Thank you, Pol." Romulus nodded. "That should be more than enough. And don't worry; we never saw you." Having gotten what they needed from them, they bid short farewells and departed, Romulus and Khari regrouping with Leon and Asala. No longer needing to pretend being busy, they headed back for the ballroom.

"The others will want to hear about this," he said, stating the obvious. "And if I'm going to be sneaking through this palace, I think I might need a change of companions. No offense."

“I dunno what you're talking about." Khari rolled her eyes. “Clearly, I am the most subtle, discreet person ever." The sarcasm in her tone was thick; obviously the previous incident was still close to the forefront of her thoughts.

“Practically invisible, even."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Intrigue in Halamshiral was no exaggeration and as much as Zahra had begun hating the Game they spoke of, it breathed life through the palace’s hallways. A necessary evil. Perhaps it was the same throughout all of Orlais. She’d have to ask Rillien someday. She supposed he was the only one aside from Marceline that might have an idea why they operated that way. Tittering behind their hands; like clever foxes crawling into hen houses. Just as deadly as a blade poised against someone’s spine. Difficult waters to navigate. One she didn’t envy anyone having to live through each day. No one else seemed at all bothered by any of it. Some even seemed to enjoy it. Chaos.

Reconvening with the others was their only option if they wanted to move forward and keep their foothold, even she understood that. Snippets of information clasped in the palm of a frighteningly clever mentor. Someone named Q. As bullheaded as she could be, she understood the necessity for anonymity. Keeping things hush-hush. No one wanted to paint a target on their own back by aligning themselves with the Inquisition. Speaking such a thing aloud would be foolish. Even if it wasn’t true, she felt like the walls had ears. It reminded her a little of the Raiders of the Waking Sea
 though raiders were far more uncouth in their methods. Affiliate yourself with the wrong ship and risk the ire of another. The end result would be the same.

She walked slightly ahead of Vesryn and Stel, cutting through the crowd with the ease of someone who didn’t particularly care about raising her voice in order to get people to move out of the way. Only occasionally pausing to make sure she hadn’t lost them in a wayward horde of people, fluttering fans and tossing their head in laughter. High-pitched. Coquettish. Eyes still hounded their footsteps—though she’d noted long ago who they seemed so enthralled with. The Lady Inquisitor on the arm of an elven lad. It brought back Stel’s earlier conversation. Of how it might affect things in the future. For her, for him. It only made the determined jut of her chin harsher, returning sterner glares that bellied what the fuck are you looking at without so much as uttering a word.

As soon as they reentered the main chamber where dancing was supposed to take place, Zahra spotted Khari and the others walking back in as well. She drew a hand up towards her mask and crooked a finger. Beckoning them over. Though a better place would be crucial to speaking openly. Too many ears. Too many eyes. She glanced around the room and spotted a fairly empty balcony. A couple were just walking back inside, and from what she could see from where she stood, it spanned wide, and was deep enough to station themselves away from the large, blue double-doors.

“This way. There’s a much better place to talk over there,” she led the way once more, and settled herself against the white-gilded railing surrounding the balcony. There were various potted plants to accompany them, but little else. As she’d surmised, they were alone.

Vesryn unwound his arm from Stel's so that he could take a moment to stretch and breathe in a bit of the cooler night air. It was a lot less stuffy out here than it was inside. He turned about to settle his rear on the balcony railing, momentarily pulling the mask from his face so he could rub at a spot. Perhaps it was ill-fitting in some way. "It's interesting, as parties go, but not at all my style. Can't imagine how anyone could enjoy this regularly." He did, however, offer a momentary grin to Stel. "Though it isn't all bad."

She shook her head faintly, half a smile appearing on her face only to fade a moment later. "Sure, if we don't think about the murder plots and all the staring." With a short sigh, she turned to the others, giving no sign of any fatigue she might be feeling, though surely there had to be some. "Anyway... did anyone come across anything interesting? We've got a few things, for sure, but I'm not sure they're all connected."

“Lady Aurelie believes that someone close to the Empress is going to make a move tonight. Most likely a woman." Rilien went ahead and elaborated upon Stel's remark, speaking for their group's discoveries in his usual clipped, efficient manner. His hands disappeared into his sleeves; he had to be keeping weapons in there, surely. “Also, Q of the Cendredoights has been in contact. She wants a meeting with Estella. A discreet one." He clearly expected this to mean something to at least a few of those present. Maybe just the leadership, though from the way Cyrus crossed his arms and shifted his weight to the left, it might've rung a bell for him, too.

“A final note: there is a chance something of importance is occurring in the palace gardens tonight as well, though we know not what."

"It has something to do with the fact that several servants are missing, most likely," Leon replied. He held his mask loosely at his side as well, a few red marks on his face where it had pressed slightly awkwardly into his fair skin. It didn't seem to sit too well on his angles. They were hardly custom-molded, after all—there hadn't been nearly enough time for that. "There are three thus far, and they were all sent to the gardens beforehand." He paused, his brows knitting thoughtfully. "The woman we spoke to mentioned that they all work for the same employer, gathering information. If Q is here, it wouldn't surprise me if that was her. Might be worth asking her about, but we're going to need to investigate in any case."

Reaching up, he rubbed at the back of his neck, as though trying to ease some ache there. "I understand there was also some kind of missing member of the Council of Heralds?" He glanced towards the third group, none of whom had yet spoken.

Cyrus, leaning sideways against the balcony rail, dipped his head in a small nod. “Some fellow named Philippe. Had a rather unpleasant encounter with the Grand Duke earlier this evening. It seems likely to me that Gaspard is planning something, but I don't think he did that. He was too candid about the earlier altercation. Very upset that the lot of them won't acknowledge his claim to the throne, though. If he thinks he's out of peaceful options..."

"Then he might be bringing his civil war here," Vesryn finished. He blinked, rubbing a moment longer at his head before he returned the mask into place. "I didn't meet him, but from what I've heard he isn't the sort to employ assassins. If he wanted to try something the brute force way, well... he would need a fairly significant force to muscle his way into control of the palace."

"And he'd need to hide its approach as well," Rom added. "Only the guards are openly carrying weapons, and while there's no lack of them, there's no way they've all been bought by Gaspard." He exhaled, taking a moment to adjust the collar of his shirt. "In any case, I'm going to investigate the missing servants. We have a way in to the restricted areas, but I'd rather not go alone." It went without saying that none of them should go anywhere on their own tonight. But anyone going with Rom into off-limits parts of the palace would need a certain degree of subtlety, which immediately ruled out a few of their number.

"I should meet Q," Estella added, smoothing her hands down her skirt in what might have been a nervous gesture. "To the extent possible, it might be best to bring only the familiar faces to that. She wouldn't want to be any more widely-known than absolutely necessary."

Leon looked to agree, considering the rest of the others for a moment. "That's Cyrus, Vesryn, and Rilien, then. I'll go with you, Romulus, but we should take at least one other." His eyes landed on Zahra. "Captain? Would you be averse?"

Zahra tipped an imaginary hat and offered up a bright, shit-eating grin, “Of course. I’m at your service, darling.” A lot of this was going straight over the top of her head—she certainly wasn’t acquainted with anyone of noble-blood outside of the Inquisition. Assassins and bards. Bought guardsmen and missing people. It was enough to warrant a headache. Fortunately she was in good company.

Marceline had leaned against the railing, allowing the cool breeze to tussle the ends of her hair as she listened along with the plan. Unlike Vesryn and Leon, she did not remove her mask. In fact, she seemed comfortable in it, but of course with Marceline that was to be expected. Her mask had to have been custom made for someone like her, and probably fit better than any one of theirs. However, she was not the one to speak, but rather her husband, who had also decided to keep his mask on. "That leaves Asala, Khari, Marcy and I," Michaël stated, splitting looks between them before landing on Marceline.

A thoughtful line spread across her mouth and she nodded in agreement. "We should remain behind, so that the Inquisition maintains a presence. We can also deflect any questions that may come up concerning your whereabouts in the interim," she answered.

“Very well." Rilien paused, satisfied with the arrangement insofar as he ever seemed satisfied with anything, but then his eyes moved back towards the ballroom, almost as if perceiving something the rest had not yet noticed. “The Grand Duchess is approaching us." It went without saying that everyone not currently wearing a mask ought to replace it, and that all strategic discussions needed to cease immediately. The last thing they wanted to be doing was giving anything important away to anyone who could not be trusted implicitly.

Leon replaced his mask with a grimace. "Bit irregular, for someone with that much rank to approach us, isn't it?" Though the question was surely pertinent, there was no time to answer it.

The woman who must have been the Grand Duchess crossed the threshold onto the balcony they occupied, only then announcing her presence at all. Indeed, she'd been entirely silent up to then as far as the general noise level allowed them to differentiate. She might have been able to approach undetected quite a bit more closely if not for Rilien. Now that she had their attention, though, she picked up one side of her full grey skirt and curtsied. Light from the mage-lanterns inside glinted off the silverite of her mask when she straightened. "Inquisition," she greeted, half-smiling. Her accent was a delicate touch on the edges of her voice rather than the thick filter it was in some other cases. Though her hair had long gone light grey with age, it seemed, her posture showed no hint of it, and the near half-circle of the mask left the lines around her dark eyes hidden.

"I apologize for the intrusion, but Her Majesty wished you to know that the dancing will begin at the top of the hour. She understands your time here had thus far proven to be... trying, in some respects." Her eyes flickered very obviously to Khari there, a slight shift in her body language suggesting some kind of reaction quickly concealed. A slight tilting-up of the chin, a straightening of her spine. What if anything it indicated wasn't clear—it was gone much too quickly.

"It is her hope that you may yet find greater cause to enjoy yourselves—and perhaps that some of the demeanors that have chilled to you might yet warm once more." She paused, appearing almost hesitant for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. "I have the same hope. It was not effortless to arrange for these negotiations, I'm sure you can imagine. I would like very much for them to be successful." She seemed to be implying something with that, though as ever with these people, it was hard to say what.

"As do we your Highness, I assure you," Marceline answered. At some point during her approach, she'd gently pushed herself off of the railing in order to stand straight and proper in order to receive the Grand Duchess. Upon her intrusion, Marceline returned the curtsy in a timely fashion and listened with a pleasant smile to her lips. Her smile never faltered as the duchess spoke. "I thank you for your concern, and for taking the time to come speak to us," she with a grateful tilt of her head. "I believe that once the Inquisition and those who comprise her are better understood, that the attitudes toward us will indeed shift for the better."

Marceline's smile shifted again, a subtle thing, not unlike the shifting of the duchess's posture a moment ago, though hers felt lighter in action. "However, the Inquisition has always been an organization of action, so perhaps the dancing will be the perfect opportunity for us to begin demonstrating such."

"Then I look forward to seeing it. The unexpected is always an interesting touch on things, no?" She curtsied again, apparently requiring no reply to her question. Not drawing out her departure, she disappeared, leaving them to make their way back into the castle's interior alone.

Stel was frowning slightly. Zahra was close enough to hear her mutter something under her breath about a garden or something, but if she had some insight, she wasn't inclined to share it. "The top of the hour is probably only forty minutes from now," she pointed out. "We need to be quick, to make it back in time. We'll definitely be missed if we don't, now."

The wheels were back in motion. Time was of the essence. Forty minutes. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Zahra couldn’t shake the feeling that there was much hidden between the Grand Duchess’ words. A mask behind a mask; an annoyance, in her opinion. She figured Khari would agree with her on that one. The quicker they dealt with this business the better. They hadn’t had time to warm to anything since coming into the palace, with their hackles raised and blades at the ready.

She pushed herself away from the railing and straightened her shoulders with a soft exhale. They’d be splitting up again and scouring the enormous palace for who-knows-what. Information. Missing servants. A Herald. She just hoped that it wouldn’t cause them more trouble than they were already biting off. Not that she doubted in their success. She’d been betting on them since the beginning
 even so, she settled her hand on Stel’s shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze, rounding to her side, “Smooth sails. Let’s get this done.”

Good luck. As if they ever needed it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
In an instant Rom went from uncomfortably out of his element to being absolutely enveloped in it.

He didn't bother creeping around and staying low like he would in a forest or obviously dressed as an enemy, sneaking through an occupied fortress. The servants weren't really to be feared, and if they were spotted, Rom doubted they'd even do anything about it. Syl and Pol probably passed the word around that there were friendlies dressed up like wealthy nobles coming through their quarters. Friendly enough, anyway. All the same, it was best for them to stay out of sight as best they could. Safer for everyone that way.

They moved slow, staying quiet, with masks remaining on. At each corner he stopped and listened for a moment before signaling when to move. Sometimes he made Leon and Zee stay put while he went a short distance ahead, to silently scout before gesturing for them to follow. More than one door into kitchen or supply areas had to simply be darted past swiftly and quietly while someone inside had their back turned. They were on the clock, with not even an hour available to them before they needed to get back to the ballroom.

So they could dance. Rom groaned inwardly at the thought. He wasn't bad at it by any means, any sort of physical work came pretty easy to him, but still. It was a mess of trading partners and empty socialization all while remembering to move his feet this way and that, and he was not really looking forward to it.

The sight of the gardens was enough to remove it from his mind, however. It put Skyhold's modest garden area to utter shame, and Rom could only see a section of it when they first exited the building. The crisp and cool night air greeted them again, refreshing after the relative heat of the kitchens wafting out into the hallways. The walls of the Winter Palace towered around the gardens on all sides, but the grass beneath their feet was soft, evenly cut and green as any lawn in Minrathous Rom had ever seen. There were rows and rows of flowers and other plants, cobblestone walkways winding their way through them and out of sight. He could identify quite a few of the ones useful in alchemy, even noting a few rare ingredients that would prove useful. But there was no time for that now, and they weren't supposed to leave any trace of their being here if they could help it.

"I didn't expect it to be this big," he admitted, watching warily for any sign of trouble. He glanced back at the Commander. "Which way do you think?"

Leon swept his eyes over the landscaping around them, the subtle frown he wore evidence that he wasn't completely sure, but was trying to decide what he found more likely. "Normal visitors would head towards the center," he said at last. "If they were absconding here for, ah, clandestine affairs of a different sort." He tilted his chin in the opposite direction. "So... spies and hidden agents to the left, I'd think."

"Alright," Rom nodded, starting forward. "Keep it slow and quiet. Harder to hear people out here." It was quiet of course, given the overall tranquility of the garden, but there was still a wind rustling through the leaves of the trees that sporadically sheltered them from the sky, and the soft grassy surface beneath their feet was a lot easier to walk quietly on than hard stone floors. He doubted his advice was entirely necessary for either of his companions, but it didn't hurt to give it.

They took the path to their left, moving slow and pausing often to listen, but for the most part they seemed to be entirely alone. There were footsteps in the impressionable areas of dirt near the pathways, but there was no telling who they were and how long they'd been there for. Rom wasn't the best at outdoor tracking, but he was serviceable. He'd need a more obvious sign of recent activity to go off of.

They passed a tall hedge maze on their left before he got one, and thankfully it didn't lead inside. "Blood here," he pointed out, lowering himself down into a crouch to inspect it. The dark fluid stained blades of grass. A significant amount of it, too, impossible to clean up by anyone that wanted to conceal it. "Signs of a struggle, too." The ground had been impacted more deeply in places where a boot had dug in for purchase, or someone's weight had been rapidly shifted in an effort to move quickly. "This way."

They followed the blood trail over to a thick patch of bushes near the wall. The smell of blood grew thicker on the air as they approached. Rom pushed his way through the waist-high plants, eyes pointed down. There, on her back in the bark mulch, was a young elven woman, probably still in her early twenties, with short, dark hair. "One of the servants," Rom said quietly. "She's dead, around two hours ago." He'd seen more than enough bodies, and studied them extensively, to make a close guess of the exact time.

Crouching down, he examined the body. "It wasn't clean, either." He pointed to a few spots on her side, where her shirt was bloodiest. "Multiple stab wounds. Slash to the back of her leg, very deep. No, not a slash. Probably done with an axe." He grimaced, the nature of her death becoming quite clear. "Broken bones in the arms, ribs. And..." Her clothes were torn at, a few of the seams near the waist ripped as well as at the shoulders. Clearly not by weapons but by hands. And the way the dirt where she lay was somewhat scattered in places, packed down in others...

"Whoever killed her had their way with her first. Likely a much larger person, judging by the nonlethal injuries, maybe multiple people."

Zahra had crouched down alongside the corpse as well. On the other side, though she’d drawn her dress away from the pool of blood and knelt down on one knee. Her lips pulled back in a scowl at Rom’s observation. Expression stony. Just like most of the other in the Inquisition
 stumbling upon a corpse didn’t particularly bother her. The implications, however, seemed to make her sour. Not enough to clench her hands into fists. But enough to rankle her nerves. Easy enough to tell by her change of demeanor; squared shoulders and an unyielding jaw. Raiders must’ve seen or done enough of that—herself included. It didn’t mean she approved.

A muscle jumped along her jawline as she used her knee for leverage and straightened back up again. “Such excessive force,” her tone was bitter as she regarded the elven body laying out before them, “I’ve seen work like this before. But not in such a fancy place.” She rubbed at her chin and glanced around the hedge-line of the garden. Probably checking that they weren’t being followed. Or watched from the shadows. “Two hours? Seems like we’re on the right trail, at least.” A sigh slipped past her lips, “I hope the others fared better than she did.”

"Only one way to find out," Leon added, his eyes falling once more to the dead woman. If Zee had grown stony in response to the circumstances, his whole countenance had softened. He shook himself slightly. "If we're looking for multiple people, it's probably something other than palace guards abusing their authority. I think there's a sculpture garden this way; seems likely to be our best shot at finding a relatively stationary group. I'll watch the rear as we go." He'd likely been doing something similar already, but the more explicit information was important now that they knew someone or something out here was willing to kill people.

There wasn't much they could do for the body, sadly. It was probably best that they move on, now that they knew what had happened to her. Of course, that left the other two servants that had also disappeared, and if the first was any indication, they likely had met similar ends. Still, there was a chance they could be alive in here somewhere. Of equal or greater value, no doubt, would be the person or group that had killed this one. It didn't strike Rom as the work of any Orlesian noble party-goer at all, though they were known to show a great amount of cruelty towards the elves.

But it was as Leon said: they could only find out by moving on. Rom led the way again, his hand never far from the small weapon concealed in his half cloak. Along the way he pulled a small vial from a pouch on his belt, downing the potion in one quick gulp. In an instant any tiredness he felt from the party was gone. His hearing sharpened, his eyes reached an ever greater clarity, and he felt an urge to move faster. He suppressed it, knowing stealth was still key here.

The sculpture garden treated them to a number of marble statues elevated on pedestals on either side of the path, depicting what were no doubt famous figures of Orlesian history, great Emperors and Empresses, chevaliers and the leaders of their armies. Of more interest to Rom was the hedge maze just on the other side of the nearest group of statues. A lone man was slowly wandering out of the exit, buttoning up the front of his jerkin, a garment sorely out of place compared to the rest of the guests. He was scruffy, armed with a sword and wooden round shield. He didn't even look Orlesian.

When at last he looked up and laid eyes on the quietly approaching Rom, Leon, and Zahra, he froze, going wide-eyed for a moment. Then he turned and bolted into the maze, disappearing around a corner.

It was about then that stealth became much less of a priority, and they reacted accordingly. Leon in particular took no more than half a second to register what they'd just seen and lunged into a sprint, taking the same corner hard enough to tear a furrow in the grass under their feet with his boot in a hard redirection of his momentum.

The fleeing man had a considerable head start, but they were gaining on him quite rapidly. He was not running so quietly that they couldn't hear him, making tracking his progress through the maze easier than it would have otherwise been. Leon caught up to him probably halfway to the center of the maze, reaching out to grab the back of the man's jerkin and yank backwards, his own momentum carrying him past where the soldier fell.

He did so with a shout, which was surely enough to alert anyone he was with if they hadn't been heard already. Leon glanced around the next corner, exhaling a frustrated breath. "Knock him out. If the others are armed, we might not be able to capture them." The strategy was obvious: they wanted at least one person alive to tell them what was going on here, and it wouldn't be as easy to guarantee that once this became a melee.

With a tsking sound, Leon rounded the corner, taking him to the next layer in on the maze, a thick hedge wall between himself and them. From the sounds of it, he met more soldiers there; there was a heavy impact sound and then a crash and snapping of branches—he'd probably just sent someone through a hedge on the other side.

A thrashing sound of leaves sounded somewhere behind Leon. Something like someone bodily crashing into the underbrush. Trouncing through the maze with a dress proved a much more trying experience for Zahra. She appeared shortly after Rom, huffing and swearing obscenities not quite under her breath. Once she’d regained some measure of control over her breathing and smoothed out the ruffles of her dress, she was on the fallen man in a heartbeat. A flutter of dark purple flapped as the ruffles settled back down to her sides.

Even without her bow, he didn’t seem to have a chance. Leon’s surprise yank had knocked the sense out of him. Certainly long enough for her to act on his sensible command. She hadn’t pulled out her blade either. Not that it would do much good in this situation unless slitting his throat was in order. It was not. Instead she opted to swing her leg over the man and jerk him up by the collar, yanking her fist out wide behind her ear and slamming it into the side of his head. She pulled it back and slammed her fist down once more, for good measure.

To ensure he was unconscious. Probably. Zahra stepped away from the man’s listless body and rolled him over with the heel of her boot—though it did not take her long to abandon him and lurch further into the hedge maze, in the direction Leon had disappeared into.

Rom was ahead of her, having only looked back long enough to ensure that Zahra had things in hand before he charged after Leon. Rounding the corner, they came to a central area in the hedge maze, which seemed to be where the last man's friends had gathered. They were mercenaries by the looks of them, and not the well-groomed and prestigious bunch that Lucien commanded, either. In the center of the area was a stone fountain, elaborately decorated with the theme of lion heads spewing the water. Tied up to the base of this fountain and subsequently soaked by this point were a pair of elves, presumably the other two that they were looking for. These two seemed to be very much alive still.

The mercenaries took their appearance as a cue to attack, however, and they were numerous, at least ten that Rom could see, with probably more of them lurking in parts of the maze just out of sight. Rom groaned inwardly, removing his half cloak and throwing it in the face of the first man to charge him. He was armed with a short sword of sturdy make, and the blind lunge missed Rom by a good foot, allowing him to snatch the arm, break it, and wrench the blade free for his own use. There was a pounding in his ears calling for blood, spurred on by the knowledge that this group was more than likely responsible for what had happened to the young woman from before.

He slashed the man's leg, chopping him down to a knee, then ripped the cloak free from his head just before he slashed again, opening the throat. They didn't need to keep them all alive.

Leon was already in the thick of it with another trio of mercenaries, though his fighting lacked the fearsome rage it occasionally displayed. He seemed to be cautious, in some way, maneuvering himself so as to avoid attacks he would have shrugged off without care in ordinary circumstances. Part of that was certainly the lack of armor, but it seemed to be even beyond that. He struck with a precision that was almost surgical, felling the first man with a doublehanded blow to his ears and then a kick to his chest hard enough to audibly crunch against his ribcage. He dropped and did not rise.

The second swung at the commander with a two-handed axe. Leon ducked, letting it pass over his head, then slammed the heel of his hand into the woman's jaw on the way up, snapping her head back. A sweep of his foot took her legs out from underneath her, and he neatly strafed half a step to the side to position himself behind the third, gripping both sides of the mercenary's head and wrenching to the side—another bloodless death.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Another unenthusiastic groan resonated from central area Rom had just exited. Quicker than she’d been before. Zahra’s breath was measured this time. A vial dropped from her hand and bounced down the slope of her dress into the grass. A leather-vested man gawped crooked, dirty teeth at her. Leering with as ugly as a smile could be when missing half their teeth. Perhaps thinking her a weak woman among a pair of capable attendants. As soon as mercenary approached from the left, she quickly hunched down in order to retrieve something from her left boot. A knife. It appeared as if she was not quick enough.

The man grabbed onto her shoulder and attempted to push her backwards, sword-arm rearing up at his side. Though it was clear he meant to intimidate and frighten rather than run her through with his blade. She dropped to her knee and leaned into the pushing hand long enough to make him scream—singing the blade free from her hidden scabbard and driving it up into his groin. Somehow, she’d managed to push him backwards and roll away with blade in hand. Grass flew from her boots as she dug them into the ground back for purchase, pushing into the dirt and towards another incoming mercenary.

This time, she ducked beneath an oncoming blade and utilized her momentum to slice at the woman’s shoulder blades. Another swing came much closer. Inches from her face. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been so lucky if she hadn’t tripped over her skirts. Her movements were clumsier with the dress on but it appeared to be working in her favor. The woman lurched forward with a grunt and attempted to thrust her blade through her belly. A quick side-step avoided a quick death; Zahra’s arm shot out to catch the woman by the neck as she passed by her, dragging her to the ground. Something she might have seen Khari do before. Her gurgling breaths were soon silence.

For the most part, Rom had forgotten about the mission and his purpose for being out here in the gardens. There were people to kill, and killing was what he was best at. The drive for it coursed through his veins as he pushed another man back into a hedge row, bringing both hands up to his throat. The one carrying the short sword he drew rapidly sideways, cutting a deep slice across the throat and spattering his mask and face with blood. He let him sink to the ground.

A battle cry from behind him alerted him to a woman's charge. He turned just in time to deflect a downward mace strike to the side, responding to the opening by landing a pair of slashes across her leg and arm. Rom leaned back swiftly, letting the mace whoosh past his face, and then he was on the attack again, striking and advancing and landing hit after hit, driving her back towards the center. Her weapon arm came in reach; he snatched it with his marked hand. Without thinking a burst of energy obliterated everything below her forearm. She howled for a moment, one where Rom was just as surprised as she was, and then he drove his sword into her belly, turning the scream into a choked cough.

He drove her back until her back hit the fountain. Within seconds she was losing her grip on life, and he let her slide down onto her rear in the water, short sword still pierced through her. Her head lolled over nearly onto the shoulder of one of the tied-up elves. Rom simply stood there for a moment, hearing no further sounds of battle. He blinked, and then took a few staggering steps backwards, sinking to a knee and pulling off his mask. He grabbed a fallen cloak from one of the mercenaries, using it to wipe the blood from the mask. He then brought the fabric up to his face, scrubbing there as well.

With the mercenaries all down, Leon immediately turned his attention to the hostages. Stepping into the fountain only brought the water about halfway up his calves, which was probably for the best. He shoved the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, reaching forward through the flow of water to carefully untie one of them. The woman fell forward, but the commander caught her with ease, shifting her so that one of his arms was beneath her knees and the other braced her back, sloshing back over to the edge of the marble water feature. She was clearly unconscious, head lolling back, and she bore bruises and abrasions, including a black eye.

"Romulus." He waited expectantly until Rom moved to take the woman from him, then went back for the other, a young man in similar condition. "Zahra, can you strip a few cloaks off the mercenaries? It's the middle of winter—I'm worried about hypothermia." Not for himself, obviously, but it was a fair point about the servants. With the second still held carefully, Leon stepped back over the lip of the fountain, settling him into the first of the cloaks Zee provided and checking the pulse at his neck.

"Alive," he pronounced. "I'll be right back with our prisoner." So saying, he disappeared back into the hedge maze, returning about a minute later with the still-out mercenary. His handling of that one was much less gentle, and Leon didn't show any hesitation before dumping him unceremoniously in the frigid water of the fountain with a loud splash, allowing him to remain there until he came up coughing and sputtering, at which point the commander gripped him by the front of his jerkin and hauled him back out again.

"Good." He didn't sound particularly pleased. "You're awake."

The mercenary coughed, spitting up water he seemed to have inhaled, but Leon's grip on him did not err, and he seemed to be smart enough to understand that fighting it was useless. Blearily, he blinked at the much-larger Seeker, his legs swinging ineffectually in the air. "Wha—"

The commander's head tilted slightly to the side. "Your accent is Fereldan." His own seemed to be a little more prominent than usual at the moment as well, the guttural rasp of the Ander enunciation roughening his voice. "What are Fereldans doing here? Who hired you, and why?"

The man looked reluctant to answer, but one sharp jerk from Leon was enough to change his mind. Though he was usually perhaps the mildest of men, it was clear enough at the moment that the Seekers had not neglected to train him in how to utilize his dimensions for intimidation. "G-Gaspard," the mercenary said, the word escaping as more yelp than anything. "Gaspard did. We're supposed to wait here, for his signal. K-kill anyone who found out too soon."

"Why? What does he intend you to do?"

"N-nothing! Not if his plan goes well, I mean. Supposed to talk to some people, get them to make him King—er, Emperor. If that doesn't work, we're supposed to help the guards and chevaliers he bought menace the nobles a little, that's all. Rattle the sabers, you know?" It was unlikely the mercenary's pitch was that high usually, but some combination of panic and chill was elevating it.

"And if they are not cowed?"

"I-I dunno. Kill 'em, maybe? Whatever he wants!"

Leon's eyes narrowed, but he didn't seem to doubt the veracity of the information. Slowly, he set the man down on his feet, but his heavily-scarred fist remained clenched in the jerkin, holding him in place. Honestly it just made the near-foot in height discrepancy that much more obvious. "Vela. Was that you?"

"Wh-who?"

Leon's hand tightened; the mercenary tried and failed to take a step back. "The elven girl someone killed and tried to hide in the bushes."

The man shook his head jerkily. "No, ser. Only elves I ever saw tonight were those two. Mighta been one of the others, but, uh—" he glanced at a couple of the nearby corpses. "Don't reckon they'll be able to tell you."

There was a long pause. Leon's breath slowed until it reached ordinary, pre-exertion levels. He was still scowling, still glaring into the mercenary's face like he was watching for even the slightest twitch, but his posture eased just slightly. "You're going to tell the court exactly what you just told me, and you're going to do it not a moment before or a moment after we instruct you to. Do you understand?"

With a series of quick, almost compulsive nods, the mercenary agreed. Leon expelled a heavy breath, then took a step back, releasing the man from his grip. Wisely, he did not attempt an escape.

"We should get the other two back to their friends. Dry clothes and the kitchen's heat will do more for them than we can out here."

Rom blinked a few times. In truth, he was lucky to have caught most of what the mercenary had said, but he understood that it was quite valuable ammunition to have against Gaspard. He wished he hadn't used the potion, but he hadn't been willing to take any chances, not when he was mostly unarmed and unarmored and near-perfection was required in the fight. Still... it was a good thing his clothes were dark, and could be partly hidden under his cloak.

Nodding silently to Leon, he moved to help the servants, and they started on their way back.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Getting the servants back to the kitchen proved to be a bit of a task, considering the fact that they both had to be carried, and their captive dragged, while still maintaining as much stealth as possible. Not a simple task by any estimation, but fortunately the kitchens were before they needed to worry overmuch about running into anyone they did not know.

Syl was present when the other two were brought in; her relief was palpable, and her gratitude such that she acquiesced easily when Leon asked her convey the hostage—alive—to the Lord-General, along with a message penned hastily in Leon's own handwriting. He was confident that if anyone would have a place to keep the man under guard while the Inquisition moved about, it would be him. He was also quite sure that it would be done; Lucien had indicated that his father was a reliable ally.

Of course, this alone did not solve all of their problems. Though he'd made some effort not to end up soaked, Leon hadn't cared about that nearly enough to actually avoid water, and so there were several large, slightly-darker patches on the umber-colored tunic he wore. Hopefully they would dry soon. He'd at least managed to avoid blood, having needed no knives to aid him in the fight. The same could not be said for the other two; though he could notice the darker patches on Zahra's dress or Romulus's shirt, he hoped that was only because he knew to look, and not because they were obvious in general. The kitchen servants gave them towels to take care of what they could, but Leon was keenly feeling the time.

No sooner had they departed the kitchen than a deep chime rang out over the grounds—the top of the hour approached. Shooting at glance at the other two, Leon abandoned the effort at stealth for the moment and broke into a run. Fortunately, the side hallways had been emptied due to the hour, and there was no one to spot three members of the Inquisition moving as fast as they could reasonably manage for the ballroom.

The chimes were still ringing when they made it to their destination, though it looked as though most everyone was already lining up for the first dance, partners in tow. Leon tsked under his breath. "You two go," he said quietly, glancing around. "I'll figure something out." It would look quite bad for them if any of them abstained, but for no one would it look worse than Romulus.

Romulus had hastily thrown his mask back on only a few seconds prior. Close inspection of him revealed that there was a bit of a tremor running through him, though it might be unfair to say that he looked particularly nervous. He had practiced this part quite thoroughly in Skyhold, learning the steps and repeating them until he could perform the routine blindfolded even in a crowd. Still, he didn't look enthused at all now that the time to do it for real had come.

He shrugged slightly at Zahra. "Looks like we're partners to start."

“I couldn’t pick a better one.” There was a sense that Zahra was saying it more for his benefit then her own. She smoothed her hands over the front of her dress, and readjusted the mask on her face. It had been sitting slightly askew; and there was a stubborn twig stuck in her hair just above her ear. Besides that she looked a little worse for wear from tussle they’d just experienced. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away.

She inclined her head in the direction of the dance floor and linked her arm through his, leading him out towards it. From what Leon could see from their retreating backs, she’d given his arm a squeeze and whispered something under her breath. You’re okay. Let’s do this. The words were lost with the last chime. No doubt she’d had her own lessons in Skyhold
 though they might’ve had more to do with etiquette than anything else, light on her feet as she was.

Leon, meanwhile, had a bit of a conundrum on his hands: he needed to find someone who might not mind doing him a favor and dancing. Not a terribly simple matter when the majority of the dancing crowd was ready to go. He also hadn't exactly spend much of his time so far meeting new people, which meant options were quite few. He couldn't reasonably expect himself to convince anyone he'd been admiring them from afar, either: plenty of kinds of lies came easily to him, but he was still an awkward Chantry boy at heart in this one particular way.

"Ser Leonhardt!" The call wasn't loud enough to be called shouting or yelling, but it did carry well. He turned towards the source, finding that Lady Fiorella was making her way towards him. Lord Sabino was nowhere to be seen. She paused just a moment to curtsy, then spoke in a much lower voice. "Forgive me the presumption, but you have the look of a fellow rather at a loss." She half-smiled.

"I'm not sure where you've been for the last near-hour, but I'm going to guess you were not filling your dance card."

She had him there. "No, milady," he admitted. "I'm afraid it's quite empty."

"Well, not exactly an exciting way to help, but I did promise I would, so perhaps you wouldn't mind dancing with little old me?" It was clearly a joke; though she was considerably older than him, she didn't qualify as 'old' in his perception. Little was rather true, though; she couldn't have been any taller than Khari. Perhaps an inch or two shorter, even.

He felt a stab of his usual discomfit with his own size, but shook his head. Mostly he was relieved. "It isn't the most glamorous favor," he said, nodding his agreement, "but I would very much appreciate it all the same."

"Good. Let's hurry before they start without us." Lady Fiorella took his arm and navigated them through the crowd, chuckling under her breath. "I never have this easy a time moving around at these things. I think they're all scared to run into you." For some reason, this clearly amused her greatly.

They made it to the end of the line of dancers in the nick of time. Leon glanced down the row, noting that for the most part, the members of the Inquisition had started paired with one another. Matters were becoming more urgent; whatever plots were in motion were surely nearing their completion already. The best thing to do would be to figure out what they were doing without wasting time. If he planned this right, he might be able to get all the information he needed during the dance itself. Worth trying, anyway. He memorized the initial arrangement of the dancers and did some internal calculation. Unsurprisingly, Vesryn and Estella were together. Lined up next to them were Cyrus and Rilien, then Marceline and Michaël, then Khari and Asala. Several pairs of other courtiers, then Lucien and the Lord-General's aide, more strangers, and then Romulus and Zahra, who'd clearly found their places.

This was feasible. The opening dance would involve a lot of partner switching. If he could remember how the pattern went far enough in advance, he might be able to get to speak with the few people necessary to cover the bases, so to speak. The strategic puzzle of it was rather a nice distraction from the fact that he'd surely be exchanging a lot of empty pleasantries with courtiers in the meantime.

From the side of the room, the Bards began to play. Leon took a step forward, meeting Lady Fiorella's raised hand with his own, grateful that only minimal contact was necessary at any point, and also that Orlesians generally didn't care who led, who followed, or what gender combinations were involved.

He spent the first part of the dance letting the adrenaline come down from the fight and run earlier, a process which was always quite slow for him. A side-effect, perhaps, of his condition. Lady Fiorella didn't try to force conversation, for which he was grateful. Then the first switch came, and Leon found his left palm pressed to Lady Marceline's right.

"Gaspard planned to hold the nobles hostage if the Heralds didn't hand him the crown," he said without preamble. "We've got a witness to this effect in the Lord-General's custody. Was everything uneventful in here?"

"Not as such, no," she replied. "There was an incident with one of the Heralds, Phillipe, the one Gaspard was seen with earlier. Lord Julien found him murdered, with Gaspard's blade still stuck in his chest," she explained just as quickly. She let a glance fall around them for a moment before she quickly continued, "It would be obvious to everyone that someone is attempting to frame him from the scene, save the Grand Duke himself. Julien suggested that we trail Gaspard once he hears, in order to gather more information."

It wasn't entirely surprising that the missing Herald was dead, nor that someone would frame Gaspard for it. That the frame-up was obvious rather than subtle was a bit odd, but Marceline's hypothesis explained that well enough. He thought about it for a bit, then sighed softly.

"He's not the most dissembling man, no. It shouldn't be that difficult to follow him. Perhaps you could take Khari, Vesryn, and Cyrus to do it? The important part would be stopping the trap, whatever it turns out to be." If it was a straightforward attempt at murder, those three would indubitably be a lot of help. If not, well, they'd still do as well as anyone else.

"Ooh! I'm sorry," Leon overheard Asala's voice from behind Marceline. A look up revealed the woman in question, dancing with Romulus. Apparently, she must have accidentally stepped on his toes, as she stared at their feet, and looked a little bashful about the incident.

Romulus was grimacing. He didn't have the hardest boots, and Asala was not a small woman. "Relax," he reminded her. "I've seen you do this right before."

"That was different," she pouted quietly. As quickly as they came however, they faded back into the rest of the crowd.

Marceline considered Leon's words for a moment as well, before she too nodded in agreement. "Yes, we will be able to handle it. I will pass the plan along."

To his left, Estella transitioned easily from Rilien's company to Lucien's; she seemed about as relaxed as she could be, given the situation. No doubt her good fortune in partners thus far had a great deal to do with that.

Leon turned with the music, away from Marceline, and then found himself needing to adjust down by several inches. It was not an unwelcome change, however; he spared his first genuine smile of the dance for Khari. "Broken any toes yet?"

She grinned at him. “Nope. Still just the nose. I like Cy and Asala, though. Worked extra hard not to step on them." She fell silent as the footwork moved through one of the more complex sequences. She wasn't practiced enough yet that she could do those without thinking about them, but to her credit, she was quite smooth in her motions when she was able to concentrate like this. “I'm guessing Marcy told you about the dead guy and the dagger, right?" Apparently, she'd been able to keep track of at least some of the partner-switching as well.

Khari's dress swished softly around her ankles as they spun apart, then back together again. She seemed to particularly enjoy that part. “Also, uh... why are you wet, Leon?" She raised an eyebrow at a rapidly-drying spot on his shoulder.

"There was a bit of an altercation near a water feature," he confessed. "I'll tell you about it in more detail later if you like, but the short version is that Gaspard hired some mercenaries and we ran afoul of them in our investigations of the garden." He shook his head slightly, lifting his hand to spin her again, this time still in contact for the process. "Anything else I should know on your end?"

“I missed a fight?" Khari gave an exaggerated groan of frustration. “I always miss the fun part." With a huff, he completed her spin and took a step backwards before they both moved to the left.

Leon was pretty sure she usually was the 'fun part' of whatever situation she was in, but he neglected to make the point at this particular moment.

“Stop making that face, I’m not even stepping on your toes,” came a familiar voice off to Leon’s right shoulder, carrying itself to his opposing side. A flash of royal purple came into his view and fluttered in a circle. It appeared as if Cyrus was leading Zahra, obviously being the superior dancer; though she was trying to wrest some sort of control and failing miserably. To her credit, she was keeping up. Barely.

“What face? I'm not making any face in particular; I'm in fact always this handsome. The mask is a tragedy, I know." From the lofty tone of Cyrus's voice, he wasn't being at all serious; he seemed to be enjoying himself, actually. “I'm only being careful. The boots are a charmingly-rebellious touch, just not necessarily one I want touching me, you understand."

There was a loud ha sound as Zahra attempted to force Cyrus into a spin and was instead forced to slide her foot forward, chasing his retreating feet with hers, like a fox on a hunt. “My apologies, serah lordling. How presumptuous of me to dismiss your allure.” Her voice had lauded into a noxious, feigned cadence. Perhaps her best impression of the ladies she’d seen in Orlais.

There was a stomping noise. Then another laugh. Genuine, this time. It was apparent she’d missed her mark.

“I'll do my best to recover from the utter heartbreak you have just dealt me, dear captain. But I fear I shall never be the same. I hope you can live with the guilt of ruining me for anyone else." Cyrus gracefully stepped out from another attempt to stomp on his feet, grinning at Zahra in a way that suggested he was goading her more than actually concerned with stopping her from doing so. They faded from earshot after that, swallowed temporarily by the throng.

“Actually though." Khari, having been momentarily distracted by Zahra and Cyrus's exchange, returned to the matter at hand. “Yes. Ril says Lucien thinks someone's trying to kill him. He wants to use himself as bait to draw them out, and is asking for some of us to go with, just in case." From the way her mouth pulled to the side, she doubted very much he'd need it.

It was... quite the risky plan. Leon presumed this was some diluted version of the evidence Lucien had for this conclusion, but even if so. His brows furrowed beneath his mask; his lips thinned contemplatively, and he almost missed a step in the next sequence, distracted as he was. Fortunately, he avoided crushing Khari's toes. He doubted she would have cared even if he had—he'd seen her ignore levels of pain that would probably bring most to their knees. He still had no desire to inflict any on her.

He had a feeling Estella and Rilien would both want to be present for that, and he couldn't blame them. Lucien was more than just an ally to them, and more than just a potential claimant for the throne. He wouldn't keep them from assisting him if it were possible. He didn't think they'd be quite enough alone, though, and mentally he ran through the list of who was left.

"If Rilien and Estella go, could you be sure Asala knows to go as well?" It was very important to keep Lucien alive, and no doubt between them, that group would manage about as well as anyone."I believe Lady Marceline will be collecting you for another assassination problem," he added. He knew she was Asala's partner to begin with, which meant she'd surely wind up with her at the end as well. It made her ideal for passing the message, in any case.

Khari brightened a little at this suggestion. “Sure. I'll make sure everyone knows. Looks like it's time to switch, though. I'll see you in a bit, Leon." She stepped away, the smoothness of her gait hitching awkwardly when she caught sight of the person moving in exactly the opposite direction. Apparently Romulus was her next partner, and it seemed Khari was a bit nonplussed by that. She recovered quickly, though, and finished her movement without hesitation.

“Look at you. Four partners in, and dancing still hasn't killed ya."

A bit of his tension seemed to ease at that. Or maybe it just shifted into something else. "We'll see when we're done here, I guess." The dancers shifted, and they passed out of sight.

Not far from Leon, Estella and Cyrus met up as well; the latter tossed him a jaunty mock-salute when they made accidental eye contact. The twins had quite possibly learned dancing in each others' company; they certainly seemed to move like they were very familiar with this dimension of each other in addition to the rest.

Leon, for his part, found himself partnered with Zahra. "Dizzy yet? I can't tell if I'm spinning or the room is."

Zahra’s laugh came easily as she took his hand in hers and momentarily swayed. Possibly to keep from spinning anymore than they had to. “I think it’s a bit of both. For once, I’m glad I haven’t had anything to drink.” She made a humming sound in the back of her throat and grinned wider, waggling an eyebrow and leading them further away from an oncoming couple. Strangers, from the looks of it.

A sweep of purple followed her steps as she followed through another spin, albeit at a slower pace. Casual. Languid. It enabled her to swing back in towards his chest and draw herself closer, hand poised to their side—close enough to speak without being heard. The height difference was on par with Khari’s; distinctive enough to warrant bending down, though she occasionally bobbed up, bringing herself up on her toes. “Anything of note?”

Leon scoffed softly, a sound of humor rather than irritation, though he sobered quickly enough with the question. "Quite a lot. So far we have two attempted assassinations upcoming, and people who are going to try and stop both. Did Cyrus or Vesryn have anything of interest to pass on? I haven't been able to speak with anyone who went to the meeting with Q."

From the expression on Zahra’s face, she seemed halfway between an exasperated sigh and a groan that might’ve said she expected such impossible odds stacked against them. She pursed her lips and spun them in a slow circle, before back-stepping into a square pattern. “Apparently Corypheus isn’t the only schemer here. Q wants the Empress deposed. We’re to steal a document hidden in the royal wing library. Personal offices. A contract of payment for Gaspard’s head.”

This time, she allowed the sigh to slip past her lips, “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Oh wonderful. At least that was a very big clue as to who wanted Gaspard dead. If they could find the contract and it did tie back to Celene, that would be a bit of news every bit as revelatory as the mercenary in the Lord-General's custody. "I suppose the three of us could take care of that," he said. "When you end up back with Romulus, please do let him know. We only have about another hour until midnight, when the unmasking happens. I'm sure everyone else plans to have their plans in order by then; if we want to do the same, we'd best be on time."

He'd been reliably informed on more than one occasion that Orlesians really had a fondness for the dramatic. Leon couldn't help but feel even they'd be getting their fill of it by the time the night was done.

Zahra nodded her head and suddenly leaned back in a dramatic bow. Pegging on the fact that Leon wouldn’t allow her to fall in an embarrassing heap. As soon as she straightened up in his arms and allowed him to relegate her pace, she glanced to the side of him and offered him a thoughtful smile, “Hopefully after all this is said in done, we can finally eat some of this Orlesian food I’ve been hearing so much about and not
 actually eating.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
The Winter Palace was alive and breathing around them as they hustled down the many winding corridors—quietly. Just as quietly as they could be, of course. Zahra’s ears were straining for any signs of footsteps. Something out of the ordinary. Though she was mostly defering to Rom’s judgment in nearly all those regards. Seeing how he was much better at being stealthy and not being caught. With only the barest sense of where they were going and what they’d need to find
 it would prove difficult to return in a timely fashion.

“So, we’ve got to find one piece of document somewhere in the right wing of this enormous place. A contract. You’d recognize the likes of it,” she paused to catch her breath and continued trekking at his side, “Ominous writing. A large sum of money. Where the Empress would keep such a thing is another story.” They passed several closed doors on the way. None that fit the description. Apparently the right wing would open up into some personal quarters. Offices. Strange. She might’ve thought that the Empress would hide something so important in her bedroom.

Under a pillow or stuffed inside her mattress for safekeeping. How Q knew where she’d hidden it went beyond her understanding. Orlesians’ love of their Game knew no bounds and she supposed their hatred drew just as deeply. If this Q wanted the Empress kicked off her throne, she wouldn’t have set any limitations to acquiring the information she needed to do so. Even still. This place was just as frightening as she’d thought it would be, in a much different way than staring down the blade of an enemy.

Here enemies smiled and shook hands. Laughed and drank together. Waxed pleasantries about the weather and who was wearing what. It made no sense to her. She supposed it didn’t matter even if it did. There was no place for a pirate among nobles and royalty. She found herself, for once, not minding that that was the case.

The last tendrils of a string instrument singing in the room they had left behind faded and was silenced as they progressed deeper. She was only aware that someone was approaching from behind when Leon was only a few paces away. Long legs were certainly favorable. She wondered if he had a better idea how to navigate the Winter Palace’s halls, or at least, if he was somehow familiar. Or he was simply quicker to catch up now that they’d paved the way. There’d been no guards to speak of. No trouble. Not yet.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she tipped her head with a smile and moved over to allow him space to walk between them. “If my directions are correct, we’re nearly there. I think.”

"We're going to want to look for an office, library. Something like that. Or maybe a safe." Still moving, he opened his hand, revealing a lockpick and the second, straight bit of metal usually required for leverage. "Estella loaned me these. I can use them, but I'm not especially fast or skilled, if either of you is better."

Zahra grinned wide, snatching them from his fingers and slipping them behind her ear, “I’ll put them to good use.” Being a grimy fishmonger and a bygone raider meant sticking her fingers into things that didn’t belong to her. Though she figured Rom had a similar set of skills needed for such a task
 so if she couldn’t get the damned thing open she would hand it off to him.

“A safe, more than likely. If she was smart about it.”

Rom continued in the lead, pausing when he laid eyes on a luxurious pair of double doors, the most ornate they'd seen in this particular wing of the palace, which was no small thing to say. "This looks promising," he said, moving forward to try the handle. Locked, of course. Taking a look around for anyone nearby, he found nothing, and then glanced at Zahra. "You want to take a crack at it?"

No sooner had he said it, however, then the light sound of a young woman's giggling laughter echoed down the hall. Around a corner, but coming closer. "Really, Duvelina, I must be getting back." That came from a second voice, a man's, and with it came the clanking of armor. The woman made an exaggerated sound of disappointment.

"So desperate to be rid of me, Mathieu? Viens ici, mon doudou!"

There was a moment of what sounded like passionate kissing, before they separated again. "Not here," the guard, Mathieu, said. "Won't your father be looking for you? What if he sees us? Let's... come, inside." Duvelina giggled her agreement, and their footsteps steadily approached the corner.

Rom cursed under his breath, holding out his hand for the lockpick. "Actually, let me," he said. "One of you needs to get rid of them." He obviously felt he wasn't the best candidate to do so, and given the skillset he'd demonstrated thus far it wasn't hard to imagine why.

Things had been going far too swimmingly. Of course, there had to some sort of complication. Zahra tsked and plucked the lock-pick from behind her ear, depositing it in Rom’s proffered hand. Maybe next time she’d get to show off a little. Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment before she wound her arm through Leon’s and clasped her other hand onto his wrist—he wouldn’t like this one bit, but it had to be done. She just hoped he’d be quick enough to play along. She’d apologize later. Over wine, perhaps. She tugged on his arm and inclined her head in the direction she wanted them to go, “Play along, won’t you? It’ll be semi-painless, I swear.”

She mussed up her hair with one of her free hands and instructed him to do the same. Just enough to look like they’d been fooling around in the hallway.

He seemed to get the general gist of the idea, anyway, mumbling something under his breath and reaching up to pull the tie out of his cornsilk hair and using a large hand to muss it. "Uh—" He cut himself off, perhaps deciding that Mathieu and Duvelina were too close to risk any questions.

A few more paces and the voices were nearly on them. She waited until they were just at the corner, and whispered something along the lines of sorry under her breath before bodily pushing him towards the nearest wall. Away from the coffee table and flowery vase at their sides. Just hard enough to jostle the picture frame above their heads. This was a dance of another sort. It would have to be convincing enough to persuade a drunken couple to look elsewhere for their little tryst. She was certainly good at making people uncomfortable; a skill she would be able to put to good use in Halamshiral of all places.

Uncomfortable might have been too mild a word for Leon, at least. He went easily enough when she pushed, which was good, because she'd have probably not been able to get him anywhere if his instinct had been to resist. His eyes were round in surprise and something quite a bit like terror. Apparently, this was what it took to put a dent in the Commander's calm. Go figure.

She maneuvered them around the corner until they were right in front of them. Though she hadn’t stopped. As if she was far too preoccupied to realize that they weren’t alone. She drew herself up on her tippy toes and grabbed onto the front of Leon’s jacket in order to pull him down towards her. Slanting her head sideways to plant a kiss on his lips; aggressively. One of her hands drew up the sleeve of his jacket and tipped back towards his jawline, before she finally broke away. She froze in place and swung a wide-eyed stare in their direction; mouth still parted.

“Oh! I didn’t realize anyone else was here,” she unwound her fingers from the front of Leon’s jacket but remained in close proximity, “Dear me, looks like you’ve found our little hiding spot.” The implication was clear. She wouldn’t be budging so they would have to clear off.

Leon's face was flushed a deep red. He'd clearly been expecting a something a bit more... feigned than the real thing, even if it was an act. The slightly dazed, extremely embarrassed expression on his face worked well enough for their purposes though, and he seemed to more or less snap out of it in time to at least contribute to the effort, clearing his throat and raising an eyebrow at the couple. "If, uh... if you don't mind..." he made a vague gesture with his hand, about as polite as an insinuation of 'get lost' could be.

Duvelina seemed very amused to have come upon them, trying and failing to stifle more giggles. "Oh dear, Mathieu. Looks like we'll want to try the other hallway." She winked at the both of them and turned, flouncing back the way she'd come, her paramour in her wake.

Leon cleared his throat again, ducking his head and refusing to make eye contact. Once they were gone, he stepped out from under where she'd shoved him back against the wall. "That was, ah... qu-quick thinking." He grimaced at his own slight stutter, then set himself to rights as swiftly as he could, straightening his shirtsleeves and combing his fingers back through his hair. "Let's... get back to Romulus, then. Ahem."

And here she was doubting his acting abilities. Perhaps she’d gone a little too far. Supposing that the success in this heist was of the utmost importance, she thought they’d done rather well. Zahra finally gave him some space and stepped off to the side; peeping up to look at his face. How red. Almost adorable. She’d never seen him so rattled before, the great Commander who towered over his enemies and strove into battle like a bull.

She patted him on the lower back and hm’d softly under her breath as they turned back around the corner, “I must say, you did splendidly. That’s one disaster averted.” She drew a finger up to her lips and tapped it there, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart.” A laugh bubbled out as she dropped her hand back to her side, and tipped her head back up at him. It was in her nature to jostle the seriousness out of people. If only a little. Though she did link her hands behind her back and huff out a nearly genuine, “Sorry, I can’t help it.”

Besides, it looked like Rom was finished.

Indeed, he held one of the two doors slightly ajar for them, deftly flicking the lockpick about the fingers of his right hand. He shook his head slightly as they returned, offering a subtle grin. "I'd have just knocked them out," he admitted, shrugging. "But that's why I figured you should handle it." He tossed the lockpick at Zahra. "Come on, let's make this quick." He stepped inside, holding the door open for them to enter behind him.

The chamber they stepped into was as sumptuous as any Zahra had ever seen. It wasn't hard to decide that this had to be Celene's bedroom; there was just no one short of an Empress it could belong to.

There was almost too much to look at. The walls were painted in fresco-style, bright pigments in slavish detail illustrating... it was hard to say what. Scenes of venerated ancestors from history, perhaps—rulers and famous Orlesians past. If the richness and number of the depictions was anything to go by, there was no shortage of them. Men and women with beautiful faces, beneath beautiful masks, often armed or mounted or both, scenes of war, romance, and tragedy in some sort of grand visual history lesson.

The images broke only for the full wall of windows, each enshrined in elaborate stonework, the top half of each one assembled from mosaics of colored glass, arranged in contiguous theme with the paint, interrupted only by lavish silk drapes, patterned in delicate embroidery which carried through over the chaise lounges, upholstered armchairs, and the coverlet over the massive four-poster bed against the furthest wall. All of the wood was rich and dark, much of it inlaid with gold or mother-of-pearl. A small writing desk sat in front of the central windows, neat stacks of parchment arranged meticulously upon it, an elaborate white feather quill resting upright in an inkwell beside them.

The ground beneath their feet was soft; purple rugs lay over the bare floors, their edges gilded with thread as well, many of them with tassels gathered at the corner. At the very center of the room hung another of the magelight chandeliers. This one sparkled like diamonds, each crystal throwing brilliant little rainbows upon the nearest surface. A door to the left likely led to a privy chamber, but there were two others as well. A closet and an attached lounge, maybe? The whole thing was much fussier than any room in Lucien's home, to be sure.

It definitely was too much to take in
 which would make finding the documents a nightmare. Zahra only hoped that they’d be left alone for the duration they were in here, seeing how the Empress would be one of the only ones allowed in her chambers. Though with mercenaries and spies skulking around in the shadows, she doubted that that was the case. Maybe it was too much to hope for. She took a few tentative steps inside the room and spun in a slow circle, absorbing her surroundings.

The desk sounded far too easy, and the Winter Palace was anything but. “Now, comes the hard part. Where oh where would she keep a contract?” A rhetorical question. One posed to herself. If she were the Empress who wanted a relevant person executed without so much as a whiff tracing back to her, she’d use a vault and keep the key on her at all times; stuffed in her corset if she had to. She pulled open a few drawers and shut them once she’d found nothing noteworthy. Only then did she approach the desk, and fan out some of the parchment papers.

Searching for keywords. Coin. Gaspard. Something.

Leon checked the other doors. "Bathroom, salon, and closet," he announced. "...a really big closet. Might be something back here, actually."

Rom peered in behind him, seeming to agree, as he was the first to step inside. The space was about as big as the area in which Rom lived in Skyhold, with incredible depth to store an absurd variety of gowns and any imaginable other garment that the Empress might need. Rom seemed honestly to be quite at home with breaking and entering, rummaging through the belongings of an incredibly important woman. Like this was something he'd done many times before.

The closet area was lit by a small magelight in the ceiling, reflecting off of the full-size mirror on the far wall and dimly casting over the room. It wasn't much light, but at least enough for Rom to soon locate something near the back. "Here. Safe." It appeared to be located in the back left corner, a well made piece of work if the half-frown on Rom's face was anything to go by. He crouched down in front of it, pulling free a lockpick set of his own, apparently tucked away somewhere in the cloak he wore. "I'll see what I can do."

Zahra popped her head around the corner, and into the closet before glancing around the gaudy dresses and frilly nightwear, “You do that and I’ll make sure no one sneaks up on us.” Not that they’d have many options if someone cornered them in the Empress’ chamber. Scrambling underneath the bed sheets or barricading themselves in the bathroom didn’t sound very promising. She wandered the room as Leon continued shuffling through the parchment papers set on her writing desk—just in case she hadn’t hidden it in her vault. How long would a vault take to open anyway? It certainly wasn’t as simple as a door.

The uncomfortable itch of time was finally setting in. Her stomach felt heavy. It made her pace in front of the door, occasionally pausing when she thought she heard something. Footsteps? No. Straining her ears for any further noise proved fruitless. Just her imagination playing tricks on her. She exhaled softly through her nose; rolling the tension from her shoulders. They were fine, for now. She wondered how the others were faring with their missions, deterring assassinations. Hopefully just as well as they were.

There. There it was again. Distinct footsteps. Clearer this time. She pressed herself up against the door and tilted her head so that her ear was pushed against the wooden frame. Voices. More than one person. Speaking in assertive tones. Guards? She couldn’t tell. Orlesian accents, at least. “Wait—there’s something...” her voice lowered into a hurried whisper, “Someone’s coming.”

"Hide!" Rom hissed, from inside the closet.

"Lock the door," Leon added, quickly neatening the stack of papers he'd been rifling through and then darting his eyes about. He selected his spot quickly, ducking into the bathroom and shutting the door softly behind him.

Zahra fought back the groan crawling up her throat as she snapped the lock back into place, searching the room for a suitable hiding place. Dammit. That would do. At least it wasn’t in the bed itself. She hurried across the chamber, swishing purple finery as she skidded to a halt and crawled down on her belly. Fortunately the Empress was a clean lady. No dust to speak of, even underneath the bed. She pulled herself under and fixed the bedding back in place, making sure that her dress was tucked tight enough to her sides not to be seen peeping out.

Rom had apparently chosen to remain in the closet, as he didn't emerge from that room before the footfalls became much louder, right outside the door. Their voices were muffled outside, but definitely more along the gruff Orlesian lines than the more eloquent tones the nobility often took with each other. A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. Two pairs of heavy plated boots made their way inside.

"It's incompetence, plain and simple," one of them said to the other, a deep male voice. He sighed in frustration. "The fool's never taken anything seriously in his life."

The next to speak up was a woman. "But he's your brother, you're really just going to destroy him like that? He'd be disgraced."

"Perhaps he should be. In any case, no harm seems to have been done. Room's clear."

"One moment," the woman said. "No harm in being thorough." Her boots thudded across the floor and into the closet, and what followed was an incredibly long moment of uncomfortable silence, as the other guard waited for her to finish her inspection, and very little sound at all came from inside. At least none that reached under Celene's bed.

Finally, after it seemed like the first guard might go to look, she reemerged. "Right, let's go. No need to watch the room from inside, right?" Together they made their way back through the door, closing and locking it behind them. Their footsteps did not take them away, and indeed it seemed as though they had stopped just outside the door, where they now stood watch.

A second later, Rom could be seen crouched in the doorway of the closet. "I don't think I can crack this," he admitted in a whisper. They would need to be very careful about their noise now. "At least... not with a lockpick."

The privy door opened soundlessly, Leon creeping out on surprisingly soft feet for a man so large. He moved a ways further from the entrance and towards Rom before he spoke. "Is there something else that will help? I doubt she leaves the key in here." It was almost certainly on her person. Zahra had already crept out from under the bed and was dusting herself off. Fixing the rumples in her dress; what could be done, if even Rom couldn’t pick the lock? She doubted she could.

He held up his left hand, green energy of his mark glowing softly. He almost winced before he spoke. "This should get through it. But it'll be loud." He glanced around the room, taking in their surroundings. "And we'd need another way to get out quickly."

Leon pursed his lips, glancing about the room. It was almost possible to see the wheels turning in his head. "The windows," he decided. "We're on the third floor, so we'll need to be careful, but it should work. We'll need to buy ourselves time." His eyes alighted on one of the chaise lounges; he crossed to it and picked it up off the ground with great care, minding the fact that two of its feet were on wood rather than carpet. "Let's block the door."

Zahra glanced at the window leading out of the chamber. She liked the sounds of that
 assuming they didn’t fall and break their legs. What an unpleasant conclusion to a dramatic heist that would be. Three stories didn’t sound so far down. At least she didn’t think so. Best only think of it when they were cornered and had no other choice. She let Leon handle the heavy furniture, as she moved towards the bedding and grabbed a silken throw folded at the foot of the bed. It would do for what she had in mind.

She tiptoed towards the door and set about her work: a bowline knot. As good as it would be without being made of actual hempen rope. Tight enough to be an annoyance. She gave one more tug before stepping aside to let Leon pile chairs in front of the door. She almost wished she could see their faces when they realized they couldn’t get inside as easily as they’d done moments ago.

Once Leon was satisfied as to the amount of furniture in front of the door, he crossed to the window, pulling it open and then nodding wordlessly to Rom.

He nodded back, turning back inside the closet room. He didn't waste any time about it, either, kneeling before the safe and pressing his marked hand against the door. It glowed green for a moment, emerald veins spreading like spider webbing along the face of it. It cracked, and then Rom released the pent up energy, letting it collapse in on itself with a loud sound of shattering metal. Rom turned his face away from it momentarily, only long enough to protect himself, before he looked back and let the door swing open. Immediately there were sounds of confusion from outside, and then the guards tried their key in the door.

Shouts followed next when it wouldn't open for them, but Rom had apparently found what they were looking for. "Transaction record there, should be what we need." He handed it over to Leon, apparently believing the Commander to be the better person for safekeeping it, and then he led the way to the window, peering down towards the ground.

"There's a pretty easy path here. Don't have to climb all the way down, either, just bend your legs and roll when you drop. If you need to." It was all the advice they had time for. The guards were furious, the banging on the door almost drowning out Rom's words.

But they had what they came for.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari almost felt bad for the poor sucker they were escorting back to the ballroom. Sure, she'd killed Philippe or whoever that guy was, but Celene had probably hired her for that, too, so it was easy enough for her to figure that she was likely to get the short end of the stick here. Maybe it shouldn't be—Khari knew assassination wasn't exactly the honorable thing to do. Maybe it was just personal bias that meant she always blamed the employers for it and not the assassins themselves.

They also had a spitting-mad Gaspard in tow, which was bound to make things interesting. Khari wasn't really certain how this was all going to happen, exactly, but she was willing to bet he was going to waste no time accusing Celene of trying to kill him with Venatori, or something else ridiculous. They had the bodies in the hall to prove that the Venatori had been around, but even if Celene was a power-hungry bitch, she really didn't seem like the type to fancy colluding with Corypheus and a nutty Tevinter supremacist cult.

Apparently, thinking about this kind of thing was Khari's life now.

Hopefully the others had their evidence in hand, because there was no way Gaspard was going to wait politely for anyone to make any extra inquiries. She practically had to jog to keep up with him, though the people like Cy and Ves with longer legs were managing a little better. “This oughta be interesting." She aimed the comment at no one in particular, but she did hear Cyrus snicker. At least someone was having fun.

"Hopefully not too interesting," Vesryn said, having finished catching his breath only a few seconds earlier. "I'm not sure how much more interest this palace can take."

The crowd actively got out of Gaspard's way; though she couldn't see the expression on his face, it was probably murderous or somewhere close. He stomped through the foyer, then into the ballroom, where it looked like the dancing had ceased. The Empress was back up on the upper balcony, and the music had faded to something more subdued, but whatever was going on stopped abruptly when Gaspard raised his voice.

"Celene!" He certainly could make his tone booming. Probably a field-command thing. Almost comically-synchronized, a roomful of nobles and guests turned around to face him. Face them.

Celene, for her part, did not react overmuch. "Dear cousin," she intoned, in a sort of half-friendly, half-condescending way that was hard to pin down exactly. "Whatever has you so upset? We should hate for any of our honored guests to—"

"Cut the platitudes, Celene. You hired a Bard to kill me, and you failed." Gaspard pointed back towards where Mick and Ves were transporting said Bard. "That's still a crime under the law, and you've lost your right to call yourself anyone's Empress!"

A murmur of surprise passed through the room, like ripples over a pond. Clearly, either the news or the manner in which it was being delivered was quite surprising to the gathered crowd. It had to be the second—assassinations were pretty normal here, after all.

Rom made a rather quiet approach on Khari's right flank. The attention of the room was pretty firmly situated on Gaspard and Celene, their dispute quite clearly coming to a climax before the eyes of the entirety of Orlais's highest nobility. Rom took in the last arrivals to the scene himself, noting the half of an arrow still lodged in Gaspard's back, and the blood decorating some of the Inquisition's members, Khari included.

"This should be good," he murmured, close enough to her ear for only her to hear, what with the way the room was still murmuring in surprise and confusion. "We got what we need on Celene. Leon handed it off." He took his eyes away from the scene for a moment, inspecting her dress. "They get you anywhere?"

She shook her head, grinning. It was probably weird that she was this glad to have been in a fight just now, but it was about the first time all night she'd felt like a help instead of a hindrance, and the adrenaline was slow to come down. “Nah. It's all Venatori blood." She was curious as to what he'd mentioned, though, and returned her attention to the stand-off between Celene and Gaspard.

"Have we now?" Celene remained nonplussed, her hands delicately folded in front of her, the very picture of demure innocence. It almost suited her, which was uncanny considering all they knew about the kind of person she was. Perhaps she was just that good an actress. "We are quite sorry to hear that someone tried to take your life, Grand Duke, but we are unsure why you believe we were responsible for such a thing."

This close, Khari could see Gaspard's jaw flex as he clenched his teeth. "Don't be coy. The assailant is one of Dame Cygne's Bards. You are the one who insisted that only they be allowed inside the Winter Palace this evening!" At that, a few of the more knowledgeable eyes in the room swung to Aurelie herself, who wore a much more neutral expression than either Gaspard or Celene did, almost disinterested.

"Again, dear Gaspard, if that is so, we are sorry to hear it, but we selected entertainment for this evening to ensure delightful music, not your death." Celene seemed a little less sanguine now, almost as though she were growing irritated at his persistence.

"You—" Gaspard didn't get very far before he was interrupted.

A throat cleared conspicuously from the right side of the ballroom, where the herald who'd announced the guests held a new piece of parchment aloft. "On this day, 23 Wintermarch of the forty-third year of the Dragon Age, Her Majesty Celene Valmont I does promise the sum of five hundred royals to the organization Le Nichoir, and its proprietor, Lady Aurelie Montblanc, for services to take place on 2 Drakonis of the same year. These services are to include musicianship and entertainment for a fĂȘte at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral, as well as the elimination of Gaspard de Chalons from contention to the crown of Orlais, by whatever means deemed most expedient and appropriate, to be carried out by the agent Wren."

There was quite a resounding silence after that; the herald folded the document back at its creases and returned it to the waiting hand of a tall nobleman with a fox mask—Julien. He smiled, leaning forward against the balcony rail on his side. "You were saying, Your Majesty?" There was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice.

Khari felt her grin spread over her face. Oh, this was good. “Nice." She breathed the word on an exhale, reaching out for Rom's shoulder and squeezing. More jubilant displays of excitement would probably have to wait, so the did her best to contain herself, but if she hopped a little in place, well... no one was looking in this direction anyway.

"Not a bad story, how we got that," Rom said, smiling. "I'll tell you when we're done here."

The Inquisition's condemnation by proxy had an obvious effect on the crowd, too; the muttering increased in volume, and the general tenor of it took on a hostile edge. More than one disdainful look was leveled at the top of the balcony where the Empress stood.

Gaspard, riding the wave of success, took it upon himself to meet eyes with some of the guards. "Arrest her—for attempted murder and conspiring with the Venatori."

"Actually." This time, the voice that stopped proceedings was quite familiar. Estella stepped free of Lucien and Asala. "I contest the last claim. The Venatori serve Corypheus, not the Empress, and one of his agents was discovered among us tonight." She stood calmly, hands clasped in front of her, and tilted her head at Gaspard. "No doubt this agent wished death upon the both of you, as well as upon His Highness Lucien." She gestured behind her, where Rilien appeared, holding Florianne by the arm.

Her hands had been bound behind her back, and she seemed to have taken a few blows, but she was otherwise unharmed. The way she was dressed must have been the style of those harlequins someone had mentioned earlier in the night. Assassins with the House of Repose, or something like that.

Gaspard's mouth fell open. Clearly, he had not been expecting his own sister to be responsible for sending the Venatori to kill him.

Khari was pretty surprised, too. Florianne hadn't seemed any less suspicious than anyone else, but she wouldn't have picked her to actually be a trained assassin like Aurelie, much less one who worked for Corypheus. “Wait... how'd we figure that one out?"

"Offered her bait she couldn't pass up," Rom explained quietly. "Crown Prince and Lady Inquisitor in the same spot, with Rilien and Asala watching over them. Drew her into an attack."

"I suppose that's one way to do it," Ves commented from Khari's other side, keeping his voice low. "Doesn't look like she gave any of them too much trouble."

The Grand Duke now clearly wasn't sure how to feel about things, but he recovered enough to find his voice, at least. "Then arrest them both." He shook his head. "Celene has invalidated her claim to the throne, and in so doing, invalidated her line of succession. There is only one way to answer this." He crossed his arms over his chest, still clearly ignoring his injuries, and leveled a hard stare at a cluster of people in light grey. They were dressed pretty similarly to Philippe, so it must be some kind of official uniform for the Council of Heralds.

They all looked at each other, obviously as surprised by the turn of events as anyone. It was hard to get a read on the crowd overall, though some people were nodding, as if to express agreement with Gaspard's implication. Not too far away, the Costanzas exchanged a more worried glance. After all, if Celene's entire line of succession were invalidated because of what she'd done, then it would return to Judicael I's, and there was no longer anyone in front of Gaspard there.

There was general confusion for a few more moments, and then the grand double doors from the foyer flew open, one of them slamming back against the wall. In strode a very irritated-looking Guillame Drakon, followed somewhat more sedately by Violette, who escorted yet another prisoner in much the same manner as Rilien had kept hold of Florianne.

"Give it a fucking rest, Gaspard, you're just as guilty as them and you damn well know it." The Lord-General was obviously not inclined to mince his words for the sake of politeness. There were even a few scandalized gasps at the crudeness of his language.

Khari snorted, biting down on her knuckle to stifle the cackle that threatened. This had to be that merc Rom's group had captured a couple hours ago. But seriously, if the court found this kind of language offensive, they should hear her talk... ever. It was pretty ridiculous that that bothered them when they could watch a whole drama unfold like this with mere avid interest. Apparently, the Lord-General's brusque mannerisms were more obscene than the fact that no fewer than three of the people closest to the crown had all tried to kill each other for it.

This part, though... this part was gonna be fun. She moved her eyes to Gaspard, waiting to see what he'd do.

He wasn't half as good at keeping a Graceface as Celene had been. Though she wasn't bothering anymore, either. Two guards stood on either side of her, and her hands were in shackles, but she let a satisfied little smile curl her lip, quite able to read the writing on the wall here, no doubt. Maybe it was some consolation that her rival was going to go down with her.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lord-General," Gaspard tried, but by this point the crowd was primed for the evidence to be legitimate before it had even been properly presented, and the dissenting murmurs were loud.

Guy rolled his eyes obviously enough that Khari could see it, and gestured Violette forward with one hand. She pulled her prisoner along with her, and the Lord-General glared at him. "Speak."

"Uh—" The man's accent was very Fereldan. He clearly wasn't in great shape; it looked like a lump was forming on his head where he'd been hit, but they were definitely battle-wounds, not the kind you got when someone was deliberately and methodically inflicting pain. "The Grand Duke, Lords. And Ladies. He, uh—hired m'boss's company. We were hiding out in the gardens, supposed to come in on his signal, y'see. Menace the nobles and the Council till they gave him the crown. Maybe cut a few up if anyone got mouthy."

It seemed to be particularly offensive that the men hired for this were Fereldan. Or maybe that they were mercenaries. It was hard to say which, but given the longstanding rivalry between the two countries, the first seemed a bit more likely.

"While we're arresting people," Guy added, meeting the eyes of another cluster of guards. These ones appeared to answer to him directly. "Arrest him, too." They moved to do it, careful not to bother his wounds too much, but he received no more quarter than Celene, Florianne, or the mercenary did.

"Well, now." Julien took over the narrative from there. And that's what it was, quite apparently: a dramatic narrative, planned in pieces, to keep attention and move events along swiftly and efficiently. No doubt Rilien had had some part in constructing it. Maybe some of the others had, too. The best thing about it was that no part of it was false. "As that seems to invalidate Gaspard's line of succession, I do believe we're back at Judicael's again. Where does that put us, o esteemed peers of the Council?" He folded his hands behind him with the air of someone who knew exactly what the answer to his question was.

Still, for whatever reason, the Council conferred on it for several tense minutes, during which everyone else in the hall waited for the verdict. It was almost possible to feel it, the way the sum total of held breaths and bowstring muscles gave the whole thing the feel of standing on eggshells. Or needles. Like one false move would bring the whole thing crashing down.

Khari was certainly feeling it. She knew the answer had to be the obvious one, but these people were really good at dragging it out. She wondered what the holdup was. Surely everyone had the really important bloodlines memorized, right? She couldn't believe they'd need to consult charts or anything.

“Taking their time, aren't they?" Apparently Cyrus thought the same. She rolled her eyes so he could see, causing a wry lift of half his mouth.

"We are dealing with the lines of succession," Marcy noted, tossing them a glance. "I believe the delay can be forgiven, considering."

“Hurry up and wait, so they say,” Zahra lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and glanced down at her own dress. There was a section near the leg that was torn. Possibly from whatever had happened before, during the heist.

At last, one of the Heralds stepped away from the cluster of them to address the crowd. "Given the invalidation of both Grand Duchess Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard's lines of succession," he said, demoting Celene at the moment he spoke her title, "the Emperor of Orlais is Lucien Drakon."

The tension snapped, and the room exploded in noise. Lots of clamoring, even some shouting; no few people cheered. Others looked scandalized, or shouted questions at the Council, but there was little chance of any of them being heard over the furor.

“Ha. Yes!" Given all the noise already filling the room, Khari no longer saw any reason to dampen her enthusiasm. “Eat it, you poncy bastards!" She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that this was the right choice, not just for the Inquisition, but for Orlesians. She didn't always think of herself as one of them, but she was, and in this moment, she was pretty damn all right with that.

Rom snorted a laugh next to her, breaking into a full blown grin at her reaction. He didn't offer any taunting words of his own, but he did clap her on the shoulder and squeeze briefly.

Beside them, Mick rolled his eyes at her antics, but regardless smiled and clapped his hands, though for a moment he did lean forward to speak into Marcy's ear. Whatever he said must had been funny, because it caused her to laugh and nod in agreement.

Zahra’s smile couldn’t have been wider, until it broke out into a full grin. Teeth bared. She looked as pleased as the rest of them at the results, clapping Khari's shoulder from behind and rocking back on her heels, pleased as kitten doused in milk.

Across the room, Stel gave Lucien a bit of a nudge, and he made his way carefully nearer to the balcony where Celene had once stood, before pausing en route and seeming to change his mind. Instead, he descended the stairs to the ballroom floor, where the majority of the watchers were gathered. Those on the upper level crowded around the banisters. He raised a hand for quiet, which was nearly immediate. No doubt even those that didn't like the news would want to know what he had to say.

"Before I begin," he said, his tone dry, "I would like to ensure that there are no more doors to be kicked down, hostages to be dragged in, or accusations to be shouted across the room?" In the pause, there was scattered laughter, but no such interruptions were forthcoming. Lucien's shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. "Good. Frankly I'm not sure we can handle much more as it is."

His tone sobered to match his expression. "No doubt that was all very fast for you. I know it was for me. I can truthfully say that I did not arrive here tonight planning to leave an Emperor. And I allow for the possibility that, in the course of their trials, either my aunt or my cousins might be found not guilty of the crimes of which they are accused. If such a thing occurs, you have my assurance that I will not contend to keep this title in their places." He paused a moment, pursing his lips. "Nevertheless, it is clear that in the meantime, I will have to assume the mantle in full, because what is upon us now is a disaster in full. Our armies are depleted. Many of our lands lay barren, a result of a war that was by all accounts both short and exceedingly bloody. Our people suffer, and if that were what I had to contend with upon ascension, it would be a tall task."

Folding his hands behind his back, Lucien cast his eyes over the assembled, both in front of and above where he stood. "But that is not the extent of it. An enemy unlike any we have faced before has arrived upon our doorstep. Infiltrated our court, where many of us have doubtlessly believed ourselves safe from unfamiliar dangers." He glanced once at Florianne, but only briefly. "We have been distracted by our own disagreements for too long. One way or another, those have found temporary resolution tonight. I intend to use that time to prepare us to face down Corypheus, who is a danger not just to some of us, but to us all. I hope that as I do so, I can count on your support and your advice, as all new leaders are wise to do." He favored the assembled with a small smile, genuine as ever, then nodded to the guards.

"See to it that they are taken care of, please." As the prisoners were escorted away, Lucien pulled in another breath. "If I may, I think I might call this the most thorough unmasking that has ever occurred at such an event. In that spirit, let us all be known to each other." Reaching up to his own face, he took hold of the edges of his mask in either hand, and lifted it up and away.

The rest of the court followed suit, dropping their arms back to their sides. There was something about it—perhaps just the timing or the events—that made the effect particularly striking. People blinked at each other as though they were looking at their neighbors for the first time, almost, though surely at least some of them were more familiar with each other than that.

Finally, she could get this thing off her face. Khari peeled it away without hesitation, breathing a relieved sigh in the process. Really, if they liked decorating their faces this much, they should just do the logical thing and get tattoos. Wouldn't be so weird to connect them to families, either: that was what at least some Rivaini did, if Rom was anything to go by.

Speaking of... Khari shot him a huge grin. “Pretty sure we just made a whole regime change happen." If anyone had asked her about the things she thought she'd be doing at this point in her life... not even she'd have dared to dream as big as toppling a dynasty. Because that was what they'd done—they'd usurped the Valmonts, and put someone with the name Drakon back on the Orlesian throne. This was the kind of shit people wrote entire history books about.

Obviously, defeating Corypheus would be like that, too, but they hadn't actually done that part yet.

Ves removed his own mask as he walked past them. He looked a bit more tired than she was used to seeing him, but it was understandable given the unusual work they'd been forced into. He offered both of them a smile. "Not bad for a night's work, little bear."

He disappeared into the crowd of nobles, probably off to regroup with Stel. Rom had his arms crossed, free of his mask now and looking over the crowd as if surveying his handiwork. Their handiwork, since tonight had only been possible through contributions that all of them had made, whether it was picking locks, navigating conversation, or smashing vases over Venatori heads. "It was about as painful as I expected," Rom admitted, probably referring to the night as a whole. "But hey, at least we made it worthwhile."

Both Mick and Marcy had removed their masks, and she now leaned back against him, with his arms wound around her. With their faces bare, they both seemed immensely relieved, and for once relaxed. Even Marcy's expression was soft and gentle, apparently reveling in their success with her husband.

Off to Romulus’s right side, Zahra hefted her mask off and tucked it under her armpit. It seemed as if she already had a destination in mind. Nearly trouncing towards a nearby servant standing off to the side with a tray poised atop his palm. This time, she wouldn’t be interrupted. She didn’t stop to talk to anyone, only swept up her lace and leaned against the wall beside him. Words were exchanged as the platter was lowered and she began plucking small morsels into her mouth, eyeing him whenever he was foolish enough to pull it away thinking she was done.

With a short, shallow bow to the crowd, Lucien placed his hand over his heart. "Please, stay and partake if you still wish to. And take care on your travels home. Each of you will be needed in the days to come." His address concluded, he once more ascended the stairs, leaving events to resume in his wake.

Rom glanced sideways at Khari. "You hungry? I could go for something to eat right about now."

“Starving." She knocked his elbow with hers, letting her mood—tired, but pretty damn fantastic otherwise—manifest itself as playfulness. Close enough, anyway. “Let's go."

Changing the fate of the world had a way of working up an appetite.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
The journey back to Skyhold was quite uneventful. No doubt the Inquisition had made quite the impact on the political climate there; it would hardly surprise Leon if it took years for things to settle back to something resembling normalcy. Assuming the new Emperor would ever allow it to—something which seemed quite unlikely given his temperament. Still, Leon couldn't think it was a change for anything but the good, even if it was only realistic to suppose that the early years of Lucien's reign would be contentious at least.

There were bound to be at least some disruptions to their troops as well: it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to continue commanding the Lions from the throne; it would be a conflict of interest, and he seemed fastidious enough to avoid those deliberately. Which meant that in turn, the Lions on loan to the Inquisition might find their status to be quite different. Leon was content to wait until he knew exactly what would be happening there, but he'd decided already that he was prepared to offer each of them a promotion as incentive to stay, if they needed it. Their work training the regulars was of immense value, and their obvious moral character and experience were both good for morale additionally.

He was making a note to himself to draw up new commission letters just in case when there was a soft knock at his door. Setting his quill back in its inkwell, Leon glanced up. "Come in," he called. It couldn't be Khari or SĂ©verine; neither of them stood on quite that many formalities. The former just opened the door whenever she pleased, and the latter simply announced that she was entering and then did so, not that he minded.

But the person at his door was the Lady Inquisitor, or just Estella at the moment, from the bright expression she wore as she leaned slightly into the office and met his eyes. She'd been in a rather good mood of late, though Leon had not asked why. "Leon," she greeted amiably. "Some of us are going down to the Herald's Rest for a drink. It's past dinnertime already." She sounded as though she didn't expect him to know that, which was honestly a fair guess on her part. "Why don't you come with?"

He considered it, and found he had no reason to refuse. So he didn't, offering her a nod instead. "Very well; just a moment." Leon checked to make sure that none of his clothes had too many ink stains on them, then threw his cloak over his shoulders, gesturing for Estella to precede him out of the office.

Spring was slowly blooming over Skyhold; much of the snow had melted, leaving large puddles of mud in the bailey. It wasn't impossible that there would be another major snowstorm or two before winter gave up the ghost for good, but hopefully not. He was quite ready to head back into the garden and do the spring planting.

"Your perennials will come back in soon," Estella said, either guessing at his likely train of thought or following a similar one herself. "I bet the rosebushes will be really nice this year."

"I hope so," he said. "The red ones seem to be popular; I noticed quite a few of them were cut last year." Not that he'd minded, of course; the responsible party hadn't ruined anything.

She laughed, though he didn't know why until she explained. "I know who that was," Estella said, still clearly very amused. "Donnelly has a... preoccupation with that shade of color in particular. Resembles something he's very fond of."

Leon was slow to catch on. So slow, in fact, that he was quite sure he had no idea what she was talking about, but he wasn't about to ask her to elaborate. In any case, they reached the tavern, and Leon held the door open for Estella, who stepped in smoothly, allowing him to follow and be ensconced in the warmth moments later. A few of the most frequent patrons—and occupants—were already about; Leon raised a hand in greeting to Vesryn. Zahra was there too. He suppressed a lingering twinge of awkward embarrassment as he followed Estella to the table they were set up at.

Vesryn was already spreading some butter over a slice from a loaf of fresh bread. "Good to see you, Leon," he greeted. "Any word from the Emerald Graves yet? They should be back soon, shouldn't they?"

"A few days, I expect," Leon replied, settling himself down on the bench and helping himself to one of the rolls in the basket Estella nudged towards him. "Captain SĂ©verine sent a rider ahead; he got here this morning. We've got a few casualties incoming, but no deaths, thankfully." Considering what they were up against there, that was better news than he'd expected, by a considerable margin. It would seem that all the hard work the Templars had been doing was paying off.

“Sounds like good news to me,” Zahra interjected with a smile, not quite looking up. She was working a line of beads of varying colors on the table, threading them through a leather strap. Intricate knots worked with small hands. Perhaps something she’d picked up back in Llomeryn or on one of the many ships she’d inhabited in her youth. She took a moment and set her piece down, snatching up a nearby cup and downing whatever drink it was filled with. Ale, from the froth left on her upper lip. There was a slight redness to her ears; indicating that it may not have been her first.

She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and regarded Leon for the first time since he’d sat down at the table. There was a sense that she had something on her mind. Something she wanted to say. Though the moment passed just as quickly as she regarded the lute-player across the way, playing a soft tune near the unlit fireplace. Like the others, she’d chosen a lighter fare of clothing. Almost too light. It seemed as soon as the sun stared baring down the mountains, she dressed as if she were in the more tropical parts of Thedas. Bare-armed with leather vests and billowy, sleeveless shirts.

A pirate, through and through.

He wasn't sure he exactly wanted to know what she planned to say. If there was one thing he'd come to understand about Zahra, it was that she didn't exactly bother with the same level of reserve as other people about most any topic, so if something was stilling her tongue, it was probably for a very good reason.

Fortunately, the waitress came by before the silence could edge into an awkward length, and he and Estella both ordered something to eat and drink. The distraction afforded him the opportunity to think of a way to keep the conversation smoothly afloat, so he used it. "Any progress with that letter?" he asked Zahra, leaning slightly forward against the table. It was a rather personal matter, so he kept his voice quiet in the asking.

"Can I ask what letter?" Estella interjected, clearly picking up on the caution of his approach and responding with the same.

“Letter?”

There was a pause in the conversation as Zahra pushed two more beads down the length of the cord. A hum sounded in the back of her throat as she pushed the beads, and leather strap to the side, reaching over towards the lone bottle resting in the middle of the table. She gave it a swirl, inspecting the contents, before pouring herself another cupful. “Oh, that letter.” She set the bottle down and glanced up at them. It appeared as if she were trying to weigh her words in her head before speaking them aloud. Something she hardly did. The sensitive nature of the subject might have had something to do with it.

If she were deciding something
 she did it with a wistful smile, swinging her gaze towards Estella and Vesryn. “I got a letter in Halamshiral. Dropped at Lucien’s door. It was from my youngest brother, apparently. He was asking for help. But I haven’t seen him in ages. Then, in the Winter Palace, someone gave me another.” She puffed an errant curl of hair from her eyes and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug, “It wasn’t Maleus, that’s all I know. Even with the mask.” The frustration on her face was obvious. Not knowing who was involved or what to do had taken its own toll on her.

“I haven’t opened it yet,” she traced her fingertip across the rim of her cup, “Actually, I was thinking of bringing it to Cy. He’s better at figuring stuff like this out than I am.”

Estella nodded like that made perfect sense to her. It almost certainly did. "That's a good idea. I'm sure he'll do what he can. But if there's anything the rest of us can do... we're here for you, too."

Leon nodded his agreement. "Of course." He hadn't missed the fact that the two of them seemed to be friends of a slightly closer stripe than usual, and he could certainly understand her wanting to keep things close to the chest until she'd figured out what was going on and what she wanted to do about it. But it was worth the reminder, maybe, that the rest of them were willing to help as well, should they be needed.

Their food and drinks arrived at that point; Leon drained half his ale glass before setting it down, almost surprised. Apparently he'd been thirstier than he thought. Probably hungrier, too, now that he could smell the food. Some kind of meatless casserole, from the looks of it. He'd not specified beyond vegetarian.

Zahra tipped her head to the side, and smiled wider this time, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” She knuckled at her nose, and leaned back against the bench. As of late, she seemed to be relying on others far more, where she might have once struck out on her own. There was a sense that asking for help did not come naturally to her. Unreserved and stubborn as she was, settling matters on her own seemed more her style. Her pace. Some things, however, couldn’t be dealt with alone.

She gave the air an appreciative sniff. Her empty plate had been scooped up when their food arrived. Even so, she always seemed ravenous; stealing from people’s plates like a magpie, usually whenever they looked away. This time, she seemed focused solely on Leon’s face, scrutinizing him in an uncomfortable way. If she understood that doing so was at all strange, she wasn’t showing any signs of it. There was an inquisitive frown pulling across her lips. One could almost hear the gears whirring in her head as she stared.

“You know, I was thinking,” dangerous words spoken in a low voice, “how would we have driven that couple away in Halamshiral if it had been you and Rom, instead of you and I.” A snort. Obviously, she’d already drunk too much. Either way, she found the thought rather amusing.

Of course, she'd waited to ask until he was halfway through another swallow. Leon inhaled when he really shouldn't have and coughed, swallowing the ale in enough time to avoid disaster but not the discomfort of trying to clear his throat out while his eyes stung. He may have lost some of the drink through his nose, but he was quick to grab one of the cloth napkins that had come with the food.

Maker, he was not nearly drunk enough for this conversation.

Estella struck his back a few times, which helped, and once the coughing fit had passed, he cleared his throat awkwardly, relieved at least that the color of his face could be excused as related to the near-choking and not the embarrassment it actually was. "I suspect," he ventured, focusing very intently on the plate of food in front of him, "that we'd have struck each of them once over the head and left them to reawaken in a closet or something of a similar nature."

"But I take it that isn't what happened?" Vesryn's eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, glancing back and forth between Zahra and Leon. Clearly suspecting that they were onto something good here, something worth prying into if Leon's reaction to it being brought up was anything to go off of. "The two of you drove the couple away in a different manner."

Zahra’s face lit up. She was easily baited by Vesryn’s goading to tell them what really happened. Crumbling like a stack of cards. Whatever promise she’d made in Halamshiral’s hallways was all but forgotten at the opportunity to tell a good story. She straightened up her shoulders, and slid back up the bench, leaning forward so that her elbows were perched atop the table. Her smile wobbled as she tucked stubborn bangs behind her ears, a thick eyebrow arching up.

“You’re right, that’s not how it happened at all,” her voice had only risen to a cooing gossip, as if she were regaling someone with juicy details and not humiliating someone who sat in front of her. She took a deep breath through her nose, probably for dramatic effect, before continuing on her tale, “Rom was busy picking the lock to the Empress’s chamber. I suppose his skills may have been a wee bit better than mine, but that’s neither here nor there.” There was a pause as she drew her cup to her lips, and took a long dredge, depositing it back with a soft thud as soon as she was finished.

“There was a couple coming down the hall towards us. Paces away. Looking for a place to dance, if you take my meaning.” It was apparent that she assumed they had, because she nodded her head and tapped two fingers across the table, grinning wide. “We had to think of something quickly, before they found us just standing there—so, I had a brilliant idea. This is Orlais. If they’re looking for a place for a little tryst, then what would happen if they bumped into a couple who’d already laid claim to the hall?”

She slapped the table with her hand. “So, we pretended and I kissed him. And we drove them away. A victory, I’d say.” Her smile eased and faded into a thoughtful line, before she swung her gaze back in Leon’s direction and raked her hands through her unruly hair, “I
 didn’t apologize for that, did I? Feels like more than documents were stolen that night.”

Leon's face felt like it was on fire, but it took him quite a while to dare lifting his eyes to the rest of the table. "That's quite unnecessary," he said, far too quickly. "The ruse was effective, and considerably less... violent, than what I had in mind, which is probably for the best." He cleared his throat, nudging over the new glass of ale one of the staff had brought over during his coughing fit. He might be needing it quite soon. "I was just... surprised, is all."

A quick glance to the side revealed that Estella's brows seemed to be making an effort to reach her hairline. Well, at least he wasn't the only surprised one, then. He was considerably less enthused to note her obvious amusement; she raised a hand to cover her mouth. But it passed quickly enough, replaced by a slightly more serious expression, though she didn't stop smiling. "Not a common item in a Seeker's repertoire, then? I confess I would have thought it came up often enough. Perhaps I read too many silly books."

"Er... no. Not as such. First time it's ever happened, actually." True, but ambiguous. That was something that he'd learned as part of his training.

"Wait," Vesryn looked somewhere between suspicious and offended on Leon's behalf. "The first time? You'd never been kissed before?" He seemed to be having some trouble processing that. "But you're... Leon, you're incredibly attractive, you must know this." He looked sideways at Estella. "We can agree that Leon's a very handsome individual, can't we?"

"Obviously," she replied with a nod.

Perhaps he hadn't been as ambiguous as he thought. Resisting the urge to drag a hand down his face, Leon took a generous swallow from his drink. "If we want to split hairs, it's only the first time I've been kissed by a woman," he muttered, more into the glass than anything.

It was apparently quite sufficient for him to be heard, however. "I'm sensing a story here," Estella said. "Care to share?"

He sighed. "I was raised in a Chantry," he pointed out. "The one in The Anderfels is more conservative than any of the southern ones by leagues, too." Needless to say, recruits had been watched very closely for any sign that they weren't taking their duties seriously, social contact with anyone but other recruits was rare, and they were very discouraged from that sort of interpersonal relationship. Helped along in most cases by the fact that they were usually gender-segregated on their non-training hours.

"The man in question was a close friend of mine. We were teenagers, he was about to go for his Vigil, which is a year with no contact with anyone or anything. It was exactly as awkward as you're thinking, doubly so because it all came about due to a misinterpretation of some things I said." He'd certainly been a great deal more careful with his words since then.

"After my own... I never had the time to even really think about that sort of thing. I was with Ophelia, and then I was... working." Often alone, only rarely with repeating company. Hardly the type of environment in which to cultivate the kind of connection necessary for such actions to mean anything. And he knew he'd want them to mean something, if ever he undertook them on purpose. "And then I was here." He shrugged, still a bit pink but less so.

He blinked, then moved his eyes to Zahra. "I'm not upset, I should say. You couldn't possibly have known any of that, and it's hardly... well, there's nothing for me to be upset about." He dredged up a characteristically mild smile. "So don't worry about it."

Zahra’s expression had gloomed considerably from the first moment she’d described what had really happened. Her eyes had widened slightly, before she sunk back against the bench. The amusement had melted away into concern
 and then something that resembled culpability. She clearly hadn’t expected that sort of revelation. It hadn’t occurred to her at all. Perhaps she was also under the impression that someone so handsome couldn’t have possibly had his first kiss in Halamshiral. With her. In a ruse to shoo a couple away. For once, she was the one who looked choked up. Unable to conjure anything remotely amusing.

“So, I stole your first kiss. As a woman. Well, as long as you’re not
” She rubbed at her chin and stared at the knots wound into the table, before meeting his eyes with an apologetic smile. As contrite as one could be, when they were known for taking things that didn’t belong to them in the first place. She did look rather sorry, even if it wasn’t particularly needed. Another deep breath was taken from her nose, as she leaned forward and looked at him seriously. A mottled redness had already begun blossoming along her collarbone. A telltale sign that sobriety took no part in this conversation. “I solemnly do swear
 that I, Zahra Tavish, won’t ravish your handsome face again, unless a dutiful situation calls for it.”

As good an apology as he’d ever get. Her eyes drew into squinting slits once more, “Ves is right, you know. Too handsome not to have a lass at your arm. A shame. No, a travesty.”

There were a lot of things he could have said there. About time, and how he'd never have enough of it again. About how many times he'd wondered what it might be like, to have something that might eventually become something more. But he didn't say any of them. It was hardly the right occasion, and he had no desire to bring the mood down any more than he already had, however inadvertently. His work fulfilled him, it was worth doing until his time was up. That was enough. And the fact that he had friends at all, the sort of people to get into laughable misadventures with, to speak to about the peculiarities of his life before all of this, well.

That was more than he'd ever expected.

So instead of giving voice to any of the more depressing aspects of the situation, he only smiled a little wider, a little more easily, and settled back into his chair. "I'll take your word for it. But surely I am not the only one with embarrassing personal anecdotes to be shared?" He glanced at Estella first, as she'd technically asked for his.

She cleared her throat. "Well, I was also raised in a Chantry, but not what anyone would call a conservative one, exactly. So..."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
SĂ©verine had never been too fond of the cold, but in this case it was good to be back.

Northern Orlais had been a comfortable place to grow up, and in Kirkwall it only snowed occasionally in the winters. Here in the Frostbacks it was spring, but still a lazy snowfall speckled the multiple braids of her dark hair with white. Her horse's breath still wafted out in visible clouds on the morning air. Despite that it seemed brighter than usual. The snow would melt soon after it had fallen, and warmth would return to Skyhold once more.

It was almost starting to feel like home. SĂ©verine wasn't sure how to feel about that. Where her loyalties were supposed to lie, first and foremost. Kirkwall was supposed to be her home, she felt in her heart, as it was the place where she'd been reborn, so to speak. The place where she'd turned away from a path she finally saw to be self-destructive, and remade herself into something that would serve the Templar Order and the people it protected, not the whims of a woman made paranoid by her own personal loss.

But it was only after she'd left Knight-Commander Cullen and the Gallows behind that she felt she truly began to come into her own. Therinfal had been a revelation, an opportunity to lead more than just a few templars. And though difficulties had followed at Skyhold, she continued to find success, with the proper guidance and help from the many talented individuals Leon could call upon.

Three of those individuals rode close behind SĂ©verine, along with the rest of the combined templar and scout forces that had been deployed in the Emerald Graves since the Inquisition's original excursion to the region. Their progress had been somewhat slowed by a few severely wounded templars, but all of them were expected to pull through, something SĂ©verine had not expected to be able to say when she set out. The news was not all good, of course, but on the whole the spirits of her templars were high. The Red Templars could be crushed like any other enemy, given the right circumstances, and they had proven it.

It wouldn't have been possible without the help in planning from the two wanderers they'd picked up in the Graves, Amalia and Ithilian, the latter of which was apparently their scout captain's father. SĂ©verine didn't see the resemblance. They were supremely skilled at what they did, though, and helped them gather all the necessary information they'd need to plan an effective ambush with overwhelming force, separating the Reds from their hostages before they could react and picking them off one by one.

"Looks like we made it," she announced, once the bridge to Skyhold finally came into view. She looked back to Ithilian and Amalia. "Thank you again for the work you've done. I don't doubt many of my templars are still alive because of it. I won't forget that." One of the first things she'd noted about them was how guarded they were, around pretty much everyone besides Lia. Trust wasn't something they gave easily, it was plain to see, especially not trust of a templar. But at least on SĂ©verine's end of things, they'd earned hers.

"No doubt many of them are also still alive because of you." One of the few things Amalia had made obvious about herself was the fact that she had an inherent sense of fairness, and tended always to give credit where she believed it was due. Though she never sounded complimentary about anything, exactly, just quite matter-of-fact. That was how this came across as well. "We will not forget, either."

It was hardly an indication of trust, though she didn't seem to have had any difficulty interpreting SĂ©verine's words for what they were. But there was a hint of respect in there, and that was far from nothing. With a short nod, Amalia returned her attention to the bridge crossing.

Soon they had made their way across it and through the fortress gates, the horses breathing somewhat heavily from the long climb at the end of the journey. There weren't really any farewells to be said, as they were all living in the same place, though SĂ©verine wasn't sure either Ithilian or Amalia would have reason to visit her, or wish to do so. Not the easiest pair to make friends with. Ithilian's daughter was another matter, but even she seemed naturally a little more guarded around templars of any kind. Understandable, for an elf that grew up in Kirkwall. SĂ©verine knew that better than most.

The wounded were directed to the infirmary. SĂ©verine hoped Asala and the others would be ready to receive them. None were in real danger of perishing anymore, but that didn't mean the danger had passed. There was a chance one of them might never walk again, and another had severely injured her sword arm. Both were injuries that could easily prevent them from carrying out their duties as a templar, and force them down another path they might not want.

Those that were healthy were allowed freedom for the day to rest, which had been well earned. SĂ©verine paused to watch them file in, dismounting from her horse and handing it off to one of the stablehands. She remained to observe and salute back when saluted, which more than a few of the lower ranking templars did. No few of them were bruised and filthy, heads wrapped or arms carried in slings, but she couldn't find a one of them that looked unhappy with where they were at. It was enough to bring a smile to her face.

"SĂ©verine." The voice was familiar, though it did not belong to any of her troops. Rather, Leon seemed to have found his way to them—rather swiftly, for the short time they'd been back in Skyhold. He seemed to have omitted her title, clearly an accident, from the way he corrected himself immediately afterwards. "Captain. Good to see you." That much at least was undoubtedly genuine.

Leon too received more than a few salutes, which he returned in kind. Whatever distinction had once existed between Seekers and Templars was not particularly operative here. No one even called him one; it was fully possible that at least some of her people didn't even know. "Everyone made it back in one piece, then? I know you mentioned some severe injuries, so I had the infirmary on standby to receive them."

"Commander," she greeted back. "Thanks for that. Might make the difference between cripples and fighting templars for a few of them." Her expression sobered at the thought. "And we're in dangerous times now. Need every last templar we can get." To beat the Reds, and for the Order to survive at all. It was an uncomfortable amount of pressure to think that her band of templars were one of the two remaining bastions of the Order in all of the south. Tevinter had their own, of course, but SĂ©verine was hardly willing to call them templars at all. The other group was Cullen's, and SĂ©verine would always feel that they were in more stable hands, no matter how many successes she had here.

"Should we head back?" she asked. "I could use a chair and something warm to drink, honestly." And then a bath. She was fairly caked in remnants of dirt and grime, and certainly not looking her best. They'd marched at speed, after all, for the sake of the wounded that they carried.

"I think that can be arranged." Leon looked briefly worried himself, but it faded from his face quickly. He led the way out of the stable, pausing only once on the way to flag down one of the staff and ask for a two meals and something to drink to be brought to his office. "Hope you don't mind a bit of business with your food," he remarked, his tone conciliatory. "I suspect there's a lot to catch up on from both sides here." From the wry shake of his head, he considered it quite an understatement.

When they reached the Commander's tower, Reed opened the door for them both, adding a brief "welcome back, Captain," before closing it again behind them.

"Feel free to shuck the shell," Leon said, moving a few pieces of furniture around to make it easier to eat and talk at the same time. The food was almost certainly on its way up from the kitchens already. "Very little is quite as uncomfortable as trying to relax in armor that needs a cleaning. I certainly don't mean to make you try."

She laughed at that. "I've been guilty of making my men try it on occasion. But thanks, I'll take you up on that." She set down her shield face up on the end of a couch. The metal had some fresh scrapes, dents, and even one new puncture where a Shadow had almost pierced her side. Here it provided a surface to put her coiled up flail and the rest of her armor on, to avoid spreading much dirt on the rest of the furniture. Old habits her mother had driven into her, with the palm of her hand when necessary.

She started with the helmet, then peeled off her gauntlets and gloves to make the rest of the removal easier. "My report's got good news and bad news, but you seem to be in a better mood than I remember before I left, so let's start with yours." She finished unbuckling the straps around her arms that secured her pauldrons in place, shrugging them off and setting them down on the shield when they were free. That left the breastplate next, several of the straps of which on her back were a bit hard to reach. She pulled her trio of braids and the rest of her hair out of the way. "Give me a hand with this?"

"Of course." Leon stepped up behind her, loosening and unfastening the necessary straps and buckles with the same practiced ease all templars had drilled into them from their first day as trainees. He helped her ease it over her head as well, setting it down carefully with the rest. "I think the news is mostly good, yes. As you're doubtless aware, the Inquisition made a journey to Halamshiral while you were away." That much, at least, they'd known they were going to do beforehand.

"It was... quite eventful," he admitted, settling down into one of the chairs and pausing a moment as Reed admitted the kitchen lad bearing their dinner. He set everything in place on the table with a small nod to the both of them, and then departed as quietly as he'd come. As she'd observed on numerous occasions before, the Commander's plate was quite meatless, though the sheer amount of food on it was about what made sense for a person of his dimensions.

He tore the small loaf of bread at the center of the tray in half, a gout of steam and a delightful smell escaping into the air, then set one part of it back down, slicing into the other with his knife and reaching for the butter. "The summary version of events is that both the Empress and Grand Duke Gaspard were more or less planning to kill each other. Once everything came out, Lucien Drakon was named Emperor. Corypheus did in fact have an agent in the mix as well; the Grand Duchess Florianne, who also tried to kill some people. We left her to the Emperor's judgement as well." He shook his head, meeting SĂ©verine's eyes with something approaching amusement.

"I don't know how the Orlesians do it, really. Worst thing that ever happened to my family was a rather persistent rumor that my brother was sleeping with the king. Utterly tame, by comparison."

"It does sound like out of the two of us, you walked into the deadlier situation since last we spoke," she said, grinning. She'd dug into the food while he explained, but the news itself required slowing down to process. "If Gaspard went down, that'll be the worst thing that's happened to my family. Father was quite firmly in his camp. Replaces the embarrassments I brought them getting shipped off to Kirkwall for my bad behavior, at least." She felt vaguely ill at-ease with it, honestly, knowing that her parents were likely more concerned with which butt landed on the throne that how their daughter fared with the Inquisition. But then again, they had other children, and her older brother may well have been involved in the fighting. As far as she was concerned, any end to the war was a good one.

"I'm sure they'll be fine, though." SĂ©verine waved a hand dismissively, preempting any concern. "Really, though, Lucien Drakon is the Emperor now?" She didn't doubt him, but still... she wiped the dumbfounded look off her face quickly as it came, replacing it with a quite unapologetic look of pleasure. "That's brilliant." Anyone that spent long in Kirkwall while Lucien Drakon was there would have heard something of what he'd done for the city. His effects were still being felt there, what with part of the Argent Lions remaining behind. She found herself wishing she'd brought Lia along to help her report. The elf would've loved to hear this news. No doubt she'd get it soon enough, likely from one of her fellow mercenaries.

"I haven't told many people this, but Lucien was actually the one to give me this scar," she pointed to the one cutting up an inch or so from her upper lip. "The pommel of Everburn, right to my mouth."

Leon blinked in obvious surprise, but he had to wait until he was finished with his bite before replying. "Did he? Found yourselves on opposite ends of something in Kirkwall, I take it." Considering what he knew of her history working for Meredith, he'd likely deemed that connection the most likely explanation.

"We did." SĂ©verine unfastened the top two straps across her chest securing her gambeson now that she was starting to warm up fully. "It's probably not that remarkable of a story, but I'm saving it for him. Well, preferably him and the Viscountess, if they should happen to be together next time I meet him." They'd been working together that night, after all, and even if Vesenia had never struck her, she was just as thankful to Her Excellence all the same.

"Anyway, I like to think that not many people can claim they've been smacked by the Emperor of Orlais. Though an Emperor like Lucien has smacked more people than most." Just so happened that most of them didn't live to tell about it. Everburn was a very large sword. "In the Emerald Graves I was just smacked by less interesting people. If they can still be called that."

No few of them seemed more monster than man at this point, warped into their armor and physically distorted until they were barely recognizable as even being human. "The good news I have to report is that we rescued twenty hostages from the Red Templars, we took down one of their staging areas for disguising the red lyrium, and no templars or scouts paid for it with their lives." There had been many close calls, as was always the case in war, but they'd gotten lucky. They had put themselves into the right positions to get lucky.

"That is very good news," Leon agreed readily, dipping his chin in a small nod. "Both in itself and for what it means for our future efforts. I can't imagine it did anything but good for morale, either." The Commander added some thick marmalade jam to the buttered bread on his plate and hummed thoughtfully. "That's excellent—I know you were worried about their sense of purpose."

His lips thinned, brows knitting over his distinctively-colored eyes. "Unfortunately, the Chantry as a whole seems to be struggling with the same. Of all the things that moved into place during our time in Halamshiral, that was not at all one of them. I looked into it before the peace talks." Pausing to chew, he swallowed and elaborated. "There's almost no movement. The Chantry seems to have split deeply along several prominent ideological lines, and the result has become a deadlock. The remaining Grand Clerics can reach no consensus on which among them ought to be Divine." His mouth pulled to the side.

"I'm... not entirely sure that is a bad thing, however. I can't say I have the greatest confidence in any of those I've met, and little reason to believe the ones I haven't are much different." It wasn't a flippant comment, what he said, nor did he seem to be treating sharing that opinion with her lightly. But he did state it simply. Honestly, to all indications.

"The fact that none of them were at the Conclave makes it nearly impossible for any of them to rally much support," SĂ©verine added. "It wasn't meant that way, but it served as a statement of their lack of importance. And when none stand out from the rest, how can any of them be up to the task of repairing the Chantry after all this?" There was no one inspiring, no one capable of rallying the people behind them and restoring the faith that had been so deeply shaken by everything that had happened.

No, they would need a more radical choice this time, in one direction or the other. SĂ©verine had an inkling of an idea what might work, but she wasn't ready to share it yet. Not until she'd thought on it more. The Inquisition had great influence now, after all, given the result at Halamshiral. It was not influence to be tossed around lightly.

"I suppose I should get to the bad news, then." She took a bite of bread, finding that the lighter foods were what was agreeing with her the best at the moment. After she finished, she continued. "The hostages didn't provide us with much. All had varying degrees of sickness from the red lyrium exposure, and clearly the Red Templars have been careful about what they were allowed to see. Most that were in a strong enough state to answer questions said they were taken from small villages in southern Orlais. Shipped in covered wagons, chained to each other and blind. They were left in a dungeon somewhere cold, but in winter that doesn't mean much, and Orlais has a lot of dungeons."

It also implied they weren't the ones working to collect the lyrium, as they'd been in the dungeons the entire time. Their lyrium exposure would've been much worse as well. No, they seemed to have been taken for the exclusive purpose of being used as hostages for transporting the lyrium after it was mined. "The Reds have picked up their operations in the Graves as far as we can tell," she continued. "I like to think we've been giving them too much trouble, but more likely they're just getting ready to make a move elsewhere. A few notes in the hideout we sacked spoke of a new leader, but no mention of a name. I'm not sure they even knew. But it's obvious that when they reappear, it'll mean trouble."

A sigh escaped Leon, ponderously and accompanied by a small shake of his head. "It's certainly not much," he agreed, clearly contemplating the news. Perhaps he was trying to see if there was anything extra he could glean from the same information. In the end, though, that didn't look to be the result. "Still, it's good that we disrupted them even to the extent we did. Without a better idea of their strategy, it's impossible to guess how much it hurt them, but it did something, without doubt."

Damn right it did. "I don't know if they feel much anymore, but I'm pretty sure they still feel fear. If their looks before they met the flail were anything to go by."

It took hours for them to pry all the little shards of their enemies from their weapons and armor after it was all said and done. It was not an experience SĂ©verine was looking forward to repeating. And at the same time, she couldn't wait.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
It was Lady Marceline's turn to choose the tea for this evening. She had decided on a red tea from her homeland that she had a particular fondness for. It was supposedly healthy for the body, but it was the sweetness that she enjoyed the most. Alongside Estella, they were also joined by Leon, Vesryn, and Cyrus in her office for the evening. She'd not chosen her desk to host them, as it was presently covered in an inordinate amount of letters and papers. Apparently, everyone had an opinion of the Inquisition's involvement with the ascension of Orlais's newest Emperor, and were not afraid to share it with them. Some were positive, some were not, others were decidedly even less so. Still, it was a reaction she expected.

And also one she grew tired of very quickly. She was happy when it was time she was able to leave her desk to host tea with the others, even if it was only a few steps away from her mantelpiece. A tea kettle hung above the fire as they presently waited for the water to come to a boil. On the end tables on either side of the couch she sat on, the tea cups rested, partnered with biscuits, cookies, and even little finger sandwiches. It was a quaint little tea party, but she found herself enjoying the relaxing quiet they brought.

"Thank you all for coming, again," she reiterated, "I am glad not to be reading any more letters, at least for a little while." She tossed a wary glance back to her desk, and the correspondence that waited, before issuing a light chuckle.

“Dear Lady Marceline." Cyrus spoke in an almost whimsical tone, enunciating so as to give himself a rather spot-on upper-class Orlesian accent. “We have heard that the Inquisition was singlehandedly responsible for putting an honest man on our throne. This is a deep affront to our history and culture, and we demand a do-over. Sincerely, His Grace Ser Lord Roderick Ponce von Fontlebottom the younger, duke of some little place out in the sticks, but with vineyards." He sniffed, reaching forward to procure himself a biscuit before leaning back into the armchair he occupied, one leg resting over the opposite knee at the shin.

Estella snorted, clearly trying to contain laughter. "You forgot to include a vaguely-worded threat, Cy," she said. "No proper Ser Lord Duke of some little place out in the sticks would ever forget one of those." She raised an eyebrow, breaking a finger-sandwich in half. "Something like... 'I would be most displeased to hear that this matter had not been resolved within a fortnight.'" Her accent was actually quite good as well, but then that much at least was probably to be expected, with all the time she'd spent in the country.

"No mention of the armies of Venatori and twelve lyrium dragons we all had to fight off during the canarie?" Leon added dryly. "For shame, Ser Lord Roderick. At least give us our due."

"Excellent choice of tea, Lady Marceline," Vesryn added, apparently seeing no need to add on to the efforts of the others, though he appeared thoroughly amused by it all.

"You all laugh," Marceline said, laughing in spite of herself, "But you do not know how eerily similar that sounds." A few of the letters she received were indeed penned from estates in some far flung corner of Orlais, though obviously the names and titles they had created for themselves made it sound far more respectful than they actually were. In fact, one particular estate she could even not find on the map, and Larissa had never heard of it before. She actually held on to that one, and planned to dig into it later, just to sate her curiosity.

She smiled and nodded her appreciation for Vesryn, before she turned back toward the others. "I would be offended, if it were not at least partially true," she said with another laugh. "I shall save the better ones, so that you all may see for yourselves." It was right about then that the tea kettle began to whistle, and she began to attend to it. Using the poker that leaned against the fireplace, she used it to hook the hand of the kettle and fish it from the flames, setting it gently down on a woven coaster on a nearby table. The whistling faded as it cooled, and she sat back down as they waited for it to be handled without risking burns.

"It was a tea I was fond of back home," she revealed to Vesryn. "It is naturally sweet, and does not contain caffeine, so it will not keep you up at night. It is also good for your skin, I hear," she added, rubbing the top of her wrists to convey the point.

“If you save them, we can have a dramatic reading. I've been told I missed my calling in the theater." Cyrus's tone of voice suggested self-effacement more than anything, though the suggestion seemed real enough. “Perhaps searching for the good ones will make getting through the pile of them a little easier."

Apparently deciding the tea was cool enough, he poured a round for everyone, spooning... quite a lot of sugar into his. Apparently naturally sweet was insufficient to his purposes. He did hum approvingly when he took the first sip, however, so perhaps it was well enough.

Estella added honey to hers, as she had the last time, though less than before, in consideration of the blend, perhaps. Leon sniffed slightly at it before adding a dash of milk, but otherwise left it as it had been before.

"Surely some of them are supportive, though?" The lady Inquisitor set her spoon down with a slightly-troubled frown. "I know people who won't play the Game have never been popular in Court, but surely there are some who can see the advantages?"

"Yes, of course. A good number give their support," Marceline answered, taking her tea straight. "Most are sincere, I believe. There are a few that I feel are just attempting to curry favor with us, but that is to be expected. There will always be some who seek out opportunities for their own gain," she stated. It was through their intervention that Lucien now sat on the Orlesian throne, of course there would be a those who would want to get into the installing party's good graces. She had expected no less. However, it was the genuine articles that resonated with her.

She blew the steam from her tea before taking a sip, and decided that she had gotten the steeping time down perfectly this time. Nodding, she continued. "I have also read a few that send their thanks for helping put an end to the civil war," she said, leaning back into the couch. "Many chevaliers will return home to their families now that the throne is no longer contested. Despite the politics, many are grateful to just get their loved ones back safely." She was among them. As a Marshal, her father would still have work to be done before he could return home, but at least she no longer had to worry about him fighting.

Marceline glanced at her desk again, this time without the trepidation. She wondered if a letter from her mother had gotten mixed with the rest of the correspondence, though she would have to find out later. "I trust Lucien will manage to win the court's approval in spite of them. He will play the Game enough to keep them content, but I doubt he will let it affect his politics," she said kindly. "He is an honorable man, and I truly believe he will do what is best for our country."

“Ah, but that's a bit of a changed tune, isn't it?" Cyrus's eyes were keen. Even sitting back with a cup of tea on his knee and a biscuit half-submerged in it, he managed to seem a bit like a housecat: lazy until provoked by something curious or interesting, and then surprisingly quick. “Your entire family were loyalists. Only a fool would believe Lucien was never an option until Halamshiral itself, which means you didn't quite come out of that with what you wanted, did you Lady Marceline?" He kept his tone on the rather light level of the conversation so far, but admittedly the query was rather pointed.

Marceline frowned, but she took the question in stride. She never tried to insert her own political opinions into Inquisition matters. She had always tried to act in the best interests of the Inquisition, in spite of her own beliefs. That being said, she never had reason to express her political ideas to the others, as it never came up in conversation. "We ended the civil war, and we now have the support of the Empire, I daresay I did get what I want Cyrus," she said taking a sip of her tea. "The rest of my family may not be as pleased with the outcome, but they cannot argue with the results."

She did wonder how her father would take it, however. He was a Marshall in Celene's army, and she wondered if he would take her failure as his. She shook her head and leaned back in the couch, casting another glance to Cyrus. "My support of the Empress--former Empress, I suppose I should say say now, was not as strong as it once was. By the time the you all collected me in Val Royeaux for the Inquisition, I barely considered myself a loyalist at all."

"Not that I'm against the outcome we got in the Winter Palace," Vesryn said, setting down his cup for the moment and pulling one leg up to rest across his other knee, "far from it, but the results for Orlais are certainly different than they are from our perspective. If that makes sense." He shrugged, perhaps doubting his ability to put political ideas in the correct terms. He rarely weighed in on these matters, after all.

"I don't doubt much of Orlais didn't want to give so much as a sovereign of support to us. Their war ended, but neither of the sides who fought and died now see their leader on the throne. The man sitting on it now has experience in leading a mercenary company, not an empire, and he has as great a task before him as perhaps any Emperor of Orlais that came before." His eyes wandered over to Estella for a moment before they came back to Marceline.

"I was all for removing Celene from power, but I expect the rest of Orlais can and will argue with the results. I hope it won't leave relations with your family... strained, or anything. Simply for doing your job and acting in the interest of the Inquisition."

"Then again," Leon added, shrugging his large shoulders. "The opposite is true as well. No one sees an enemy they've come to hate sitting there, either. Perhaps that will turn out to be a bigger favor for unification than anything. And reconciliation—even in the more personal cases." It seemed to be meant as a sort of encouragement, though he was hardly the most graceful at giving such things.

Marceline smiled gratefully at both Leon and Vesryn, "Thank you both for your concern. While our politics have... diverged in the recent years, we have not let that come between us yet. I hope that will continue, even now." Of course, quietly losing support for the Empress and actively installing a new Emperor were two completely different things, but her parents had to have seen that Lucien becoming the Emperor was a viable option, and that she had to act in the interests of the Inquisition. At the very least, she expected their conversations on Orlesian politics would become far more lively now.

"I agree with Leon on his other point, however. He remained neutral during the war, and did not actively create enemies," she added. Had Gaspard became the Emperor, or Celene remained, then the allies of the opposite party would have felt that they had lost so to speak, and their enemy now sat on the throne. It would have been difficult then for them to transition into peace. But Lucien's party had remained neutral during the Civil War, and had acted as a buffer of sorts between the factions. While the neutrality may have earned him some opposition regardless, he did not actively make enemies with his actions, so hopefully his transition would prove to be relatively peaceful.

"That being," she sighed, "Lucien has indeed inherited a tumultuous reign, as not only does he have to deal with the fallout of the Civil War, but also the threat that Corypheus poses remains. Fortunately, we are able to assist him with the latter."

Vesryn had no argument on that point, and took a long drink of his tea, licking his lips slightly when he was done. "So," he said, after a few brief moments of silence, "assuming you were able to keep an eye on all us during the dance, Lady Marceline, any thoughts on our form? Any standouts, anyone sorely in need of more practice?" He didn't look to be taking much serious stock in the answer, just curiosity with a hefty dose of amusement.

Marceline chuckled. "Oh, I would not be worried overmuch Ser Vesryn. If you had been atrocious I would have let you know. Gently, of course," she said with a wink and another quiet laugh.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Reading Chryseis's words had a way of making Rom deeply uncomfortable, even if what she said had nothing to do with him.

Maybe it was made worse because he'd insisted on writing the letter to her himself, the one asking for her aid in their efforts against Marcus Alesius, and securing a way into Minrathous for the Inquisition. Her reply was little more than a confirmation that she would indeed help them as she had promised to do so in the letter that had officially released the slave Romulus from her service. She made no demands in exchange for her aid, only inquired after the health and condition of her father, who was still a prisoner of theirs.

The end was what made his skin crawl, where she stated she "looked forward to working with him again." Harmless words from anyone else, but naturally Rom was inclined to read too much into them. He'd have to reply back, let her know how her father was doing, as she had a right to know. But he couldn't help but wish that Rilien hadn't seen fit to share the letter with him at all.

Setting it aside on his desk, he decided he needed to work. Something physical to put his mind elsewhere. Yesterday's storm had passed, leaving him with a clear and bright morning immediately following to do with as he pleased. He settled on starting through his personal routines, flexibility and strength work. He removed his shirt and got to it.

The stretching went as usual, leaving him limber and loose, but he paused before starting his pull-up sets. His eyes settled on his alchemy station, the small vial he'd left there for himself the night before. He'd almost felt the need to take something before sleeping, but had resisted. It left him rolling in bed most of the night, and tired come the morning. He'd already taken one draught immediately after waking, and now he felt the need to take another. Boost his stamina.

He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. It was getting worse. The reactions to it were getting stronger. He'd always been playing with concoctions he barely understood, but before the Inquisition he rarely needed to take them so frequently. Threats in Minrathous were lethal, but they weren't what the Inquisition faced. He didn't have the same investment then that he had now. A nearly all-consuming desire to be at his best for what he'd come to care so much about. The people, the cause, the place to belong to. All of it.

He tried to get through his reps without it. It started out well enough, but over the course of the hour he started to hit his limits far sooner than he was comfortable with. Beads of sweat rolled down his back and chest, his breathing came heavily, and he was forced to stop each time he began to feel sick, taking a moment to stop and drink. After the third time of this, he remained in the chair by the "mouth" at the edge of the room, letting the air cool him. Khari would probably arrive for practice soon enough. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to finish before she did.

It wasn't more than a couple of minutes before he heard her approaching, probably sooner than usual, since she seemed to be speaking. Khari talked to herself on occasion, to be sure, but her tone this time definitely suggested an audience of some kind, which was confirmed when they came into earshot. “—can't believe you've never actually been down this way, but yeah. He's right here. Hey Rom, we're coming in!"

The door was open, but Khari pushed it a bit wider before stepping inside, Leon of all people in tow. The commander ducked slightly under the doorway; it was only barely taller than he was. Likely they'd just finished some kind of tactics lesson. Khari's fingers were never covered in ink except when Leon made her draw out maps and diagrams and models for planning strategy. They were now, though, and a few drops had spattered her bare forearms, too, where she'd rolled up her sleeves to the elbows. She caught sight of him in the chair and did a slight double-take, clearly expecting him to still be at his sets.

“Am I late? Or did you finish early today?"

"No, you're, uh... yeah. Finished early." He almost wished he were flustered for what had become the usual reason, but here he hadn't been quite quick enough to come up with an excuse. Maybe it was the appearance of Leon this time that threw him off, or maybe he just wasn't thinking as fast as normal. Likely some combination of it all. He wiped his face with a towel, hoping he didn't look quite as bad as he felt. "Something you need me for, Leon?" They didn't really have conversations here, as Khari had indirectly pointed out on her way in, so he had to assume Leon had a purpose in coming.

Leon, perhaps not surprisingly a rather observant man, seemed to have noticed the stumble, but he didn't seem inclined to press on it. Instead, he offered a slight smile. "Well, I confess to some interest in the training you two get up to, but I don't mean to intrude." He glanced once at Khari, clearly trying to decide if whatever he meant to say next should be said in her company or not. In the end, though, he went ahead.

"I'm... ironically, I'm actually here to inquire after your health. I noticed you weren't quite... as alert as I'd have expected, at certain points during the Halamshiral events. I'd understand if it was merely the setting, of course, but... it seemed only right that I ask." Rom had made a rather similar query at one point, after all, and received rather more dire news in response than anticipated.

“Wait, really?" Khari had obviously not noticed anything of the sort, and was quite surprised to hear that Leon had. Her interest in the answer was immediately obvious, however. Her brows knit together, and she shot Rom a look of clear concern. Her hands, comfortably settled at her hips, dropped and hung there, as though she weren't quite sure what to do with them.

Rom knew what points Leon was talking about without needing to ask. He'd been a bit lost in the fight in that hedge maze, with Gaspard's Fereldan mercenaries. Right after he'd taken quite the strong dose. Honestly, it had been quite a bit worse than he expected, but he probably took it too soon after the last one. The strain of everything that had happened before no doubt contributed to that; Halamshiral had been stressful from start to finish. When not in a fight it gave him focus, clarity, quicker thinking, but during the fight it had a way of dulling things. Pain was among them, but the adrenaline must have been interacting with something else.

"I'm fine, uh... I was just out of it." It was a weak excuse and he knew it. He reached for his shirt, barely in arm's reach where he'd dropped it on the floor, and pulled it over his head. To give him something to do with himself for a few seconds, and to hide his face for that period.

When the seconds were done and he could see them again, Khari was wearing a very different expression, much more skeptical, and her hands were back on her hips. Her lips thinned. “'Out of it?' She echoed the words with a tone that suggested disbelief, glancing once at Leon and then back to him. “Out of it how, Rom? You're usually about the most focused person I know. Hell, you do pretty much all of your training by yourself—" She paused; he could almost see the realization click into place.

“You didn't finish early today, did you?" She looked around the room, eyes flickering over the various pieces of equipment, almost as if trying to figure out if they'd all been recently used and wiped down or not. “What's—what's really going on?" Probably the fact that he'd tried to brush past the topic had done more to convince her that it mattered than just about anything else could have.

He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly. There wasn't any getting out of this, but it had already brought him a headache. "It's the potions, the tonics," he said, gesturing haphazardly towards where one of them still sat on the alchemy table, the little vial still stoppered by the cork. "I've had to take them more and more recently." It was difficult to admit, honestly. That he had to take them. Or that he felt that way, at least. As far as anyone else had known it was entirely his choice to take them, that he wasn't their prisoner in any way.

"And I've had to make them stronger," he continued. "I know I was going to have to tell someone eventually, I just... Halamshiral was too important. It wasn't the right time to try to figure something else out." He wanted to stand, as he felt almost like he was being interrogated sitting in front of them, but at the same time, he wondered if it might make him feel too sick. This was embarrassing enough already. "I tried to go without it today, but... I don't think I can." Exhaling heavily, his eyes sought the potion again. "Can you hand me that, Khari?"

Her eyes fell to it, too. She reached over, taking the vial in her hand and staring at it for several long seconds. For once, her face was unreadable. “Can I ask a stupid question first?" Not that there was really much choice; she was the one holding the potion, and she seemed to realize that a moment after she spoke. “Is it... is this a choice you're making? Is it something you want, or something you... need?" She didn't quite sound sure that need was the right contrast word, but no better ones came to mind. At least none that she replaced it with.

He held out his hand when she picked it up, but when it became clear she wouldn't immediately hand it over, he let the hand fall to rest on his leg. His fingers were shaking slightly, but he curled them into a fist to make it stop. "It was never a choice," he admitted readily. "Chryseis had me take them. She taught me to make more. And I've always had reasons to need them." Reasons involving survival. The first time he'd ever really spoken to Khari, back in the Hinterlands in what seemed like another life, he'd taken a resistance tonic that let him walk right through a mage's fireball. He probably would've died several times over if not for them. "I don't know what will happen to me if I stop. This isn't... this isn't well documented alchemy I've been practicing." Again he held his hand palm up.

She bit her lip, something tightening around her eyes to lend her a look of discomfort. But she did hand it to him; ink-blue fingertips lingered against the roughened skin of his hand for a heartbeat too long, but then she dragged them away. “Do you want to stop?" It was an unusually-gentle tone, for her, one that hearkened back to the basement at Haven, when she'd been struggling to understand his attitudes towards the pieces of his life that were nothing like any piece of hers.

It took a significant amount of self control not to snatch it from her hand as soon as it was in reach. With as steady a motion as he could manage, he removed the cork and downed it. Instantly it hit, flooding his limbs with energy, his breathing made easy as if the room suddenly had twice the air in it from before. He shuddered slightly, exhaling a rush of breath in a mix of relief, and quite honestly pleasure. It wasn't the best taste, but the sensation was euphoric. He wiped the last of the sweat from his forehead with a towel, and could feel that no more would be needed.

"I do," he said softly. "I want to stop. But, uh... I don't want to die. Obviously." He couldn't imagine a way of doing this that wouldn't be dangerous. There were no easy cures or magic for this sort of thing. "And I want to be at my best. Physically. For the Inquisition, I need to be."

Leon, arms crossed, reentered the conversation at that point. "I know a few things about substance dependence, but I couldn't possibly have a particular recommendation for your case. I think, though, that if you brought what you know of your tonics to Rilien and told him you wanted to safely stop using them, he might well have a better answer than you'd get anywhere else." The suggestion almost came across like an apology, from his intonation. Possibly for bringing the matter up with an audience. He clearly hadn't expected the answer Rom had ended up giving.

"Of course, that's entirely up to you. I could hardly fault you for deciding against it, given... well, given everything. But if you've got a chance to live free of this—" he cut himself off, smiling sympathetically. "Well, you don't need my advice. If there's any way I can help, though, just say the word."

Khari nodded, though she still looked troubled by something. “Wish you'd mentioned it before." The words were mostly murmured, but she was close enough for him to catch them anyway. Clearing her throat, she quite visibly forced her expression to brighten. “But Leon's right. We're here for you if you want our help with anything. Which you probably knew already." Her smile was lopsided as usual, but also a little awkward. She wasn't much good at concealing anything.

"There's a lot that I'm not proud of," he said, almost before he'd realized it. After that, it was too late to take it back. "Things that I wanted to leave behind, in Minrathous. If I'd known this was going to start hounding me like this... well, guess it doesn't matter now." He hadn't told her, or anyone, until pressed about it, and that was that. He hadn't even told Zee about it, and she was learning alchemy from him. He truly hadn't known how difficult the dependence would become, and how quickly, but then again, the unpredictable tended to happen when demons were thrown into the mix. Rare ingredients in his old life, but in the Inquisition they were never in short supply.

"I'll ask Rilien if he has any advice. Need to write a letter anyway. Might as well ask my teacher for help, too." He wasn't sure what Chryseis would think about him trying to stop, but she likely knew more than anyone on this particular subject. It was worth a try, at least. He got to his feet, meeting Khari's eyes, a bit awkward himself. "Think we can call off practice today?"

She nodded slightly, waving a hand. “Sure." A short pause. “Uh... you mind if I still hang around, or d'you want me to, you know." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder towards the door.

"No, stay. If you want." He made his way up to the desk, rearranging a few candles to provide better light to write by. "You can help me write this. You're very tactful, after all." Tactful enough to break a chevalier's nose. He grinned a little at her.

That got a laugh out of her—a short bark of one, but a laugh all the same. “They should just give me Marcy's job, I know. What d'you think Leon? Promotion in my future?"

"Well, you did get an apology out of the Lord-General. I'll think about it and get back to you." Leon shook his head. "Sorry to intrude, Romulus. Best of luck with the letters." He inclined his head, and showed himself out.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
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The first of the Maker’s children watched across the Veil
And grew jealous of the life,
They could not feel, could not touch.
In blackest envy were the demons born.
– Canticle of Erudition 2:1
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Spring had finally begun to rear its head across Thedas and Zahra couldn’t wait to step foot back on the Riptide, even if the occasion left something to be desired. Her ship was docked in Redcliffe. So, that was where they needed to go. After the ship was prepped, they would set sail to Llomerryn. To a barely distinguishable fisherman’s paradise, Pressa, tucked away along the shoreline. Unremarkable, if it weren’t for their acclaimed hedge-witches. The weather permitted lighter clothes. Comfortable to move around in.

She’d drawn her hair into a loose ponytail. Though any attempt to tuck her curls behind her ears thwarted by the breeze blowing it back over her face. She wore leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, a loose white tunic with her sleeves drawn up to her elbows, and Aslan’s red scarf wrapped around her neck. Billowing in the wind as she turned to face the ship, hands planted on her hips. She could already feel the tickle of sweat down her spine, but figured her nerves had just as much to do with that then the sun beating overhead.

She had already explained her situation to Rom
 in as much detail as she could provide. It was mess. It sounded like a mess, but he agreed to come along anyway. She needed his help. His support. While he hadn’t seen her nightmare, in her dream-space, she supposed he understood her well enough to know that this was important to see through. Even if she still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. The thought of seeing her family again terrified her. There was a separateness there that she hadn’t thought to touch in ages; they felt apart from her. Someone else’s family. Certainly not her own. It made her wonder why she was doing any of this in the first place.

Leon had agreed to come easily enough after getting his affairs in order, busy as the man always seemed to be. She supposed that part of it had to do with how much he had already seen. Or else, he was just as big-hearted as she thought he was. The latter sounded accurate enough. She was glad to have him along. She needed his strength. Where he was, things were steadier. And Cyrus
 had done far more than she could ever give him credit for. Far more than she could even thank him for. If it hadn’t been for his involvement, she doubted any of this would have gone so far. She would have been left with shadows and questions; no answers.

With her doubts and cowardice.

Even with the journey so close, she couldn’t untie the knots in her stomach or ignore the throbbing of her knuckles; bruised and caked with dry blood. Unbound. Of course, like she’d told Cyrus, she had spoken to Garland first. With her fists. Her spitting words. She’d never felt so betrayed. So furious. Never. A mixture of stupidity souring her belly made it impossible to still her hands. As soon as he admitted to having contact with the masked man, as well as Faraji, she lost it. All of her control. He hadn’t offered any explanation. She hadn’t given him time. She beat him senseless; a black and blue mess, swollen-eyed and slack-jawed. She kicked him off the Riptide, and sent him to the cells. At least, until they returned and could further question him.

A piss poor job on her end. She knew. She knew that, already. She stood next to Cyrus and barked orders to those moving barrels aboard the ship. Rations. The like, for their journey. She took in a deep breath through her nose and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her brow, “Looks like we’re almost ready to set sail.” She looked at him sidelong and gave him a lopsided smile, “Will this be your first time in Llomerryn?”

Cyrus stood steadily on the deck of the ship; though he'd not been involved in much by way of the Inquisition's sailing-ventures before, he already looked a great deal more comfortable than Khari would have, that much was obvious. The grace he moved with on solid ground served him just as well on the deck of a ship. Probably wouldn't change much once they actually got sailing, either. He'd folded his hands behind his back, watching the crew scramble about at her orders with a dim sort of interest. His swords hung at his waist, but he'd forgone the armor, for now.

At the question, he slid his eyes to her, offering a shake of his head. “I haven't, actually. I rarely left Tevinter until about three years ago, and even then, I went the other way. You'll have to show me your favorite places. Perhaps on the way back." He certainly understood the relative urgency of the situation as well as anyone did, after all. “I'm sure you know all the best haunts in Llomerryn, no?" He smiled about halfway; it was a clear, almost clumsy attempt to lighten her mood, it seemed.

Zahra scratched at her chin. Now that she thought about it
 she didn’t think anyone in Tevinter would have much reason to travel all away to Rivain’s Little Llomerryn. Seeing how it was built up by raiders, and run by irregulars of a different flavor. Not the type of rabble civilized people would want to rub shoulders with. Though, she was sure that Cyrus would like their ilk well enough. They were an honest people; rough around the edges, always saying yes to more and never taking no for an answer.

There was a lightness swelling in her chest. Anticipation. A shadow of it, at least. She hadn’t returned to Pressa since she’d fled all those years ago, for fear of running into her brothers and sisters. Her mother and father. Stomping on tradition didn’t sit well Rivaini families. Running away. It amounted to the same thing. Excommunication from the family or a forced wedding. A contract of sale. For most hapless brides, the shame may have been enough to see it to fruition. Even so
 even so, the thought of showing her friends around her spit of youth made her feel braver.

Her smile, at least, felt less forced.

“Of course, of course. There’s a saying there, you know
 any man can gain his heart’s desire, for a price," an eyebrow drew up as she paused for effect and grinned wide, “I think it describes Llomerryn pretty well. Perhaps, it’s a wee bit dirtier. But don’t worry, I’ll keep you all from trouncing on too many toes.”

Nixium had already taken her place at the wheel. She was beginning to roll her shoulders, indicating their departure. The last of the barrels had been rolled aboard and were being lugged into the ship’s underbelly. Dragged into storage, where everything was kept in the general proximity of Brialle’s kitchen. At least they wouldn’t need to suffer through hard tack and chewy meat-strips; a shipment of food had come in just on time; a good portion of it already being sent to the Inquisition while they kept what they would need for their journey.

Leon, who seemed to have been supervising part of that procedure, came aboard then, dressed lightly in anticipation of the warmer climate they would soon be encountering. Unusually, he'd left his arms bare. His skin was fair enough that it was quite hard to tell, but he looked to have quite a number of even paler scars on them, no doubt from training and battle, at least in the main. His hands had the worst of it, though, almost mangled-looking with all the callus and scar tissue on his knuckles. For all that, they weren't in any way misshapen.

"Carts are loaded," he said with a small nod. "Only a few more crates to bring on board, and then we'll be ready to go."

Zahra leaned against the railing and watched Leon’s approach. Soon, they would leave Redcliffe behind. The idea of was laughable. Sailing home. She wondered if it would be safe to bring them to Llomerryn’s heart after everything was said and done. It hadn’t ended well before. Surely they wouldn’t remember their faces. If not
 well, she could bring them to what little Pressa had to offer.

At least with her friends at her back it wouldn’t feel so heavy. The burden wasn’t hers alone to carry. She tipped Leon a smile, “Perfect. Seems like we’re making good time.” She knuckled at her nose, and glanced around the ship. She hadn’t seen Rom lately. Not for awhile. She figured he may have disappeared below the decks or stopped somewhere in Redcliffe for supplies. Either way, they wouldn’t leave without everyone accounted for.

He didn't take much longer, though, arriving on deck shortly thereafter with some kind of pastry halfway in his mouth, his arms otherwise occupied with bags of supplies and provisions. He set them down as he made it alongside them, reaching up to bite the chunk of pastry away. There was something off about him lately. Grumpier than usual, but then there were a number of likely explanations for that. He'd spilled his secret to Zahra during their last alchemy lesson, that what he'd been taking was becoming too addictive for him to overcome, and getting worse. He'd begun whittling down on those since then, but he was still early in the process. He'd actually given his supply of potions to Leon for the duration of the trip.

It could have also been returning to Redcliffe that didn't sit well with him. It had been obvious that Rom hadn't enjoyed anything about his time here when they came before, the only memories being the ones that involved time travel, bleak futures, his former master, and first meetings with the man that would eventually claim to be his father. Whatever the case was, he looked ready to leave.

"Do we know where we're headed, who we're meeting?" he asked. "Once we get to Llomerryn, I mean."

Of course, Zahra had noticed those changes. In the light, standing there, he seemed off. Melancholic. It was a word that suited his moods lately. Not that she didn’t understand. Hunched beneath pressures she couldn’t fathom
 with a flourishing addiction on top of that. One cultivated by a woman he hated. Her reaction had been as it always was when it came to them; non-judgmental. It wasn’t his fault. She would weather whatever sour moods he bore. What mattered was that he was trying. She was only grateful that he still decided to come along even when he was suffering.

She tapped her hand across the railing and watched as the last crates were loaded up the gangplank by none other than Nuka and Brialle. While the latter was struggling to hold the weight on her end, the wee dwarven lass was having no troubles at all. It wouldn’t have surprised her if she’d carried the damn thing all on her own. She was laughing about something she couldn’t hear, while Brialle was trying to readjust her hold. Zahra pursed her lips and regarded Rom with a thin smile.

“Outside of Llomerryn, actually. A little fishing village called Pressa. A spit on the island’s finger. We can dock there.” She felt a heaviness in her chest. Who, indeed. “My father. Maleus said that he’s still there, in his home.” It no longer was hers to claim. To call her own. She’d lost that long ago. She wasn’t even sure she remembered his face. The lines. His eyes. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders, waving for Nuka to pull the gangplank aboard and ready the ship for departure. Little more than a hand gesture, that’s all that was ever needed.

“Wonder if it wouldn't stand out rather too much to dock a boat like this in a place like that." Cyrus leaned back slightly against the rail at the side of the fore deck, moving his hands so that one palm connected with the rail. The other wrist draped over the hilt of one of the swords; she could hear a heavy exhale pass from his nose. His eyes moved to where Nuka was pulling the gangplank, then to the spot several members of the crew were working together to haul anchor.

A call came down from the crow's nest with the bearing of the wind, and the riggers adjusted accordingly, angling the sails and unfurling them so that they caught the wind just so, swelling outwards in a deep flapping of crimson canvas. With Nixium at the helm, the Riptide glided smoothly out from the dock, into Lake Calenhad proper. They'd have to sail its length before reaching the short river that would take them out into the Waking Sea, near Highever, but from there it should be open water until Llomerryn.

A seagull crooned. Far out to sea, the white-bellied gulls wheeled and turned in the wind above the Riptide, dipping to the side of the ship. Following or leading them through the open waters of the Amaranthine Ocean. Zahra could never tell. Maybe they were just there to torment them with their wailing cries. Sea-rats, Aslan used to call them. Little blighters that shit on their billowing sails. On their heads, too, if they could help it. The thought made her smile, even if she disliked the bloody things.

The weather had been kind to them. No clouds cluttered the skies, and the sun beat down on them just as it had in Redcliffe. A good sign as any. Unlikely to hold out if Pressa was anything to go by. It often rained there, though it was good for the fishermen. Her father used to tell her that insects drifted closer to the surface of the water whenever it rained, attracting fish there, as well. Which was why he always dragged them to the piers whenever clouds drifted in, sopping wet and miserable, but baskets laden and full. It was a strange memory to recall.

Maybe, she hadn’t forgotten as much as she thought.

There was a moment of calm. For once. A momentary slip. It always felt like this aboard the Riptide, cutting through the tide like a knife through butter. Brine assaulting her nose. Wind whipping through her hair. What better place in all of Thedas could there be? She never doubted Nixium’s navigation. Never understood it either. Though she could have said the same about Garland before Cyrus wrested his name from the dark-eyed man’s mouth. She thought his callused hands were meant for keeping them whole, alive. The Riptide, and its crew. He’d been more than helpful since she’d let him stay aboard all those years ago. The betrayal had cut deeper than she liked to admit.

She wasn’t sure what to do with it: her anger, her hurt.

The Inquisition would have words for him. They would decide, she supposed. It involved them just as much as her. Any chink rent in their armor was an affront. A weakness they couldn’t afford. Even so, it made her uneasy. She hadn’t heard him out properly, after all.

Zahra had taken Cyrus’s advice. Docking at Pressa would be foolish. Some of its residents were skittish of newcomers, especially with raiders frequenting their waters. Llomerryn was run by unsavory characters; ofttimes criminals. Said raiders never operated under the same banner. An unfamiliar ship, much larger than the trawlers, would gain unwanted attention. All it would take to have guards raining down on their heads was one hapless gossip. Qunari. Mercenaries. They weren’t in the habit of asking questions first. Having their lot run out of town before even speaking to her father would make all of this pointless. She wasn’t exactly sure what would be waiting for them there, but a safe bet would be to let the Riptide ride on her anchor, a few leagues from Pressa itself, and take one of her small boats to shore.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

An alcove, tucked into the island. It was frequently used by the Raiders of the Waking Sea. A place other than Llomerryn to pull their ships abroad. The docks were older, and there were no homes to speak of in the vicinity. Only a pathway that led straight through Llomerryn, and another that led towards Pressa. This place had been the first time she’d ever set foot on a ship so large—the one Aslan had spirited her away on. Saving her from misfortune, and a life she would have hated. She could see it on the horizon, drawing near. She shut her eyes, almost able to imagine how the ship had looked to her so long ago. How large everything appeared.

Only when Nixium called from the wheel did she push herself away from the railing and stretch her arms above her head; cat-like. The journey had been rather longer than she would have liked. Possibly moreso to those who weren’t used to it. A week. Cyrus seemed to be taking it rather well. In stride, even. And Leon seemed happy enough to help her crew with the rigging and whatever else needed doing around the ship. While Rom’s mood still seemed rather sullen
 she figured finally having a chance to stretch his bones on land would do him some good. At least Brialle’s cooking had been put to good use with all of the new faces aboard.

Anchored at least a league away to prevent them from grounding the ship in the choppy waters, Zahra was in the process of prepping their rowboat before it was lowered. She’d brought her bow along with her. Strapped over her shoulder, with her quiver strung around her back: arrows neatly arranged. Just in case. Even if they had no intention for trouble, Llomerryn could rear its ugly head when they least expected it. She’d given the others instructions to prep their gear, as well. It would take them a couple hours to get to Pressa. A short hike through the woods, if she remembered correctly.

Leon was the first to finish his preparations, which made a certain amount of sense, considering that he had no weapons to bother accounting for. He was armored, but not in the usual full plate; perhaps as a concession to the setting, he was only wearing leathers and heavy fabric by way of protection. Over the week, his hair had migrated into a thick tail atop his head—probably the only way of wearing it that didn't risk overheating. The sun had not been especially kind to him; his cheeks and neck had both reddened, tanned slightly, and reddened again with hours in the marine sun. If that bothered him, he gave no sign of it, though a few of the crew had ribbed him for it more than once.

He helped lower the rowboat into the water without being asked; he'd demonstrated a passable knowledge of ships and navigation, though not expertise, exactly. "What's the terrain like, where we'll be going ashore?" he asked, settling himself in the rowboat, at the oars, before the rest of them did. Probably for the best, considering his size. The others followed.

Zahra perched herself on the furthest bench and kicked her feet up against the bench ahead of her. She tilted her head to the side. She had been one of the first to tease him about his skin. Reddened to an unfortunate rouge. Probably a lot more painful than he was letting on. The sun hadn’t been kind to him at all. She’d instructed him on several occasions to hide out in the Riptide’s underbelly to keep him from bubbling like a fish dried up on land. Sometimes, he listened. He didn’t seem to mind. The sweltering heat of the equatorial woods was much different. Blood-sucking insects. Buzzards. A constant, sticking sweat.

She rubbed the back of her neck, and arched an eyebrow, trying to wrestle the grin off her face. “Not like the Dalish woods at all. Swampy in some spots and filled with tangles. The path is small. I’ll admit, it’s not a pleasant walk. But eventually it opens up into a beach. That’s where Pressa is.”

“Sounds charming." It didn't take a particularly practiced ear to detect Cyrus's sarcasm. He glanced at Leon for a moment, almost as if contemplating the possibility of offering assistance, but it was clearly not necessary. A man of the commander's build could easily power a boat like this by himself, even if there were three other passengers. So instead, Cyrus turned his eyes towards their destination, squinting at the shoreline that appeared not long after in the distance.

He wasn't completely free of sunburn, either, but it was nowhere near as bad as Leon's. Just a bit of pinkish color on his nose and cheeks, really. It could have been mistaken for windburn, or something much more short-lived. He'd gone with leathers as well, over the linens and light chain from his usual armor. The borrowed pieces didn't quite seem to fit him right, but if he was bothered by it, he wasn't complaining, anyway.

Given the strength of their oarsman, it only took them about ten minutes or so to reach land. Cyrus hopped off first, landing knee-deep in the ocean and helping pull the boat onto the shore, so it wouldn't drift away while they were gone. They hid it in some underbrush, covering it until it wasn't obvious, at least, but when that was done he tilted his head at Zahra. “Lead on, then. We're behind you."

Zahra bit back a snort at Cyrus’s saucy remark. It was rather charming if you liked bug bites and salt seeping into your bones; as well as fish, and fish, and more fish. Pressa’s people bled seawater and strife, nearly consumed by Little Llomerryn’s shadow. For the most part they cooperated with each other. Trade was trade, and they both had something the other wanted. The best fishermen came from this particular village, and without the city’s streets to sell their fish, they’d be penniless. Trawlers weren’t meant for long voyages, after all.

She stepped off towards a small opening in the woods, and pushed back some of the overgrown ferns. The trail was there, but barely. Her brothers used to travel to the beach and back again, carrying crude axes and curved blades, clearing the path for those who needed to make the journey. From the looks of it, no one had taken over their duties. Tall blades of grass tickled its sides. Rotten trees had fallen in some places that she could see. Not much of a challenge for the others, but a nuisance nonetheless.

“Alright. Let’s go then.”

The alcove sat somewhere in the middle of Pressa and Llomerryn. It didn’t take them long. The walk was rather quiet. She didn’t find that she minded. She led in the front with Rom just behind her, careful not to trip over any thick brambles. The mossy floor was comfortable to walk on, but uneven in most spots. Forcing those to readjust their footing. Spiderwebs tickled at their faces until hands rose to swat them away and the constant buzzing of flies nipped at their sides, relentless in their pursuit. Sweat already ran down her spine, and dripped off her chin. The heat they’d felt aboard the Riptide was nothing compared to this. She could feel her heartbeat thrumming in her her ears. Against her ribs. They were close.

The thickets thinned out and widened enough to see the sky once more. Long, flat pieces of stone formed a staircase that led down to a beach. Several cabins littered the shoreline; all in varying states of disarray. Efficient as a shelter, but not much else. Certainly a far cry from what they’d seen in Halamshiral. Long piers stretched out like fingers on the coast and trawlers could be seen bobbing in the distance. Her house was the second on the left. “It’s right there. The one with the red tarp at the door.” Zahra pointed a finger up at it and tilted her head to the side, squinting hard.

"Not the only thing at the door," Rom pointed out, lifting a bare hand halfway in that direction. He looked more comfortable than the rest of them, clad in a sleeveless tunic and hardened leather breastplate over it. His dark skin hadn't darkened any further at all in the sun on the way over, and despite the heat he didn't seem to be sweating all that much. She had seen him consume his day's concoction of stamina, reflex, clarity, focus, that sort of thing, just before they'd disembarked. No doubt wanting to be at his best when it actually mattered.

Four robed figures stood beside the door they were headed towards, clad in dark robes that couldn't have been comfortable to wear in the Rivaini heat. Adorned with chrome plates on the shoulders and other metal accessories decorating them to the point of rather obviously overdoing it. It remained to be seen just how much that impacted their movement, or if the sacrifice of practicality for style would actually be worth it. "They're Tevinter," Rom said, stating the obvious. "Rich."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
The news that they had apparently been beaten to this location by... some people or other from Tevinter was not the best, but Leon wasn't inclined to assume anything until matters became clearer. This far out, it was hard to tell much about the figures other than that they were dressed in an Imperial style and there were an unfortunate number of armor-spikes involved. Frowning, he squinted a little harder. There looked to be a crest or something on the back of one of the uniforms, but he couldn't discern anything specific about it from this distance.

He glanced at Zahra. "It might be worth trying to gain some information here," he advised. Knowledge was one thing they were sorely lacking in this case, and if there was a chance that the people here might provide something of use, it seemed better to aim for that than a fight they might be able to avoid. That said... he also knew better than to count on anything here. "Maybe keep your weapons loose in the scabbards, though."

Zahra up leaned against a tree, drawing a hand up to shield her eyes in a weak attempt to see better. Her mouth was pursed. She was mumbling about them being here of all places. She certainly didn’t look as if she’d even considered this as a possibility. Understandably doubtful that anyone would willingly come out here, in the middle of nowhere. In front of her father’s house. Their voices were indiscernible from where they stood, but they appeared to be knocking on the front door and attempting to peer through the shuttered windows.

“I
 suppose you're right.” She straightened her posture, and tried to smooth a smile on her face. A friendly one. It lifted halfway and wobbled into a thin line. There weren’t many moments where she appeared at a loss, but now, she looked like she wasn’t sure what she should be doing at all. Her hand had lifted closer to her bow before dropping back down to her side. She took a tentative step out into the open and halted for the others to join her, in order to descend the stairs together. The stone pathway branched out towards the cabins, including her own. She halted in front of the rusty gate, hand poised on the latch.

It would be noisy.

The furthest man was still rapping his knuckles against the door. Hard. He jerked his hood down with harsher sigh and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, “He isn’t here. Why waste anymore time in this blasted place?”

“Then we wait until he is.” The finality of the statement bore a clue as to who was in charge. The woman was leaning against a heap of fishing traps, facing the house. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her hood already pulled down to reveal a meticulous set of braids.

Another man had his hands cupped to the sides of his face, peering through the shutters of a nearby window. He took a moment to try and jimmy his fingers through them before straightening back up, defeated, “Why don’t we just burn the place down? He’ll have nothing to come home to.”

“That’s not why we’re here.”

It was the fourth person who finally noticed their arrival. He’d been hunched over inspecting something on the ground. He raised his head and froze in place, staring at them. His surprise was only momentary before his expression soured considerably. An indignant lift of the lip followed, “What’s this? An audience? Shoo. Go on, now.”

Only then did the others turn to regard them, bearing the same leveled stares. Looking beneath them. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition there, only contempt.

Cyrus drew up next to Zahra, leveling a rather unimpressed look at the lot of them. He crossed his arms over his chest. “That's funny: I could have sworn trespassing and arson were both illegal in Rivain. They're certainly against the law where you're from, my sartorially-challenged interlopers." He lifted an eyebrow, perhaps allowing his accent and obvious bearing to speak for itself as to the rest. His eyes narrowed, though, when he inspected their robes a little more closely. “Ah. So you are House Contee, then. Little unsubtle, isn't it? The insignia."

That seemed to strike a chord with them. Their faces displayed an array of disgust and startled disbelief. They certainly recognized his accent. There was a spitting noise in the foreground. Perhaps, from the man closest to the door. The woman pushed herself away from the fishing crates and rounded up in front of the fence, closest to the gate they stood at, her arms dropping to her side. She appeared to scrutinize Cyrus for a moment before flicking her gaze at the others and then back at him again.

Her smile was anything but kind. One they might have seen in the Winter Palace. A double-edged blade, searching for a spine. She tilted her head to the side, and prodded a finger into Cyrus’s chest: clearly unimpressed. “A matter of perspective in some parts of Rivain, I hear.”

It was clear that she did not care about any of the implications he had made. She sucked a breath through her teeth and pulled her hand away, as if it had been tainted by something deplorable, ignoring his bait with a flick of her wrist, “So, you're familiar with our house? Far from home as well, aren’t you? Why are you here?” Each inflection grew more and more impatient.

There was a rattling cough behind them. A cleared throat. The other man who’d initial spoken to them was pulling a sheet of parchment paper from his robes, eyes widening once more. He squinted hard at them before swinging his gaze back to the piece of paper, jaw bunching together. Though the woman paid him no mind.

Leon didn't have to think too hard to figure out what was likely going on here. But just to be sure—and because it seemed that any chance at politeness was rather ruined between Cyrus's characteristic sarcasm and the outright rude responses of the Tevinter citizens—he reached forward quite quickly, deftly snatching the paper from the man's hand and turning it over in his.

Rivaini woman. Short. Dark hair, curly.

Tevinter noble. Black hair. Indigo eyes. Tall.

The other items on the list followed suit, describing a few key members of the Inquisition. Leon sighed. This wasn't going to end well, he could already tell. When he spoke, his voice was more weary than anything. "It seems the people with explaining to do are, in fact, yourselves. What are you doing with this, and who gave it to you?" He turned the paper back around so they could see it. No doubt they'd make the connection soon enough anyway.

Zahra shifted at his side, fingers fumbling at the latch to allow them in the yard. She still hadn’t spoken, though she seemed to catch on fairly quickly as to what was happening.

The woman sneered, instead of answering his questions. She looked rather pleased for someone caught in a ruse. The men behind her were fanning out to the sides, hands stretching out. They watched like wolves eager to see the faintest flicker of prey under their noses. She stepped back a few paces and clicked her tongue, not once taking her eyes away from them. She did not hesitate to answer, “What does that matter? We’re here to eliminate you.”

A sweltering hiss of flames shot from one of the man’s outstretched fingers.

Leon, being the biggest target, was not surprised to find that the initial spell was aimed for him. He ducked to the side in enough time that the flames only skimmed the leathers on his shoulder, leaving them uncomfortably hot but not on fire and otherwise uninjured. They should have backed up, but they hadn't yet, and he punished them forward, reaching forward to grab the flame-thrower by the shoulder. Yanking, he brought his knee up at the same time, the mage's nose giving way under the blow with a wet crunch. He staggered, but Leon gave him no quarter, slamming an elbow into the back of his head as he recoiled upwards from the first blow.

He dropped, definitely still alive, but also assuredly unconscious. That was enough that the others quickly tried to scramble backwards.

One of them didn't make it more than a step before Cyrus drove one of his swords into the ground, catching the hem of his robe and staking it in place. The interruption of his backwards momentum tripped him, and Cyrus didn't seem nearly as interested in remaining nonlethal as Leon; the second sword found the man's heart.

A frost spell caught him in the side as he was drawing them out; Cyrus hissed and shifted sideways before the second could do the same, but the first crawled down his leg, locking it at the knee and severely hindering his motion. At least until he could get rid of it.

A fire spell came in next, but Romulus stepped in front of it, shield blocking its path. The fireball burst and surrounded him. He must have acted on instinct, as this sort of spell normally would've just washed over him without many ill effects at all given what his potions could do. He was without those particular effects this time, and as a result when the cloud cleared most of Romulus's left arm was on fire, his pants and shirt threatening to catch the blaze as well.

Rather than let it stop him, he performed a roll forward, towards the offending mage. The roll doused him on the damp and in many places downright wet ground, and he came up with his small crossbow in hand. The bolt loosed from it found the mage's chest, the force pitching him back a step. Romulus took off at a sprint to close the rest of the distance. It wasn't hard to imagine what would happen when he got there.

One of the mages who’d come from the behind the house had tripped and stumbled over his feet in an attempt to escape. Eyes bulging. As soon as his hands touched the fence, legs poised to swing over, an arrow struck through the back of his head and continued straight through until it came to a halt in a tree. The fence swayed but did not hold his weight, crumbling beneath him. He tumbled in a tangled heap and fell on his face, blood pooling out into the grass.

Only the woman stayed her ground. Though she was slowly backing away towards the fence, eyes flicking from each face. The smile she’d worn only moments ago was gone. A blade had found its way into her hand, dropped from one of her long sleeves. She licked her lips and quickly raked it down her forearm, dragging the length of her sleeve up to her elbow. Blood pooled down her wrist as she held it aloft, towards them. Dripping onto the toes of her boots. She held her free hand towards the corpse lying at Cyrus’s feet and for a moment, he seemed to stir. His body shivered. Slivers of blood rose from the wound on his chest and gravitated towards her, swimming in the air in thin streams.

The streams rose around them, like sanguine whips undulating in the air. There was a sense that she was preparing to strike, until she heaved forward and groaned. The sound was monstrous. Something caught between a gurgling shriek and layered moan. Inhuman. Her arm snapped forward at an unnatural angle, driving her towards the ground. The blood slashed down into the dirt. Erratic, but directionless. Her skin bubbled and stretched; crackled an ugly purple, but her eyes remained the same: blue, gawping at them, spittle dragging down her chin. Even through the swelling of her face, it was clear that she’d lost control of herself. Spine and shoulders crackling under the rearrangement; making room for further deformations. Her hissing breaths became more labored as she began trying to sway back to her feet.

Leon knew exactly what this was. He was too far to prevent it, but there was something else he could do instead. Stilling, he focused his attention on the woman, reaching for the lyrium he could feel in her blood. It wasn't hard, with so much of it spilled for her magic; she was practically saturated in it compared to a southern mage. Not at all like Cyrus, whose only hint of it had been the corrupted kind. He found it easily, his breath hissing out through his teeth like steam. His skin felt hot, not unlike more sunburn, but from below rather than above, a deep, thrumming heat that rose to the surface of him, barely contained by his physical boundaries.

She burned, as well, but in a markedly-different way. The woman's transformation halted partway through, the demon repulsed by the pain its new body was in as the lyrium in her system ignited. Her joints locked, motion ceasing; a scream tore from her throat, raw and shrill. It was only half-human, the undertones of the demon's rasp bleeding into the sound. Leon kept his eyes locked on hers and covered the rest of the distance, taking hold of her head in both hands. The flesh underneath his gauntlets was starting to soften, become almost oversaturated, spongy in texture.

Her anatomy was still human enough that her neck broke in just the same way when he twisted. The scream abruptly cut off, and the woman fell.

Romulus was returning from where he'd violently finished off the mage he'd struck with the crossbow bolt. He wiped the blood from his blade, watching what had happened with the possessed mage and Leon, clearly some degree of uncomfortable. None of it had been a pleasant thing to observe, at any rate.

He stopped before the unconscious member of the party that had attacked them, and glanced at Zahra. "If you want some time to yourself in the house, we can watch your back."

Zahra seemed somewhat preoccupied by what had just taken place, staring at the remains of the twisted abomination Leon had just taken care of. It didn’t appear as if she’d seen that sort of thing before, from either party. She startled when Rom spoke to her, and managed a weak smile, before looking at the others. Perhaps to check if they were fine, and whole. “Ah—yes, right
 you’re right.”

She cleared her throat and stepped over one of the corpses, careful not to tread in the blood now pooled across the yard. Flecking the grass like a canvas. It was a mess to behold. Colorful. A stark contrast to the backwoods environment; fishing rods leaning up against each house. There was the sound of shutters snapping closed in the distance. As of yet they hadn’t seen anyone who lived there, but it felt intentional. She hunched down in front of one of the flowerbeds, fingers scrapping across dirt until she upended a semi-buried rock. Flat as a pancake, and as wide as wide as a plate.

Her laugh bellied disbelief, “He never even moved it, the fool.” Spoken more to herself than anyone in the vicinity. She’d grabbed something from underneath. It became clear what it was when she jiggled a key inside the lock and pushed the door open. She disappeared inside, with only the sound of stomping boots indicating her search. A moment later and she reappeared at the door, mouth drawn into a frown.

“He’s not here. He’s gone to Llomerryn to sell his fish.”

“Might be for the best, considering who dropped by to visit." Cyrus prodded one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. “Maybe we tie up the one still alive and see what we can get out of him later. They've left your father alone this long—it might be worth knowing what has changed. Then off to Llomerryn as discreetly as we can, I suppose?" He looked at Romulus when he said it, clearly figuring he was the one most likely to manage discreet in this context.

"We can probably do better than the last time we visited," Romulus agreed, his tone somewhat dark no doubt from the memory of what they'd been visiting for.

Leon felt his lips thin; his fingers curled into his palms before he forced them to relax. He'd never been especially fond of that technique, nor inclined to use it. But... better that than allowing the abomination to enter this world unobstructed. He took a deep breath through his nose and nodded. "That seems like the best course of action, yes. Perhaps we should return to the boat."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
Rom found that Llomerryn, at first glance, was a place that agreed with him wholeheartedly.

The gates were open for the day, and the guards weren't really making any effort to stop anyone coming in. If they had to stop every suspicious looking person on their way in or out of the city they'd never get a moment's rest the entire day. Rom had done his best along with the others to make their group look as unnoticeable as possible, though with a man of Leon's size that was rather difficult. Still, with some conversion of the Tevinter robes they had at their disposal they managed to create some nondescript looking cloaks, shorn of all identifying marks and symbols. As a whole they looked like a fairly drab group of travelers, but Rom could already tell that such a practice was common in Llomerryn. Like Orlais, many of the people here were probably more than they seemed, just without the need for prancing around in fancy dresses and gilded masks.

They put some distance between themselves and the gate quickly, as Rom figured if anyone was watching for their approach, it would be at the gates where they would need to enter. They paused often, checking for figures trailing them. Rom led the way, but often asked Zahra for directions. He might've been born here or somewhere nearby, but that didn't mean he knew the place. He knew cities, and she knew the way. There were more Tevinter people about than he'd expected, robed men and women with slaves trailing dutifully behind them. Close enough to be useful at a moment's notice, but far enough away not to crowd the space of their masters. It evoked familiar memories. It was difficult to tell if any of them were among those specifically watching out for their presence, but all the same it was better to avoid them. Use the crowds as their screen.

It wouldn't do for them to get separated here, Rom thought. The city had a haphazard layout, especially as they approached the renowned bazaar. Rom paused before they entered it fully, turning to Zahra and pulling back the edge of his hood slightly. "We're close. Any idea where he'll be in this mess?"

“Through the bazaar, tucked to the right, closest to the Boar’s Head. Dirty tavern. But they do love their fish and cockles. He might even be inside,” Zahra’s eyes frequently searched the crowd for robed figures, only slipping back to meet his when she answered his question. Several carts were set up along the busiest roads. Merchants crying out their wares; some more aggressive than others, shaking beads and baskets to those foolish enough to wander too close. Almost as dangerous as the cloaked men if they managed to tie you up in one place, some going as far to snatch up potential buyers wrists. She’d already warned them to steer clear of them as well.

The bazaar itself was formed in a less than precise circle, with the majority of wagons set up in messy rows in its center; blocking off lanes. The right side, left side, and heart. The crowd was as varied as the produce that were being sold here. Some looked to be from Ferelden; others had rolling Antivan accents. Clothes and countenances of every variety squished in one area.

She scrubbed a hand across her chin and dipped closer to Rom’s side, inclining her head towards the left side of the bazaar. There were two cloaked individuals slipping through the crowds, hands slipped into their sleeves. It was obvious that they were searching for something rather than perusing the bazaar’s wares. Stark-faced. Serious. “Ah—there’s some there too.” She hadn’t pointed. Only tilted her head in the opposing direction. A larger group. Three, or four, loosely packed. Some stood, while others leaned against the closest houses. Eyes raking the crowd.

“Do you think we could make it through the middle without being spotted?”

"Not without splitting up, and we're not doing that," Rom answered, without much in the way of hesitation. They'd be spotted just standing still if they didn't do something soon. Two solutions immediately came to mind, but he wasn't sure which one they would prefer, nor did he have time to properly explain them both. They needed to act quick. He exhaled a breath, tilting his head to better see Zahra. "We can kill them all somewhere quiet, or kill one and make a scene. Up to you."

Cyrus cleared his throat softly. “Far be it from me to have any say." His mouth pulled a bit to the side; he looked like he was doubting his decision to speak even as he continued. “But we could also not kill them. Rendering them insensate should achieve the same effect, yes? Death is a rather unkind punishment for serving the wrong house in ignoble ends." He shrugged with a soft rustle of fabric. “Unless it comes to them or us, I suppose."

Even Zahra appeared to feel the urgency of the situation as she rocked back on her heels and pressed closer to the wagon they stood beside, eyeing the others before pinching her eyes closed. She reopened them a moment later, though there was a pull to her lips that suggested she wasn’t so sure either, “Whatever we do, it has to be quiet. We don’t want raiders nipping at our heels.” This wasn’t her forte; subtlety. Staying her arrow. Not so surprising given her loud, over-the-top temperament.

Besides, Llomerryn was capricious at best. Where most people would turn their heads, and allow blood to stain the streets as long as they were left alone, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t join the fray. Upset a wagon and a merchant would be as willing to jump in as any mercenary would. Llomerryn’s people operated under different rules; if any at all. A far cry from most of the civilized places they’d seen so far. There was no Game here, and certainly no honor. She readjusted her hood as they cut out from the middle path and started veering to the left side. Less robes to contend with.

"Follow me. Act like you're paying them no mind." Rom started forward, expecting the others to keep up behind him. It was too tight a space, and there was no way they were going to avoid every gaze searching for them. All it took was one, and the others would be alerted. They would be followed, so long as it looked like they weren't aware they were being followed. Rom carefully counted their numbers as they passed. Six. That was problematic. Killing six without raising an alarm would be difficult enough. Rom supposed he wasn't thinking when he was willing to condemn them all to death being on the wrong side, but Cyrus's suggestion would be even tougher to pull off. Especially if they couldn't find an ideal location to spring a trap.

He led them deeper into the bazaar, taking a few twisting turns until he found an area that was almost entirely unpopulated. Empty stalls, high walls around them. It would do. Their pursuers would not be far behind. Rom glanced back at Leon. "Six following us, they'll be here soon. Think we can do this bloodless?"

Leon considered it. "If we're quick and prioritize keeping them quiet, I think so. I can handle two for those purposes." The way he said it made it sound like something he'd had particular experience with, and knew from that experience, rather than guesswork.

"Alright," Rom agreed, "you take the two in the front, I'll handle the two in the back. Cyrus, Zee, split the two in the middle." It was a safe bet they'd be separated enough to make picking targets easy; the alleyway they'd walked into was barely wide enough for three people to walk side by side comfortably, in most places. "Find someplace to hide and stay quiet. Wait for me to attack first. They'll turn around for you to hit them from behind."

There was no more time to lose, as they were already risking being seen. Rom ducked into an empty merchant's stall, using a tall pile of drab rugs to conceal himself with. They were obviously so low in quality whoever owned them wasn't even worried about them being stolen. Cyrus crouched behind a few haphazardly-stacked barrels next to another cart. Empty, most likely. Leon's options for concealment were slightly more limited, but he folded himself into an overhanging doorway, the shadows doing more to conceal him than the outright cover did. Zahra had no such issues. Most of the objects in the alley would’ve been capable of concealing her diminutive size. She slipped off to the right and hunkered down behind a cart stacked with dirty carpets and blankets.

Soon after they were all settled, they could hear boots coming down the alley in their direction, echoing softly off the cobblestones underneath their feet. They slowed as they approached, but if they were aware that those they sought chose this particular place to hide in, they didn't show it. "Which way?" one of them asked, near the rear. There was no answer. They continued walking.

Once the last of them had passed Romulus he threw himself out over the counter of the stall, landing as heavy a punch as he was capable of to the temple of the nearest robed Tevinter man. He stumbled and went down, but he'd only be there for a few seconds. Before the next one closest could react he'd reached up and locked his arms around the man's neck and head, swiftly choking him into sleep.

As expected, the rest of their pursuers turned at this, ready to meet the unexpected threat. Leon stepped out from behind the doorway then, swiftly grabbing the front two men and curling his massive arms around their heads, hands easily spanning their noses and mouths. It wasn't the right angle for a proper suffocation, so he did the next best thing. With a controlled surge, he knocked their heads together, the impact heavy and audible, particularly as things were still relatively quiet.

Cyrus was clearly considerably less used to this sort of thing. His first attempt to grab his target was evaded, but he did manage to trip him instead, following him to the ground and muffling his cry of alarm with the man's own scarf and putting a knee to his chest, holding him in place and wrapping his other hand around his neck, cutting off his airflow until he went limp.

The last man certainly hadn’t expected a woman to jump out from behind a wagon. Zahra immediately grabbed onto the back of his jerkin and yanked him backwards, taking advantage of the surprise so that she could readjust her grip in order to grapple onto the side of his face, guiding it into the nearest wall. There was a crunching noise, before he tumbled to the ground. She ah’d beside them, stooping low enough to tilt her ear by his mouth, straightening up a moment later, “Oh good, he’s still alive.”

Rom tossed his unconscious first target aside, swiftly moving onto the second just as he made his way back to his feet. He had time to briefly shout, but not enough to draw a blade or light a spell in his hands before Rom was on him. His knuckles found his throat, striking hard and silencing him with a pained choking sound. He then twisted him around and snared him in another sleeper hold. He waited patiently, watching the others resolve their brief bouts as the man finally stilled.

"They should be out for a while," he said, shifting the unconscious body so he could more easily carry him. "Hide them in the stalls." There was plenty to conceal the bodies with, old rugs and blankets that wouldn't look out of place at all on the floor of a particularly dingy bazaar street.

After they’d hidden all of the unconscious bodies and tucked them them out of sight. Under tattered rugs and ragged blankets pulled up across their faces. A rude awakening would follow. Zahra brushed off her knees and clapped her hands once, before turning back towards them. “Not so bad after all. The tavern has a crooked boar’s head stuck on the front. Shouldn’t be much further from where we’re at.”

It didn’t take them long to retrace their steps through the winding alleyways. The herd was thinned, so they’d have less trouble making their way through the bazaar. They picked their way through the crowd and avoided anyone in suspicious robes, with Romulus still leading the way. Only when Zahra pointed out a particularly ratty building with the aforementioned boar head leaning at a tilt did they slow their pace. The windows had no shutters to speak of, so anyone could take a gander inside, if they wished.

The rabble inside weren’t much different than those pushing past them in the streets. A little rougher, maybe. Lined, dirty faces. Scarred. Mostly everyone had a blade of some sort hanging at their hips. Tankards were jostled together, and roaring laughs cut through the noise. Pirates. Raiders. Uncouth individuals. She took a few tentative steps forward and tucked herself closer to the wall, peering inside. Squinting hard. Her mouth was set into a thin line, clearly focused on trying to pick her father out of the crowd.

Only then did she beckon them over and bob her chin towards a man seated in one of the furthest tables. Alone. He carried a wicker basket that appeared mostly empty. He was slightly slumped forward, wrinkled face already blotchy-red with drink. Eyes shuttered closed. A cane made of some sort of reed had was leaning against his chair. “I
 think that’s him there. Should we
 ?” Her question drifted off, as if she were suddenly unsure. The color from her face seemed to drain, as well.

“Well we came all this way to see him, didn't we?" Cyrus's body language bespoke unruffled carelessness: his arms were crossed loosely, shoulders low, back almost slouched a bit, like he didn't quite want to stand at his full height. But his tone was another matter—quieter, more solemn, and his eyes were the same when they made contact with hers. “Do you want us to go with you? Or follow you in, maybe, stay close by?"

“I
 I’d like you to come with me, I’m not sure if I can explain the situation right.” Zahra’s tone was stronger this time, at the suggestion of having them alongside her. It may have been what she’d intended in the first place. She took a deep, withering breath and stepped closer to the doorway; taking tentative, slow steps. Only when she turned to see the others at her heels did she finally make her way inside, closing the distance between her and the man she’d believed to be her father.

At first she only stood at the foot of the table, hands stretching out and curling into fists. The man himself didn’t seem to be aware of their presence, hardly stirring. Head set off to the side, hidden from view. He may not have even been awake at all. The recognition was immediate. Her shoulders stiffened and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Maccio Tavish?” It sounded weak. Constrained. As if she hadn’t wanted to utter those words. Father might’ve been too heavy. Too unfamiliar. Only then did the man move; slow, lethargic.

He did not respond vocally. Though he did raise his head in their direction. Zahra took a step back and made a noise in the back of her throat—something caught between an intake of breath and a startled hitch. Age was not the only toll taken to his face. Red veins stripped down from beneath his heavy lids, spread out like spidery webs that spanned past his cheekbones. His pupils were white, sightless, and rippled with red. Where there’d once been color, only red remained. As if he’d been struck on the head and never recovered. Empty. Unnaturally so.

It stunk of magic.

Only then did he speak, “That’s right. Who’s that now?”

When it became quite obvious that Zahra was either unwilling or unable to respond, Leon cleared his throat quietly and took out a chair at the table, letting it slide over the ground with a muted noise that seemed intentional. As though he were doing his best to make his motions and actions obvious but unobtrusive. He settled into it and leaned forward against the table on his forearms. "My name is Leon Albrecht," he said mildly. "I'm with a group of people called the Inquisition. One of our members pointed us in your direction—she said something had happened to your family. Is there a chance you'd be willing to speak with us about it?"

“That right?” Maccio sucked at his gums, considering his words for a moment. His head had turned in Leon’s direction but he appeared to be staring over him. Chin raised. Patchy salt and pepper hair falling over one eye. He was peering somewhere over his head. The ugly markings stretched as his mouth formed a thin line, “If this isn’t trouble
. I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
Cyrus settled into another chair in the dingy bar, across the way from Leon, gesturing wordlessly for Zahra to take the one next to him. That left the one beside Leon for Romulus.

At the very least, Zahra's father—Maccio, it seemed—was willing to talk to them. She herself still didn't seem to be in a position to do much talking, so he picked up the thread of conversation Leon had begun. “We're not trouble for you, no. But there are quite a number of Contee men about, even here. Ran into a few back in Pressa, as well. Any idea why they'd be around now, of all times?"

At the mention of the Contee family name, Maccio seemed to come alive. Unadulterated fury contorted his face. He raked his gaze over the assembled people seated at his table, never quite stopping to meet any of their faces. “Those fucking whore-sons,” spit flew from his lips as he slapped a hand flat against the table, nearly upending his cup, “they’ve taken everything from me. What more? What more could they want?”

His voice had risen to a hoarse yell. Unaware, or clearly uncaring if anyone heard him. Only a few heads turned their way before turning back to their own business: disinterested. Lucky enough for them. Zahra only shifted beside Cyrus, mouth still working for a response, though he was quick to interrupt once more, with a curt, bitter laugh, “That Faraji bastard wants to know if I’m stewing in my waste, I bet. Alone.” His chest fell and rose, before his shoulders finally sagged.

“What business does this Inquisition have with Contee?” There were accusatory undertones, as if he did not quite believe their tale. He pointed a crooked finger in Cyrus’s direction and gave his head a shake, “who’s this girl who pointed you in my direction?”

It was Romulus, however, who answered. "That would be Zahra here." He looked to be eyeing this Maccio quite closely from where he sat, his hood finally pulled back to reveal his Rivaini features. For once, somewhere where he didn't look like a foreigner. Even if he still was. He'd certainly had his own father-child reunion moment, and while it didn't seem as though he expected anything of the sort here, he was obviously on edge. "Captain Zahra Tavish, of the Riptide. Her ship and crew are an invaluable part of the Inquisition."

“Zahra?”

The inflection sounded incredulous. A little, humorless laugh accompanied it. Maccio’s gaze stared through Romulus: unwavering. His hand slipped off the table, into his lap. A breath puffed out, stinking of ale. His mouth gawped open for a moment before he licked his lips and tilted his head to the side, “Now, what kind of cruel lie is that.”

“It’s true,” only then did Zahra break her silence, softly. Unsure. Reluctant. If she could have looked anymore uncomfortable in her seat, she might have crawled away. Maccio, at least, appeared somewhat confused by the new voice. Recognition did not flicker there, only wariness.

He scraped his chair backwards and stood up, gesturing his hand in the air as if he were searching for something, “If that’s true, then come here.”

Zahra did not immediately oblige, sitting in her seat like a child who’d been punished. Much smaller, in spirit. Only when Maccio cleared his throat and wagged his fingers did she push away from the table and make her away around Cyrus to stand in front of him. She raked her nails across her forearm, nearly squirming. She managed to find her voice as he raised a hand and brushed them across her cheekbones, thumb tracing lines, “I’m sorry. I—” The expression on his face flattened and another flash of anger twisted on his face, burning just as brightly, quick as the slap he leveled across her face.

From the noise she made, she clearly hadn’t expected the reaction. One of her hands shot forward and caught the corner of the table, halting her sway. Nearly toppling onto Cyrus. She stayed motionless, stuck in place, as he rounded on her, “Zahra? My daughter. The one who ran off. Abandoned us here. Come here to do what exactly? Did you finally feel guilty after all these years?” Bitterness bled from his mouth, spilled over. Voice hitching to an angry swell. “It’s a little late for that, girl.”

Cyrus shot up out of his seat as soon as she'd reeled backwards, steadying her with his hands at her shoulders, just the lightest touch that could still be effective. He felt his own ire rising; he did not particularly appreciate the sight of someone striking their child, adult though she may be. He swore the skin on his back itched. But he gritted his teeth, tamping down on the flame before it grew into anything uncontainable. “Would you have preferred never? Because she could well have done that instead." His tone was a bit sharper than he'd intended.

He took a deep breath through his nose. “As Romulus pointed out, she is hardly alone. And as Leon indicated earlier, we are here about what happened to your family. It was only brought to our attention recently what the situation had become. Maleus sent a message." Perhaps the name of a child he did not bear so much bitterness for would force the conversation back to some semblance of civility. Cyrus realized he was squeezing Zahra's shoulders a bit too tightly and murmured an apology, dropping them and taking a step backwards.

Zahra hadn’t raised her head but steadied against Cyrus, until she, too, stepped away from Maccio. She drew a hand mid-way to her face, before dropping it back down to her side. Rendered speechless. A muscle jumped along her jawline, and even though he was blind, she appeared to be struggling to meet his withering gaze.

Maccio’s lip peeled back against his teeth. Contempt clear. His expression was as dark and enigmatic as midnight, violent as a wounded animal. Perhaps he’d been wounded so long that he’d become a different beast. “What would I have to lose? My life? That’s already been taken. You wouldn’tknow. How could you understand my loss!” His finger prodded the air each time. Harshly. He seemed to reject anything else as if it did not matter or exist, exuding an aura which was as close to poison as it could be. Sick. Spiritually, physically; overwhelmingly ill. Zahra shrunk against the words; maintaining her distance, as well as her silence.

Only when Maleus was mentioned did he seem to deflate. The sweltering temper sifted away like sand pouring through outstretched fingers; shoulders sagging and mouth trembling into a hard line. “Maleus? My son. He still lives
?” His voice was softer this time, less rough around the edges.

Zahra shifted from foot to foot at Cyrus’ side, though she seemed surprised by the tremble of her voice, the desperate lilt, “He told me. Us. That you were still here. I think he wanted us to come get you. You’re not safe here anymore.” That much was obvious. Even so, at the sound of her voice, a flicker of hostility reappeared. Not with as much fervor. His countenance was clear: defeated.

It was not Zahra that he spoke to, but Leon. Swinging his head in the direction he may have assumed him to be still seated in. “The Inquisition wishes to free my family of its shackles? For her?” Then, he turned his gaze to his daughter, sightless eyes staring straight through, “Prove it. Atone for what you’ve done. I’ll come along to make sure to it that you do.” Gratitude seemed far away: an impossible sentiment. It would not be squeezed from him. He turned away from them and patted at the back of his chair, seeking his cane.

Leon's expression was difficult to read, but in the end, he nodded slightly, speaking as well to clarify. "Very well then. A solution will take time, but once we have the necessary information and resources, we shall undertake this." He paused, his eyes moving to Zahra. "Did you have further business here? If not, we should get moving before the Contee servants find us again."

In a world that might’ve gone dull and gray, or black with darkness, where his daughter, once thought bright, promising and obedient
 was no longer any of those things, Maccio merely bobbed his head in a nod. Barely listening. Back to the husk they’d stumbled in on. He appeared much older now. Snatching up his cane in his hand and tapping it on the floor, using it to lean on every now and again. A crutch. Easier to hate someone else, than himself. It was clear that he’d chosen her to blame. And her alone.

Zahra’s gaze finally rose from the floor, regarding Leon. She offered him a thin smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Hardly lifted the corners up. Whatever fire she’d had from their most recent battle had been leeched out. Dried. Smothered under Maccio’s boot. “No. No, there’s nothing left to do here.” A pause. “You’re right. We should go back.” There was a moment where she appeared as if she was going to help her father to the door, though she only hesitated and stepped aside, allowing him to lead the way towards the door.

From there, it was much the same process, in reverse. It was easier to avoid the Tevinter guards, as there were fewer of them now, but of course having an elderly blind man with the group made it harder in turn. Fortunately, there were no issues, and Leon had no more difficulty rowing five people than he had with four, though it was close quarters in the boat itself.

Maccio was eventually situated in a room below deck, and the navigator—Nixium, Cyrus recalled her name was—turned them back towards the south. They'd dock in Jader this time, to minimize overland travel. Orlais was a sight more hospitable to the Inquisition than Ferelden was, anyhow.

About an hour into the journey, Cyrus approached the upper decks himself. That had been... rather a lot to take in, on Zahra's part, he was sure. He couldn't say he'd ever experienced anything of the kind, but imagining how it must feel was a little easier than he'd expected, and there wasn't anything about it that seemed pleasant. So after smearing his face and arms with a tincture made primarily from aloe that might do something to protect him from the sun, he set about the task to trying to find the ship's captain.

He found her at the bow of the ship with her feet poised between the beams and forearms perched atop the railing. Her upper body was angled over it as if she were balancing herself. Swaying against the tepid breeze like a child balanced between the beams of a fence. Maccio was nowhere in sight. She’d already told him that if he needed anything, anyone aboard the Riptide would help him. His own response lacked the biting edge he’d displayed in Llomerryn, though it had been just as curt. Cold, even.

Her face was turned towards the horizon, hidden from view. She appeared to be studying the sun lowering itself across the pastel sky. Pink hues had already begun to show, threaded with orange. Nightfall would soon take them. Fortunately they’d had time to board the Riptide before trying to navigate out of the inlet. Night transformed the waters into an inky swell, concealing shallow rocks and other obstacles. Their exit had been thus far successful. Zahra’s mood, however, seemed anything but lively. Her curly hair whipped around her face, though she made no attempt to push it from her eyes.

He approached quietly, feeling his mouth turn down. He didn't make any attempt to be particularly stealthy though; there wasn't any reason to and he wasn't especially skilled at it even if there had been. He chose a spot next to her, standing with his back to the same railing she faced, then hopped up the few inches it took to be sitting on it, letting his legs anchor him to the secondary rail below. He was good with balance. He wondered if that mightn't have been a mistake, though; Zahra was always considerably shorter than him, and this only magnified the fact.

Well, too late now. Cyrus let himself slouch a little, resting his forearms on his knees. That helped. “I feel stupid, asking how you are. Obviously you're not feeling particularly happy at the moment—it's right there on your face." He expelled a breath through his nose. Why were the simplest of social interactions so mystifying now? It wasn't like he'd had trouble offering condolences before. He knew what the words were, how to make the sentiment sound right.

He just didn't know what to do when he actually felt the things he was attempting to express. The words seemed inadequate, somehow, in a way they hadn't before. He took in a new breath, well-aware of the fact that he wasn't going to be able to make anything better. That was the rub above all, maybe. He'd once taken it for granted that his words mattered no more to anyone who heard than they mattered to him in the saying. But a friendship, a real one, went both ways. He settled for something that might be more useful than his sympathies.

“Anything I can do for you?" He tried not to grit his teeth at the inanity of asking that. Tried not to assume there simply couldn't be. He wasn't sure he succeeded at either.

“I thought I had the most handsome face in all of the Inquisition.”

Zahra’s tone lacked the biting aphorism it usually held. The wit dry and brittle. She certainly looked miserable, like grief-doused wet wood, until she huffed out a drawn out sigh and gave her head a shake, stretching out her arms in front of her. She only turned to look up at him when she pressed her cheek against the railing and wrinkled her nose, eyes rolling to meet his for a moment. They were slightly puffy. Red-rimmed. Though they were dry, now. She looked a mess; and had obviously holed herself up somewhere, out of sight, before finding herself a new perch here.

She cleared her throat and wiggled her fingers out towards the ocean. Towards the rolling waves slapping against the Riptide’s belly. The retreating sunlight—and home, eventually. Her mouth tipped into a shadow of a smile, as she dragged her forearm across the beam so that she could perch her chin across it instead. “Something as strong as dragon’s piss would be nice. You wouldn’t have any of that hidden on your person, would you?” A clever turn of phrase of remembered misery in the Herald’s Rest. His. Hers.

“Ah, but brooding only makes us handsomer, or so I've heard. Sadly I've yet to notice any such thing." He shook his head. “One tankard of dragon's piss, on me. As soon as we get back, as I'm not hiding any right now, no."

"Any chance Anderfels whiskey will do?" Leon hadn't been far, closer to the prow of the ship than they were, but enough of the conversation must have carried that he caught it. "I don't have a lot, but there's some." He unhooked what looked like a small flask from his belt—viridium, from the dark green pall of it—and took the several steps necessary to offer it to Zahra. "Tastes a bit better, in my humble opinion."

Zahra dramatically leaned back while still holding the railing and eyed Leon, upside down. Curls dragging down in a tangle. Her smile warbled appreciation even if she looked exhausted. She made a hm’ing noise, before allowing her legs to slide between the rails until she could plop down on her rear, “I’ll gladly accept both of those offers. Anderfels whiskey now, and dragon’s piss later.” There a pause, and a withered exhale, “We do make a fine group of handsome broods, don’t we?”

A laugh crackled from her. The sound of it was off. Unlike her usual roar. What was supposed to sound like a booming, ridiculous thing turned tinny, small: forced. Her hand reached back back behind her head until the bottle was settled in her palm. She closed her fingers around it, uncorked it with her thumb and drew it to her lips, tipping her head back for a long dredge. Another exhale, this time somewhat relieved. Probably from the whiskey warming her belly. For a moment she seemed to still. She patted a hand against the ground, indicating that Leon should join them as well, and set the flask at her side.

“I just wanted to say,” her voice wavered, caught on something before steadying itself off. Steeling for something that sounded like an apology. Or acceptance. “My father. He wasn’t like that before. He’s not
 he had a point back there, you know?” She stared out across the waves once more, and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. “What he said. He was right.”

“Which part?" Cyrus shifted his grip slightly on the rail under his palms. “There's no arguing that you left. But nothing that happened after then was your fault. You couldn't possibly have known what Faraji was going to do, and even if you had, the responsibility wouldn't have been yours." It was a point she'd helped make abundantly clear in his own case: there were things one could rightfully blame oneself for, and things that were simply too far beyond one's control. Things that had to be left at the feet of the people who'd really caused them, however much guilt he or she might feel about them.

"Not that knowing that helps the guilt, I expect," Leon added, his thoughts clearly in the same vein. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the rail, gingerly at first, then more solidly once he was sure there was no unexpected weakness in the structure.

Any other day she might have argued. Or spun something clever to divert the topic before they could delve too deep. Unearth carefully tailored half-truths, dressed in something more pleasant. It wasn’t often that Zahra chose to speak about herself: a theme that he may have shared as well. Not until it was dragged out into the open. Grew too ugly to sweep under the rug. In this case, she seemed at least receptive to their words. Her hand came to rest back on the flask, before she decidedly took another swig.

A thump indicated that she’d replaced it beside her. “I know, it’s stupid
 but I keep thinking if I’d stayed. If I did things differently. He wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. Things wouldn’t have turned out so badly. Not for them.” Another breath. Harsher this time. She pressed her forehead up against one of the rails and let out a scoff, “I’m not good and I’m not repentant.” Her hands clasped onto the railings; trembled, ever so slightly. “I almost wish Maleus hadn’t sent that letter. How awful is that?”

“Well within the normal human range of awful, I think." Cyrus shrugged, then hopped off the rail so he could plant himself next to her instead, swiping the flask for a moment so he could take a nip himself, before offering it up to Leon. The whiskey was the same he'd tasted before, what seemed almost a lifetime ago, not long after their arrival in Skyhold. “You can resent them for dumping this on you if you want, you know. It's within your rights. If they'd never tried to sell you off in the first place, none of this would be happening, so you're fixing someone else's mess."

He exhaled heavily. “But you'll do it. That already makes you leagues better than some people. Probably better than I'd be, in the same situation." He tried to imagine doing something like this on Tiberius's behalf, but from the immediate flash of anger he felt, he almost certainly wouldn't have. Better not to think about Tiberius—it only made him seethe.

"Hard to control our feelings," Leon added, sipping from the flask before handing it back down to Cyrus so he could set it on the deck once more. The breeze in from the sea was nice, cooling the heat of the sun beating down on the deck and stirring their hair. "But our actions... those seem like the better things to measure ourselves by, don't they? And it's like Cyrus said: you'll do it. We will. Nothing left to fault, then."

Zahra’s snorted and bumped her shoulder against Cyrus’s, “Well within the normal human range of awful. I’m not sure if I should feel better or worse.” She parroted it with a wobbly smile, more genuine this time. A jest. The closest thing to one since dragging themselves off of Llomerryn’s shoreline, at least. Her eyes swung up towards Leon and drifted back towards the horizon. “Someone else’s mess
 that doesn’t sound so bad.”

Several times, her jawline worked. As if she couldn’t find the words. Until she finally did.

“You will, won’t you? Be there.” The Inquisition. We. Another laugh. Soft and hard, all at once. A plea or bargain. Hard to tell with someone like her, staring off into the nothing. The sun had fully retreated and along with it the last remnants of furious orange, pale pinks and somber yellows. Stars had begun peeping across the murky skies, and the moon along with them. She seemed to understand well enough that she couldn’t do it alone. Perhaps, that she would not, otherwise.

Cyrus snorted. “Of course we will. If we can't stop a measly Magister, we can hardly deal with Corypheus. It'll be good practice." He offered her an uncertain smile of his own, then turned his eyes out to the darkening sky.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
Asala scurried across Skyhold's grounds on her way towards Leon's office. She had a... few things she wished to test today, and he was the perfect person she could think of to help her in her endeavors. If he wasn't busy of course. If he was... Well, she might would have to hover nearby until he was no longer busy. She was equal parts excited and nervous, as she often was when attempting a new spell. Perhaps new spell wasn't the best way to put it, they were more like variations of specific spells--either way, she doubted Leon would care about the semantics.

It was how she spent her downtime, during the moments she wasn't in the infirmary handling whatever maladies the Inquisition's soldiers had come down with that day. Though there had not been any active battles going on to her knowledge, there was always a sprained ankle or a rash that needed her attention. When they did not, however, she instead had her head stuck in one of the many books she had taken for herself, or in communication with Ethne, or even working on her Tevene. The language was coming along slowly, like Estella said it would, but the fact remained that she always had something to work on, so there never was a dull moment for her.

Eventually, she found herself standing in front of the door that lead into Leon's office. She took a moment for herself to catch her breath, as her scurrying may have been a little too vigorous, though she hadn't noticed until she finally paused. Once she got a few breaths, she gently rapped her knuckles across the strong wooden door, before unlatching it enough to poke her head through. "Leon?" she asked with a slight tilt to her head, "Are you busy?"

"I always am," he replied dryly. He was sitting at his desk as usual, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in deference to the late spring warmth streaming in through the windows along with the light. When he glanced up at her, he wore a slightly-careworn smile. "But that doesn't mean I can't make time, if there's something you need to tell me?" He gestured at one of the seats in front of the desk, a well-cushioned grey armchair. The one next to it hosted a rather rotund tortoiseshell cat, curled up in a blobby shape and snoring just barely audibly. One of the original rescues, no doubt.

She bobbled her as she spoke, "Not tell, not exactly. Ask is more like it," she said, stepping into the office entirely. Her eyes did dance toward the cat for a moment, before she began to sidle in its direction. Once she got close enough, she drooped low enough to gently coo at how adorably the chubby kitty was sleeping. Her eyes soon found Leon once again, though she never hovered far from the cat. "I have a favor I wanted to ask you," she explained, "I have a spell or two I wanted to try out, and you... seemed like the best person to help me with them."

She tilted her head again, although this time in the opposite direction. "If you do not mind, of course. I mean, I know you are probably busy."

He gestured at his paperwork rather than repeat his earlier answer, shrugging. "There's always something to do, but if you believe I'm uniquely suited to help somehow, then I'm willing." Setting his quill upright in its inkwell, he carefully shuffled his papers aside, neatening them by tapping them against the edge of the desk until they all lined up. Pulling open a small drawer, he took a roll of binding tape from inside, not dissimilar to the sort Aurora used.

He stood, taking it with him, only to purse his lips. "Ah, I admit I just assumed. You were asking me specifically because you wanted me to hit something, right? It's what people usually have in mind." Leon's mouth pulled slightly to the side, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had come. He flourished his hand, indicating that she should precede him out the door. "Lead the way."

She gave him a nervous laugh in response, "Noo... I mean, Kind of. But that's not all," she said shaking her head. She spoke while she lead them out of the office, quickly trying to think of some way to make that sound better. "You are also, uh, Uniquely shaped... That did not sound any better, I am sorry," she said, hanging her head apologetically. However, it did not last long, as she continued to try and explain it.

"See, for the other spell I had in mind-- you know the one, where I create personal barriers in shape of armor? I believe I have the dimensions correct, and I thought that if I were able to get it to form around the two of us," she said, gesturing between them, "That would mean it would work for the others as well, with a little adjusting of course." She smiled in an attempt to put him at ease. "Our, uh, body types may be some of the more difficult," she explained.

By then, they had exited the building and into the fresh spring air of Skyhold's grounds. She paused a second to turn around and face him, to explain further. "The second spell I wanted to test is a tweak to my usual barriers, to make them stronger. I need a, uh, base for how strong my ordinary barriers are for comparison, and you might be the only one who is strong enough to break them," she admitted. It was between him and Khari, though she expected Khari would break them through sheer determination by relentlessly striking at them-- Leon would perhaps be able to shatter them with a single blow.

She then frowned a little, and wrung her hands. "Is... this making any sense?" she asked.

"You may be underestimating the strength of some of our comrades," he pointed out gently, "but yes, I understand you just fine." He paused, falling silent but continuing to walk. Some thought must have occurred to him, then, because he returned his focus to her, meeting her eyes easily from his height. "Far be it from me to simply dictate your strategy to you, but why the armor? Those who need it most already wear it, and too much more mass wouldn't be worth the tradeoff of additional protection. From my perspective, full plate already inhibits my movement more than I truly prefer, and add in even another centimeter all around would be... quite inconvenient."

Asala tilted her head as he spoke. She had been able to apply the spell to herself, and had it worked out just fine when she cast it. In her effort to try and attempt to apply it to the others, she apparently forgot to think about how it would affect them. She did not wear any armor, so the barrier didn't add weight on top of it, and it was thick enough to ward off a blade or an arrow, though some spells had a tendency to shatter it.

She squinted her eyes and hummed, a blush working itself into her features. "I, uh, did not think about that. I mean, it worked for me," she said, gesturing to herself, "I just... assumed it would work for the others too."

"It isn't a weight issue so much as a volume one," Leon explained, pinching about an inch of air between his thumb and forefinger. "You'll forgive me I hope for observing that you are not especially... mobile, in a combat situation. Most of the rest of us depend quite heavily on how flexible and fluid we are, even those of us who use armor, because the way it works is dependent more on deflection than sheer stopping power like a barrier. We would be impeded by additional protection for that reason." He tilted his head, expression still mild. "If it works for you, however, by all means. I'll help you experiment with it."

They landed on level ground, the bailey and its various practice areas spread out in front of them. Leon waved to Captain SĂ©verine, who was running drills with her templars in one of them, but selected an empty one for their purposes, hopping the fence with an ease that belied his stature. When she had entered as well, however, he regarded her with a contemplative look.

"Before we begin, Miss Asala, I would like to ask you a question." His lips pursed, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his visage before it settled. "Why are you doing this?"

She was taken aback by the question, having not expected it out of the blue. "Well, uh, hmm," she stumbled over her words for a moment. She closed her mouth and shook her head, trying to find the right words again. She knew what she wanted to say, it was what drove her to seek guidance from Cyrus and Ethne, and to keep experimenting and learning. It was not a mystery to her, and she frowned, looking back up to Leon. "You... know me well enough by now Leon," she began, tilting her head. "I... I want to protect, well, everyone. Everyone that I can," she answered. "I thought that maybe if I learn more about my magic, get better, that maybe I will be able to."

She frowned after that, letting her arms fall by her side before slipping them behind her. "Ever since I lost my brother, it's all I wanted to do," she said. Time has healed the wound, but the scar he had left was still there, and it was still tender. But his memory was what drove her. "I... do not want to lose any one else like that. I want to get... better, stronger so that I can keep you all safe. I do not want to lose any of you," she reiterated, clenching her fists behind her.

A soft laugh escaped her, and she let her fists go.

Something around Leon's eyes tightened or tensed; it was subtle enough that it was hard to tell if she was just imagining it. "I'd feared as much," he murmured, expelling a heavy breath. "You can't do that, Miss Asala," he continued, meeting her eyes directly. "That is the fact of the matter. What is more, your attempts to do so may end up hindering us just as much as they help."

He grimaced, searching for the words. "This is a war. People die in wars. People will continue to die in this war. If you pin your hopes on personally being able to keep us all alive, well... you shouldn't. You can't. If you think you can, you don't understand your limitations. If you think you should, you don't trust the rest of us enough. Do you understand what I mean?" He spoke carefully, as gently as he could, but there was no mistaking the bluntness of the words themselves. "I can explain how I know this if it doesn't make sense to you."

"Would you have me do nothing then?" Asala answered, her lip quivering. "I am not a child, Leon," She added, her fists clenching behind her again. "I know, I know this is a war. I know people die. I know," she answered. More than a mage, she was a healer. "I have had them die in my hands," she said, raising them up for him to see, "and there was nothing I could do but ease their suffering as they passed." Though her voice trembled, she did not look away from his eyes. The memories of the days following the assault Adamant came to mind. There was many there that she could not save, despite her best efforts.

"And I am not so foolish as to believe I'll be able to stop it from happening again." Her eyes finally fell back to her hands, which she still held out in front of her, "But maybe if I continue to get better, I will be able to save someone that I wasn't able to before," she said, her words finally slowing down. "And I do trust you all... Do you not... trust me?" She finally asked, pleading in her eyes. This felt... unlike him. He had been firm with her before; he had helped her realize that he brother was not returning, and while it had stung at the time, it had helped indeed.

But this felt different. "What is this about Leon?" she finally asked, "Really?"

He shifted uncomfortably, but to his credit, his posture became neither less firm nor in any way defensive. "It's really about what I just said," he replied. "Namely, that the way you talk about what you intend to do with your powers is a dangerous way to think. A naïve way to think. And ignorance can be as harmful as outright malice, in truly perilous situations." He exhaled, the breath whistling in a low pitch past his teeth. "I didn't ask if you trusted us because I expected you to say no—but I did expect you to misunderstand, which you have." He blinked once, slowly, then shook his head a bit.

"If you trust us, you need to trust us to know how to look after ourselves. To assume some responsibility for our own lives. You wreathe us in barriers to protect us, but often as not, the effort and adjustment required to move and fight around those barriers forces us to act in ways that are unnatural. Ways that encumber us, when even a fraction of encumbrance could mean the difference between a scratch and something far worse." He rested his arms across his body, holding both elbows in his opposite hands. "That doesn't mean they're never useful, and it doesn't mean that trying to make them stronger is necessarily bad. It just means you need to begin thinking about this in a different way." He glanced up, trying to decide how to explain.

"You've mentioned before that you think of yourself as a shield. My suggestion is that you take that statement less literally and more like the metaphor that it is. There are ways to aid us that don't involve putting your magic directly between one of us and a blow we might take. It's worth thinking about them, and implementing them more regularly." He paused, dropping his eyes back to hers, falling silent as if to check that she understood.

She wanted to dispute him but she knew, she could not. Her eyes fell to the ground and she rubbed her face. "Maybe I am a child," she muttered under her breath as she shook her head. "But, there are easier ways to tell me these things, you know?" she said, finally glancing up to look at him. She shook her head again, and continued. "But you mean... tactics, right? Using my magic in a way that..." She gestured with her hands in order to try and find the correct word to use, "Maximizes all of our abilities? Or at least in a way that is unobtrusive to the others?"

"Sorry," Leon said, though he looked a bit puzzled. "I've never been especially good at... telling people things. In the diplomatic way." He cleared his throat, then nodded. "But yes. I mean to say you ought to adjust your tactics. For one, you might wish to consider using barriers to amplify natural terrain advantages. I've worked with mages at times who could set up helpful funnels, such that I'd only have to fight one or two opponents at a time, allowing me to whittle down large groups. Sometimes even temporarily halting enemies further out is more helpful than providing a nearby shield. We can avoid one sword, but having to contend with four because we've been surrounded is very difficult by comparison."

He offered her a mild, if perhaps slightly bewildered-looking smile. "But perhaps I've spoken too much already. If there is something you would like me to break, I can still do that."

"Maybe we can work on the, uh, tactics? One day, I mean. When you have the time, of course," she said, but then she frowned for a moment, "But... Let's do it in a way where I do not feel like a fool afterward, yes?" she asked with a tentative smile and nervous chuckle. She still kind of felt like one from the previous conversation.

Afterward, she put her arms up mimed brushing something off in front of her, "Let's... skip the test for the armor. For now, just..." she said, conjuring up a bubble nearby that could envelop an ordinary sized person, "Can you try to break that for me? I just need a baseline to see how much damage it can take for a comparison."

Leon studied the bubble for a moment, then reached for the roll of bandage at his belt. He wrapped his hands with the speed and ease of long practice, but made no attempt to add the metal bands he sometimes wore over his knuckles for extra heft. Approaching the barrier, he touched the it first with the fingertips of his right hand, then rapped it with his knuckles as though knocking on a door. Apparently satisfied with whatever he'd deduced about it, he took a half step back, closing his left hand into a fist and driving it forward.

The impact sounded like a brick going through glass, heavy spiderweb cracks splitting off from the point of impact. When they reached around the back of the sphere and met, the entire thing shattered, pieces disappearing before they hit the ground. Leon drew his hand back and flexed it, frowning slightly. He didn't offer any explanation for that, however, merely glanced back up at her expectantly.

"I'm willing to work on tactics with you if you so desire, but I'm afraid my downtime is limited. If you'd prefer something more regular, I could set Khari to devising strategies for you. She could use the practice."

Even though she specifically asked for it, Asala couldn't help but still feel equal parts surprised and awed by how easy he made that look. She glanced at her hand and shook her head, chuckling a bit at the display of power. "That would work," she nodded. She noticed that Leon was teaching Khari things of that nature, and if there was a chance that they could learn better together, then all the more reason to. "Whenever you find yourself with a moment free however, keep us in mind," she added with a smile.

"Now, for the actual test..." For the next barrier, it took a bit more concentration. She took a hold of the focusing crystal that hung around her neck and began to reach for the magics. Instead of the usual blue that enveloped her hands however, this one had a pink hue to it, giving the entire thing a lavender glow. Still, she concentrated, until she felt the mixture of magics were just right, and summoned the barrier. This one was of the same size as the previous, but had the pinkish accent to it. This one took a bit more effort to sustain and she could feel the drain on her.

"Leon, if you would?" she asked.

He nodded, and struck a second time. This barrier, however, held considerably better, and while there was a rather prominent crack in it when he pulled his hand away, it held fast, the glow flickering only for a moment before it steadied. He looked down at his hand again, brows knitting, but then let his arm drop. "It's definitely stronger," he said. "Not sure how it would stand up to repeated hits, though. Would you like me to try?"

As if in answer, the barrier flickered once more before it completely vanished. The effort left Asala exhaling a pent up breath she was unaware she was holding. She leaned forward and rested on her knees for a bit, before she straightened back up and shrugged. "But it is still inefficient," she answered with a smile. "I am still unused to channeling Ethne's spirit magic so... directly," she admitted.

"But, I did get a bit of valuable information. The barrier is stronger than ordinary," she surmised, crossing her arms, "It is good to know that all the effort did not result in barrier with the same-- or even less strength than my normal one. So that's good," she then tilted her head, "But I will either need to get used to channeling spirit magic, or find some other way to make it efficient, or it will never be practical," she continued. She glanced up to Leon and froze, almost forgetting about his presence while she thought.

"Oh, thank you Leon. You have been a big help... In more than one way it seemed," she said, flicking back to their conversation about tactics. "Let Khari know that any time she wishes to practice... tactics, to come find me?" she said with a wide smile.

"I wonder if she would be opposed to testing my barrier as well..."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon pushed aside the door in front of him, nodding slightly at the guards on either side, frozen in salute to him and also Estella, who followed closely behind. With them was Zahra, which he might honestly have preferred to have otherwise, but she was the one with the most knowledge of the matter. And what was at hand was more than a simple breach of security.

Stepping inside the room, he allowed the others to pass before he closed the door behind all three of them. It was a dimly-lit space, just enough light provided to cast deep, eerie shadows. That was his own choice, as a single, out-of-reach light source like the torch on the far wall did tend to instill a sense of unease. On most occasions, a nervous target was more easily-persuaded. Moving to stand so that he blocked the torch from view, he fixed his eyes on the man shackled to the chair in the center of the room, a small table in front of him.

The prisoner in question was seated in the wooden chair, arms bound behind his back. From the looks of it, Garland hadn’t gotten much rest since his imprisonment. Bags hung under his pale blue eyes, though there were no longer any indications of the initial beating he’d suffered from Zahra. No bruises. No swelling. Only a healing cut above his eyebrow. A scar. A reminder. He’d been treated with the same sort of indifference a stray dog might have afforded. Though he still appeared mildly disheveled. Quiet. A far cry from the smarmy, bearded carpenter swilling back tankards in the Skyhold’s tavern. Guilt may have had something to do with it, coupled with his captain’s infrequent, and often, caustic visits.

Leon crossed his arms over his chest. "Espionage is an offense the Inquisition takes very seriously, Serah Langley. If you would be given any latitude in this matter, it would be because you explained, clearly and completely, what you were meant to do, why, for whom, and exactly what information you gave away when." Everything, more or less, irrelevancies omitted.

For a moment, there was silence. It hung in the air, uncomfortable. Garland’s head was lowered and from what little Leon could see from his silhouette, he appeared to be studying something on the ground with great interest. His feet, perhaps. Brown curls hung in front of his face, bereft of fragrant oils, though a sliver of his eyes peeked out when the torches light danced against the wall. “I was trying to make things right for once.” His voice was gravelly. Worn. As if he hadn’t spoken for awhile. If his visits were anything to go by, it wasn’t all that often.

An answer without justification. Words thrown out easily. He always seemed to have words; used to drive the Herald’s Rest crazy with all his talking. Tall tales, legends and stories. But he had done more than talk this time, and it ended with him here. A gutless spy. The leather of his shackles creaked as he finally tipped his head up towards Leon. His gaze shifted off to the side, where Zahra had stepped off to. She was leaning up against the cobblestone wall, arms crossed over her chest. Her face unreadable, a mask of shadow.

There was a desperate lilt to his voice, as his eyes swung to Stel. Breathless, and wild-eyed. “I knew about it before. Her family. What Faraji had done to them—I knew, but what could I do? There was nothing to be done. Nothing.” He shook his head like a dog, rattling the chains, “He was the only one who could help. The only one who would. He
 contacted me after the Maker fiasco with the Herald.” A harsh exhale sounded. “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

There was a sound to Leon’s right. A step forward. And another, as if retracing a step backwards. A resigned huff, and nothing more.

Estella looked at Leon, who nodded. If he was trying to appeal to her, then it was a sympathetic ear he wanted. If she could coax his story out of him gently, he could do his best to filter past the parts of it that were artifice or excuse. she wasn't a trained interrogator, but Garland seemed to want an opportunity to tell his story his way, and so she likely wouldn't need to be.

The Lady Inquisitor took the chair across from their prisoner, folding her hands neatly together on the tabletop. "Then how was it supposed to happen?" she asked gently, meeting his eyes steadily as though trying to transmit some of her calm ease with the situation to him. "The he you refer to—who exactly is that?"

Garland’s shoulders sagged a little when Estella sat across from him. He reeked of relief. The angles of his face softened and the tight line of his lips dragged into a thoughtful frown, though he took another peek in the corner before swinging his gaze back to the table, and Inquisitor. “Smoothly. Like any other contract
 like how the Inquisition dealt with things,” he stared at her through wild curls; blue eyes spilling over with so much desperation and despair, warring with a sudden flood of hope in the wake of being heard. There was a sense that he’d kept much of it quiet for a long time, and it had taken its own toll on him.

He seemed to chew at the inside of his lip. Eyes falling away from the Inquisitor, in favor of her hands. The table. A tremble shook his shoulders before he seemed to settle. The torchlight lit up his features, briefly. Eyebrows scrunched together. Lips drawn back over his teeth. Considering his lack of options. His loyalties, perhaps. Only when a grating noise sounded did he snap his head back up. Zahra had shifted her weight once more; patience waning with him. She did, however, seemed to take note of Leon’s intentions.

“Faraji’s older brother. Corveus Contee. I...” he exhaled sharply and gave his head another shake, “I didn’t know him like Faraji. We were close, when we were boys. Long before I joined the Riptide crew.” He left out Zahra’s name. He had not tried to sneak another glance either. He only barely lifted his head, imploring Estella with a sincerity he seemed to believe himself. “I wanted to make things right and he said he would help me. He only asked questions in return.”

Estella nodded slowly, her mannerisms not changing much in spite of the information. Leon wanted to know why Garland had thought it his personal responsibility to make things 'right' in the first place, but he supposed that question was better suited for further down the queue. The priority had to be on the information leak, and this was something Estella clearly recognized as well.

"What questions did he ask you? And did he give any indication why he wanted to know about us?"

“He
 wanted to know about you. The other Inquisitor, Rom. The others, too. What they were like. Some of the things we’d done. In detail.” Garland swallowed thickly and shifted once more, shackles jangling against one another. The sounds in the small chamber seemed amplified. A dreary echo. It was clear he wasn’t sure what to say. How much he should say. He, at least, had the good sense to look guilty. “He never said why he wanted to know. It wasn’t a part of the deal.”

There was a pause, before he suddenly looked much more miserable. He finally swung his gaze towards the corner Zahra inhabited. His voice hitched: desperate. “You have to believe me, I don’t know why. He only told me where they were, said he’d help find them. Get them back in one piece.”

"What we were like? As in our personalities, or our histories...?" Estella didn't quite seem to know what to make of that. Much of that information was more or less a matter of public record at this point, though it hadn't always been. And of course there were always the things that wouldn't qualify: the little particularities and quirks, the parts of themselves they hid. Perhaps those were what the elder Contee had been after, though the end he intended for the information was vexingly absent from the story. Intentionally on Corveus's part, no doubt. Telling your agents only what they absolutely needed to know was standard procedure in espionage.

The Lady Inquisitor sat back in her chair, torchlight illuminating one side of her face and casting the other into deep, soft shadow. It was chased away when she turned to exchange a look with Leon—her body language conveyed her uncertainty well enough. She didn't quite know where to go from there.

So he took up the thread. "Why take up the responsibility in the first place? Why not impart the information you had to Captain Zahra from the beginning and cooperate? Or simply do that and leave?" It smacked of a more personal sort of guilt—especially if Faraji was indeed a friend. Rare was the person who would work against the interests of a genuine friend out of impartial moral instinct. Rarer still was the one who'd do it like this.

Garland gave a shaky laugh. It held no such amusement and seemed rather deflated as he swung his gaze back towards the Lady Inquisitor. “Yes. What you were like, personally. Like he was asking after a friend.” He didn’t seem to know much else, aside from what he’d been asked to divulge. There was a sense that he hadn’t even questioned Contee, as if he were far too focused on the task at hand. His eyebrows had drawn together once more, disconcerted. Shoulders slack and mouth drawn into a fine line.

“I...” he began and lowered his gaze back towards the floor, “Faraji and I grew up together. He sent me after her. To watch. We never lost contact. I knew what he’d done to her family. I’d known for a long time.” He seemed hesitant to part with anymore information, but as soon as he swung his gaze up, he seemed to find his voice again. Gravelly as it was. “He changed. He was never so cruel. Once he took his father’s place, everything changed. I didn’t agree with his methods, but there was nothing I could do.”

He shuttered his eyes closed and gave his head a shake. “He went too far. I had to do something. If I’d said anything before...” The implications were clear. Even Zahra seemed to bristle at Leon’s side, fingers gripped into her forearms. In all likelihood, she would have kicked him off the Riptide. Perhaps, done something worse, if he’d known all along and refused to part with that information.

None of this was exceptionally useful, but Leon got the sense that Gardland didn't have a lot of useful information. Sent by one brother to do a task, and when it crossed the line for him, defecting to the other who promised him a way out without giving many specifics. Why Corveus had asked for the information he had instead of something more militarily useful was hard to say. Perhaps he planned to try and manipulate them somehow. He would likely find that much more difficult than he suspected, regardless.

Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, he suppressed the sigh that threatened as well. "Is there anything else of relevance you can think of? Anything that struck you as particularly odd or strange or off, even in a small way? We need whatever information you can give us—even if it might seem irrelevant to you."

It was Zahra who finally broke the silence, stepping forward with a ferocity that was amplified by her surroundings. The lamplight licked around her shoulders as she closed the distance, slamming her hand down on the table in front of him. It jumped and clattered back on the ground. Settled in place. Her face, still cast in shadows, seemed to twist. A scowl, or something close, pulled her lips from her teeth. She leaned towards him, but said nothing more.

Garland stared up at her: owlish, in appearance. He seemed exhausted by the entire confrontation. He seemed to shrink in front of her presence, slouching down into the chair he was shackled to. As if there was a pain there he couldn’t seem to shake loose, his voice sounded strained as he blinked through his unwashed hair, “Nothing that would help you understand him. He plans to lead you through the estate himself. To your brother, your mother.” His eyebrows scrunched together.

A hiss sounded. Zahra straightened her spine, pushing away from him.

The next words came as a whisper, barely audible, “And he wants you to kill Faraji.”

Zahra shook her head and squared off towards the door. She paused at the threshold and turned back towards Estella and Leon, hand poised on the handle. Her expression seemed unreadable, still cast in shadow as it was. The torchlight cast a halo of light around her silhouette as she regarded them. There was a brief glimpse of furrowed brows, before she pushed the handle open and spoke over her shoulder, “Do whatever you want with him. He has nothing more to say.”

A moment later, and she was gone.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Image

"You have chosen, and spilled the blood
Of innocence for power. I pity your folly,
But still more do I pity those whose lives you have taken
In pursuit of selfish goals.
No more will you bear the Light.
To darkness flee, and be gone from My sight!"
-Canticle of Silence 3:7
Image

"I've found Lucius."

Leon blinked. The words took a while to sink in; perhaps it had something to do with the incessant pounding in the back of his head. The headache had been there for three days now, though he was given to understand that he still had it better than Vesryn. His brows furrowed—perhaps he should have been trying to summon the wherewithal for more complex inquiries, but at the moment, the only question that would come to him was the glaringly-obvious one.

"Where?"

Shifting her weight so that it was even over both feet, Ophelia crossed her arms over her chest. She still wore a heavy traveling cloak, covered in a fine layer of road-dust, dulling the olive-colored fabric even further, until it was a muted taupe. Likewise, her armor was still in place, save the helmet. That hung by two of her fingers, hooked into a gap in the visor. She studied him; Leon tried to erase any indication of the discomfort he was in, but he wasn't sure if he'd succeeded. Ophelia could be almost as difficult to read as Rilien, at times.

She made no immediate comment, however, perhaps in deference to the other presences in the room. He'd been in the middle of a strategy lesson with Khari and Captain SĂ©verine when Reed had shuffled in and announced he had a visitor. Ophelia's eyes flicked to each of them once, then settled again on him. "Kasos."

Hardly a wonder he'd been so difficult to track down. It would have been impossible to close in on him by sightings—no civilians had any reason to go that far outside Cumberland. Still... it wasn't all that far. Straight across the Waking Sea from Jader. Grimacing, Leon reached down to his lowest desk drawer, sliding a key from his pocket and unlocking it, shifting aside the false bottom and withdrawing a slim file.

Moving away from the desk and towards one of the cork-bark slabs mounted on the wall, he opened the file and extracted what he was looking for—a rather small square map. The parchment was only perhaps a foot wide, and the layout of a keep depicted on it was more a sketch than anything a proper cartographer would have done. He had one like it of every major Seeker outpost, though the hidden ones like this were unlabeled, useless to anyone who did not know what they corresponded with. Leon pinned it to the board and stepped back.

"Any idea what he's doing there? It's a well-built fort, but it's certainly not the most defensible location he could have chosen." It was small, for one, its siege defenses minimal, and though its location would likely preclude direct attack... there were other options.

"At a guess? He was after something in the repository, though I've no idea what. Otherwise, Kasos's primary advantage is being small, out of the way, and unlikely to be checked. No one knows of it but us. Maybe some elves. They won't bother him, I'm sure." Ophelia pursed her lips. "As long as he doesn't know we're coming, he's probably counting on being hidden."

"We should act quickly on this, then," SĂ©verine offered. "Before he gets wind that we're coming." She looked visibly more uncomfortable than usual, but then high ranking Seekers other than Leon typically had that effect on templars. There hadn't been any time to prepare for the visit, either. SĂ©verine was out of her armor and in training gear at the moment, but news of Lucius obviously took precedence over training, tactical or physical. "A small group, perhaps?" She shrugged. "Whatever the plan is, I'd like to be there. Finish the job Cullen gave me."

Leon nodded slightly, frowning as he took a closer look at the map. The details of the location came back to him in flashes of memory—it had been quite a while ago that he'd visited Kasos, and they hadn't stayed long. Ophelia had wanted him to be at least somewhat familiar with every location the Seekers kept hidden from the rest of the world. Considering the state of things now, he was grateful for that foresight. "The exact location of the fortress is in the mountains east of Cumberland," he said, tapping a finger on the right spot where it appeared on his larger map of the continent. "Where they touch the Planasene Forest."

Several possible strategies came to mind, all with various groupings of people that would make for the best execution of the strategies. He discarded several right away, then turned to glance over at Khari. He supposed this was as good an exercise as any. Serious, yes, but that was all the more reason to ask her what she thought. "Khari, suppose that you were in charge of planning a strategy for this. The fortress is surrounded by mountains on two sides, walled on the other two. There is one gate on each wall, guarded at all times by no fewer than three people. Probably Red Templars or trained Seekers. The number of other combat-ready people in the fortress is unknown, but it probably can't hold more than a hundred." He stepped sideways, and gestured for her to approach.

"All the Inquisition's resources are available to you, and in any case, the four of us are going. What do you suggest?"

“Uh." For a moment, Khari was unable to mask her surprise. No doubt at being consulted on something this obviously important. But to her credit, she rallied quickly, approaching the maps and tilting her head back to get a better look at the small one, where the fortress itself was sketched out. “Well, like Sev said, our big advantage is probably that no one knows we're coming, and I'm guessing Lucius probably has people scouting on a pretty regular basis. It's what I'd do." She reached up to pull at the shell of one ear, humming under her breath and rocking back on her heels.

For a moment, she was silent, pensively so. “I probably wouldn't take that many people. Better chance of not running into those scouts and keeping it so he doesn't know we're around. But if there could be a hundred guys in there... I dunno. I think we'd want to stay sneaky even after we got there. So... sail to Cumberland, go in through the Vimmarks. How tall are the cliffs on the mountain-sides? Could we go in from above?" She paused, then backpedaled. “I mean, I'm assuming we want to know what he's doing first, but that we might also need to fight."

"One of the cliffs is short enough to climb down, I think." Ophelia seemed interested in the fact that he'd asked Khari what to do; by now she'd no doubt caught on to why. "Of course, if you needed to make a quick escape, going up is much slower."

Leon made a vague sound of agreement. "It might be the best way in, but it would almost certainly not be a good way out. Is there any way to mitigate that, or would it be better to try another method of getting inside?" He put that question to SĂ©verine.

She stood as well and approached the sketch of the outpost's layout, squinting slightly. "If these were bandits or other untrained fighters I'd suggest a feigned frontal attack and then retreat. Just a distraction to split them up while others get inside. But I don't think anything like that would work against Red Templars or Seekers. Still..." She crossed an arm over her chest, bringing the other up to rest a finger on her lip momentarily.

"We have excellent scouts, and they've already proven their ability to operate and provide information without being detected by Red Templars. Perhaps there's a way inside from below, rather than from above." She gestured to the two sides of the outpost uncovered by mountains. "Only two walls makes a place defensible, but also easy to surround and besiege. If I were defending a place like that, I'd want a more subtle route that supplies could be brought through in emergencies."

"Sound," Leon replied, smiling at the both of them. "A small party overall is a very good idea, and some of those are going to be from our scout corps. We'll rely on them to get us more detailed information on the building and any potential modifications Lucius has made to it, and then enter from either above or below as the parameters allow. We will also keep them stationed nearby the gates, in the event that we're made and need to exit in a more direct fashion. That way, they'll be able to help cover our retreat with ranged fire."

He glanced once at Ophelia, who nodded slightly. "Now, as for the composition of this smaller group, what makes the most sense?" That one went back to Khari; Leon trusted she understood that the arch of his eyebrow was her cue to attempt it.

The elf crossed her arms, taking a step back from the maps. “Well, we need people who can adapt to whatever strategy turns out to be the best one at the time. That means Irregulars. No mages, since there are Reds and Seekers pretty much exclusively. We want someone strong, but quiet enough not to risk discovery any more than we already are. Not both Inquisitors, for the obvious reasons. Ves is in bad shape right now, so the obvious pick is Rom. And I think we run it with just the five of us. The difference between five and fifteen isn't gonna matter if it turns into a brawl, and five is easier to sneak places." She seemed relatively confident in that one, at least, perhaps because it wasn't exactly uncommon logic, for some of the Inquisition's smaller-scale operations.

"Agreed." Leon stepped away from the group, picking up a piece of blank parchment from his desk to draft the orders for the scouts. He'd also have to write Rilien a memorandum—much of this was bound to be of interest to him as well, and they'd need his agents in Cumberland to make preparations for their arrival, including horses. "I'll take care of asking him, but we need to act before this information is too old. We'll leave tomorrow morning. Pack lightly, please." He paused, in case there were additional questions.

"Looking forward to it, Leon," SĂ©verine said, her tone matching her words. She turned to face their visitor, pressing her first to her chest. "High Seeker." With that she took her leave, nodding to Reed on her way out.

“What she said." Khari reached over to smack Leon's bicep in a friendly manner, then nodded to Ophelia too. “Should be an adventure." She followed SĂ©verine, clearly eager to get to her own preparations.

"She's quite different, the elf," Ophelia noted as Reed closed the door behind himself, the last out save Leon and his teacher. Without bothering to ask, she crossed to a small cabinet next to his book shelf and opened it, taking down the dusty bottle of whiskey Verena had sent him more than a year ago now. Pouring herself a few fingers, she repeated the same for him, setting his on the end of his desk and pulling her cloak off by the clasp, tossing it over a seldom-used chair and taking one of the more comfortable ones in front of his desk. She hadn't worn the armor to travel, though no doubt she had it with her.

Leon sighed, taking his own chair and obligingly moving the glass closer to himself, though he felt no particular temptation to drink from it at this point. He kept a flask on his person, but that was because alcohol had many purposes, only one of which was to be consumed. "She is," he said with a short shrug.

Ophelia looked unimpressed with the answer. "You like her. You like both of them." She took a swallow of the amber liquid in her glass, narrowing her dark eyes at him over the lip of the glass. "Enough that you haven't explained things to them."

Leon grimaced. "Is this really the time for this discussion, Ophelia?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "If it were up to you, Leon, it wouldn't be time until it was too late. I'm not saying you have to tell them; you do what you like. But don't pretend you're waiting for the right time to say it." She paused, taking another slow drink. "Which one are you training to replace you? I'd have thought the Templar, but now I'm not so sure."

This was why he hated talking to Ophelia. He'd never learned how to hide anything from her, and she knew his mind better than anyone ever had. Probably better than anyone ever would, sad as that thought was for reasons that had nothing to do with her. "Neither," he said, though he wasn't sure it was true. He'd thought about it, certainly—about who would command the army if he expired before the task was done. "Maybe. Captain SĂ©verine has goals and interests that extend too far beyond the Inquisition itself. She'll be a good leader someday, but not of this. And Khari... I don't know." He struggled to find the words.

"She's... different."

Ophelia snorted, a small half-smile flashing across her face for a moment. "Fair enough."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
Somehow, Rom had yet to come face to face with many Red Templars at all.

He'd encountered a few of them at Haven alongside the Venatori, but the events of that night were such a blur of chaos and death that he hardly could remember the details. It had been Estella that first encountered them with the others at Therinfal before that, and her again in the Emerald Graves. What he learned from traveling through the Vimmarks was that description of them rarely did them justice.

Lia and a few hand picked scouts led them towards Kasos from where they left Zee and her crew in Cumberland, on horses that Rilien's agents provided. Sturdy Fereldan mounts, good for climbing and the forging ahead over difficult terrain, if lacking in outright speed. There was no use for speed, as they had to slow and even change courses several times to avoid Red Templar patrols that Signy or one of the other forward scouts spotted ahead of them.

Even the most human-looking of them were horrifying to look upon, with growths of the scarlet-shaded crystals sprouting from their skin at odd angles, their armor molding with their flesh as their bodies were twisted out of shape by the corrupted lyrium. They exuded strength in equal measure to their horror. Being caught by any of them would mean a hard fight.

Thankfully they managed to avoid being seen, and the travel itself was not overly difficult given it was summertime and the mountains were not cloaked in snow. In fact it seemed likely that these peaks didn't see that much snow even in winter, as the forested areas that decorated their slopes were almost tropical in nature. Any farther north and the heat would've begun to become oppressive.

"We're getting close," Lia said, pulling her horse to a stop. "We should go on foot from here."

They did so, dismounting and using their last chance to gear up before they would make their approach. Lighter armor was the order of the day, and preferably nothing that would catch and reflect the sunlight. Any steel was best kept covered by leather or cloth until they could get inside. SĂ©verine had armed herself with a short sword in addition to her flail, the smaller weapon being preferable for the tight quarters they might find themselves in. Her armor was templar gear of a lighter issue, consisting mostly of scale mail and smaller segmented plates over more exposed areas, though she carried her kite shield upon her back still. Khari wore a suit of chainmail between her ordinary clothing and a loose shirt she was using for camouflage. There wasn't much helping the fact that her preferred weapon was too large for closer quarters, but there was also a long, curved knife on her right hip, which she no doubt intended to use to make do if necessary.

Lia took her bow in hand, a deft hand adeptly twirling an arrow in the other. "The tunnel's going to be your way in. I don't think they wanted to draw any attention to it. It may not even be guarded, but you should still be ready for anything on the inside." Rom could agree with that much. Sometimes the entrances that appeared most vulnerable could prove to be the deadliest, to the unwary.

"If you need to make a retreat, we'll try to cover you as best we can," Lia continued, "but I can't promise much until you're outside of the walls. And even then, Red Templars often ignore arrows that would stop a normal fighter in their tracks."

"I understand." Leon smiled mildly and gave a short nod. Neither he nor the woman he'd introduced as his teacher, Ophelia, needed to worry about how close the quarters would be, unless of course one of them needed to duck—Ophelia was quite tall herself. Like SĂ©verine and Khari, they'd worn somewhat less armor than usual, disguised under cloaks. "Go ahead and take your positions. We'll make our way to the passage. With any luck, we'll be out in an hour." He paused. "If we haven't returned in three, assume we've been captured and get word back to Skyhold."

"Understood," Lia responded. "Good luck in there."

With that, the five of them broke off from the small scout party. They were still a ways out, and no doubt patrols would be denser this close to Kasos itself. Leon dropped back to the rear, glancing once at Rom. "Can you take point?"

He nodded wordlessly, and led the way steadily forward. The foliage was dense here, trees and bushes and tall grass in abundance. It made for good visual cover, but it was hard to move quietly, so they were sure to take things slow. That said, Rom liked to think that no patrol of hulking Red Templars could be quieter than they were, so he hoped they would hear any enemies coming before they themselves were detected.

"That's it there," SĂ©verine pointed out, looking through the trees in the distance ahead of them. What they could mostly see was one of the walls, dark grey stone similar in color to the cliffs that rose behind. A few small towers jutted upwards over the upper crenelations, but the castle had not been built to stand out much from its surroundings. Probably why it had survived so long and been repurposed as some sort of repository for artifacts for a group that specialized in secrets.

The captain was about to start forward when Rom's hand seized her shoulder and kept her back. He touched his ear, indicating she should listen. Indeed, when they focused they could hear heavy steps and the soft crunching of grass, twigs, and dirt underneath some hefty boot. Rom pointed down next, and they sank low, concealing themselves behind trees, rocks, and bushes thick enough to obscure them.

The Red Templar patrol proved to be a group of three. One was a knight, one of the brawnier varieties, ballooned in size by the effects of the red lyrium, their armor horrifically sinking into their very skin. The second was a newer-looking member of the order, judging by the lack of progress the corruption had made. She carried a bow in her hands, and attempted to hide her face under a cowl. The third was a shadow, a lithe and lighter killer, with spikes of the red lyrium growing out of his arms long enough to become proper blades. He seemed the most watchful of the three.

Their patrol route brought them perilously close in front of the five of them, enough that Rom could begin feeling the effects of the corruption that wafted off of them. Simply sitting in it was slightly dizzying, and he could feel his stomach slowly starting to turn. He couldn't even imagine what the effect felt like on mages. Perhaps the absence of his potions was making matters worse. Regardless, if they could just keep quiet for a moment, the patrol would hopefully pass them by.

The first two moved past, the rhythmic thuds of their footsteps indication of an almost automatic approach to patrol. They didn't even look around much. The last was out of step, pausing often to listen before hastening to catch up. It was during one such erratic pause that one of the people behind him—probably Khari—shifted at the wrong moment, rustling the detritus that carpeted the forest floor beneath them.

The noise ceased, but the damage had been done. The shadow paused, his head whipping in their direction. They were close enough to see his eyes, red like the lyrium, faintly aglow in the dim light that made it through the canopy of trees. He raked them over the underbrush, searching for the source of the sound, but whoever had made it did not make the error a second time, and though he took half a step in Rom's direction, parting the fronds of the closest fern, the fading thuds of his fellows' treads alerted him to their continued departure, and he hesitated only a moment more before hurrying after them.

By unspoken consensus, they waited a bit longer than strictly necessary after he'd disappeared before emerging from their hiding spots. From there, it was nearly a straight shot to the tunnel's entrance, which wasn't more than a moderately-sized crack in a short cliff-face. It was obscured by moss and the thick, ropy vines of some plant that hugged most of the rock shelf, making it almost impossible to see if one wasn't looking for it specifically.

Ophelia took one look at it and grimaced. "Better not get any tighter than that inside," she muttered. She'd fit well enough, but it was a genuine question whether it would accommodate someone of Leon's dimensions. If he'd been in full plate, he'd have definitely needed to remove it. "I'll check."

Pushing away a few of the biggest vines, she turned sideways to fit inside, footsteps shuffling for a moment before she disappeared entirely. Fortunately, it didn't take her long to reappear; she just put a hand far enough back out to gesture them forward, and they filed in.

The tunnel itself was only big enough for a single-file line, and Leon had to remain half-turned to the side, head and shoulders ducked awkwardly, but they could move through it well enough otherwise. The walls and floor were smooth, evidence of the deliberate nature of the construction, but it definitely didn't seem like a supply tunnel. Most likely, it had served instead as an emergency escape route for the most important of the castle's one-time residents; such things were not uncommon in old castles, or even particularly-elaborate new manor homes. Disuse was evident in the cracks, though—in a few places, tree roots had penetrated the stone slabs and slithered across the floor, making it more perilous to navigate than its makers had intended. The passage seemed to run along the cliff-face, for a while, angling down eventually and escaping even the roots until the only peril was the occasional trickle of groundwater. The air smelled stale, and a little earthy; nothing unexpected.

Rom was not uncomfortable with tight spaces. He was not a particularly small man in any of his dimensions, but he was used to being cramped, confined, so much so that he often did it to himself. There was some comfort to living underneath Skyhold's keep, not within it. Thus the passageway didn't bother him in the least, though he imagined pretty much everyone else was not as pleased with the situation. SĂ©verine's breathing had become noticeably more measured and forced. Khari was, for once, fortunate to be short, and the shape of her weapon was more ungainly than she was in here, the tip of it occasionally touching the side walls with a soft scrape of metal on rock.

Eventually the ground began to slope upwards again, and Rom could sense they were getting closer, if only because the passageway began to subtly widen a foot or so when they approached the exit. When it suddenly came to a halt, they were faced with a sheer rock wall that could be ascended by way of a set of old, rusty iron rungs fastened into the wall. Rom found himself glad he wasn't the first to test them. Rearranging their order wasn't really possible in a space this tight, so it was Ophelia who went up first, Leon second, and Rom after him. Khari followed shortly behind him, with SĂ©verine bringing up the rear.

At the top Rom clambered up into what appeared to be a storage area of some sort, though it didn't look like it was being used for anything. Probably since the outpost wasn't commonly occupied by anyone. More alarming was the fact that there didn't seem to be a way out. Even with their eyes adjusted by now, it was extremely dark, and there was no obviously visible door. Immediately SĂ©verine began to breathe as though she were running, when in fact the climbing up here had been the most physical activity they'd done all day.

"Check the walls," Ophelia advised. "Might be a lever or switch. This room was probably designed to be undetectable from the other side, but there's probably another passage out." The rustle of her cloak was the only indication that she'd moved to follow her own advice.

"Shouldn't be much longer," Leon added quietly, most likely for SĂ©verine's benefit. "We're looking for anything that feels or sounds irregular." That, he added for the group at large.

Khari shuffled a lot more than the others did, a dull thud sounding as she ran into something. It sounded like the wall. “Fuck. That was my finger." A breath hissed in between her teeth, but then she fell quiet, feeling along the wall with the rest of them. The room wasn't very large; it only took her another few moments before she spoke up again. “Uh... I don't really know what I'm doing, but there's something weird about this wall. The mortar's all chalky and it doesn't seem... right?"

"Let me see," Rom said, following the sound of her voice to the wall she was on. He reached out, his hand accidentally finding Khari's head and hair before the wall. "Er, sorry." Once he was finally touching the wall, he could see why she thought it was strange. Compared to the others he'd touched, which were smooth and well-finished, this one was poorly done. A hasty job, meaning that wherever it had been sealed off from was likely another room, not just the solid rock wall that served as foundation.

"There should be something on the other side of this wall, if we can get through." He wasn't going to bash it open himself, though. He supposed he could use his mark, but he preferred not to create a violent blast of brick pieces in a confined space with his friends. Best to let the many physical powerhouses with him figure something out.

"Are we hitting something?" SĂ©verine asked, obviously still working to control herself. "I wouldn't mind hitting something right now."

"By all means, then," Leon replied. "I don't... anticipate anyone being down here if they believe it is blocked off so thoroughly, but everyone should remain ready just in case."

"Alright, then." SĂ©verine pulled her shield from her back and slid her arm into it, rolling her shoulder a few times. "Everyone get to the back wall. Don't want to break anyone's nose on accident."

When she had enough room to swing, she did so with a grunt of effort, ramming the rim of her shield into the wall. As loud as the clangs were, Rom knew the crack of his mark's bursts were quite a bit louder, like a clap of thunder from a few feet away. After a few strikes SĂ©verine had created a small gap through which light was filtering into the room from whatever lay beyond. It encouraged the captain, and she smashed at the wall until it was starting to crumble.

Stepping back a few paces, SĂ©verine charged forward and rammed it behind the face of her shield, busting through the wall enough that she tipped over and fell into the next room amidst the wall's rubble. Quickly she got back to her feet and put her back to a wall on the other side, what looked like a more proper storage room, and one still in use. Torchlight on the wall illuminated the way out into a corridor. They had to shield their eyes from it for a moment in order to adjust.

"Much better," SĂ©verine said between breaths.

"Agreed." Ophelia stepped over the rubble next, casting her eyes around the room. She must not have seen anything of interest in the crates and boxes arranged neatly in the space, stacked against the far wall. The floor was bare, too, and so the group of them picked their way to the door, pausing to listen for any reaction to the noise they'd made. When there wasn't any, Leon opened it, putting them out in the corridor.

From the absence of windows, it was clearly a basement or at least a level built underground. The most immediate sensation, however, was the smell. Rom recognized it easily: blood and decay. The stench of rotting corpses and living people probably halfway there. There was also a faint hint of sickness on the air, the taint of red lyrium, but it wasn't yet enough to cause any of them any real nausea. Not like when the patrol had passed by.

Leon's jaw clenched. "Looks like we're going up."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The hallway was dank, the smell nearly overpowering. Khari had mentioned the feeling of nearby red lyrium as well, though Leon himself couldn't feel anything, as was usually the case for him. It was quiet, too, nothing to fill the space except the small rustles and scuffs of their movement. At least not until they'd been walking for a couple of minutes.

He stilled then, holding up a hand so the others behind him would know to do the same. Cocking his head, Leon furrowed his brows and strained to listen. He could hear... someone groaning. Softly; pained. The kind of sound that was threaded through labored breathing, an unintended expression of agony. Someone was dying.

Leon started forward again, a little faster this time. The hall up ahead ended, splitting off to the right and to the left. The dying person—and the worst of the smell—were both to the left, so he went that way, rounding the corner in front of the others. The turn put them into a cell block, perhaps once fully occupied, but now more mausoleum or mass grave than anything.

Resisting the nearly-overpowering urge to raise his hand to his nose, Leon steadily moved forward, peering into the first cell on the right. The dim light made it hard to see much, but there was a torch in this room, at least, throwing wan light and deep shadows over the haphazard pile of corpses on the cell's floor. They were in varying states of decay, from ones that looked almost fresh to others that must have been present for weeks, shriveled and darkening. Someone clearly did not care if the prisoners died from disease... or didn't expect them to last long enough for it to be a problem.

There was another soft sound, pulling his attention away from the bodies towards a cell closer to the end of the block. Leon padded over, passing cells both occupied and empty, but seemingly none with living people inside. The source of the noise was a woman, propped against a corner in the cage closest to the stairs, legs sprawled in front of her. Her breaths were ragged and irregular, her eyes closed over in such a way that he couldn't be sure if she were awake or asleep. Her skin was a waxy, pallid white yellowed by torchlight, the veins underneath it bruise-dark. The sickly contrast spiderwebbed over her visible flesh.

"Can someone get us in there?" Leon cast around for a key, but no such thing was visible. He doubted there would even be much to do for the poor woman, but... worst-case scenario, she was still their best clue as to what was happening here and what lay ahead. There was a lock built into the cell door, sturdy enough that it wouldn't break from percussive force alone.

Romulus had not resisted the urge to cover his nose, doing so with the cloth mask he'd had draped around his neck, which he used to conceal the lower half of his face and protect against some of the stench. He nodded wordlessly to Leon's request, being the obvious candidate for quietly getting through doors in the group. Pulling off his targe shield, he kneeled before the lock and got to work with lockpicks drawn from his bracer.

SĂ©verine kept watch from the rear, her shield covering their back, sword held loosely but ready. If it were possible, she actually looked more comfortable here than she had in the tightly enclosed room, but it wasn't as though she was enjoying herself. Just masking it about as well as Romulus's facial concealment was able to.

A click signaled the defeat of the lock at the Inquisitor's hands, and he stood, picking his shield back up from where he'd propped it against the cell bars, and pulling the door open to allow Leon to enter. His eyes wandered to the bodies in the cell he'd opened, lingering for a moment and giving him a troubled expression. He pondered for a moment before speaking, perhaps wondering if it was prudent.

"They've been vivisected," he said finally. "Experimented on or studied by being cut open while still alive." He didn't have to add that such a thing was a particularly gruesome fate.

Now closer, Leon was able to see that he was quite right—the bodies bore evidence of regular incisions; he recognized some of the cuts from books on field surgery and Mortalitasi practices. He didn't linger long, however, instead making his way to the woman. He didn't recognize her, and he didn't know if that was a relief or a shame. Crouching beside her, he reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, attempting to either get her attention or stir her awake.

Her expression shifted; she took in a heavier breath through her teeth, hissing with some pain he could not see. Her eyes snapped open, and Leon pulled in a sharp breath of his own. They were dull, glowing red. It took her longer than it should have to focus them. She blinked several times before she recognized there was a face in front of her, and Leon stilled her attempt to move by tightening his grip just fractionally. "Easy," he said softly.

"You're not—" The woman's voice was raw and raspy, trailing off into a weak cough. A fine mist spattered the cloak over his chest; Leon grimaced.

"We're here to help you," he added, though at this point it was obvious there was no chance for that. Not in her case specifically, at least.

She seemed to know that, too. "Gia," she rasped. "I am—I was a Seeker, in Nevarra. Lucius—" A shuddering cough interrupted her words. Leon grimaced; all he had on his belt was whiskey, and that would hurt much more than it would help. He glanced back up to find that Ophelia was already holding her waterskin out towards him.

Gia had significant difficulty drinking even with help, more of it ran down her chin than her throat, without a doubt. But she shook her head after, and he withdrew it, handing it back over his shoulder to his teacher. "He gathered us," she continued. "Brought us here, told us we were mustering to move against a threat. He made us take... red lyrium."

"They didn't die from being cut," Ophelia put in. "But there's no crystals on them."

Gia dipped her chin once before her head fell back against the wall behind her. "I think... he was surprised when nothing happened. He brought in these people. Tevinters, in robes. They... they did the cutting, increased the doses. It's... it's poison, if you take enough."

As was just about anything. Leon swallowed thickly. "Is there anything else you can tell us? Is the Lord Seeker still here?"

"I think so." Gia's breaths were coming harder now, more gasps or pants than anything; it was taxing whatever reserves of energy she had left just to speak. She managed to find Leon's eyes, though; he felt distinctly like he was being looked into, though perhaps that was only the color. "Please... kill him. For what he's done. He's mad, and he's destroyed—" Another cough. "Everything I ever cared about. Kill him."

"We will." Leon wasn't honestly sure that was true. If the Lord Seeker had left, there might be no opportunity. Even if he was here, there were no guarantees. But it was what she needed to hear, and so he said it.

Gia relaxed a little. "Good. And... if you could, would you...?"

Leon did not need to ask what she meant. He turned around, eyes landing on Khari first. "Can I borrow your knife?" It would be less painful than the way he'd do it with his hands, at least.

Khari had clearly been engrossed in Gia's story, and had to tear herself from the grip of horrified fascination in order to answer him properly. Physically shaking herself she gathered her wherewithal. “Oh. Uh. Right, sure." She reached down to her belt and slid the curved knife carefully from the sheath at her hip, walking her fingers down the length until she was holding the blade, handing it towards him hilt-first. “There's really not... anything else we can do?" Her eyes fell to Gia, mouth thinning. She clearly knew. That didn't make it easy to accept.

So Leon said what he supposed she needed to hear as well. "There isn't." Quiet, but certain. He took hold of the knife with a grateful nod, turning back around to the younger Seeker. "It will only hurt for a moment."

Gia dredged up a wry smile. "You don't know that, but I'm about to find out." She pulled in a deep breath, and relaxed the rest of the way back against the wall. "Do it."

With a nod, Leon moved. Quick and decisive, he slid the knife across the major artery in her throat. Blood welled thickly from the wound—she was dead in seconds. Thinning his lips, Leon wiped the blade off on the edge of his cloak and stood, handing it back to Khari. "It seems there are Venatori here as well as Red Templars. We need to disrupt whatever research they're doing, and destroy whatever records they have of it." However mad Lucius might be now, he wasn't the kind to torture people this way merely for the pleasure of it. The way Gia had spoken of it made the efforts sound calculated, experimental, and therefore probably to some important end that Corypheus wanted or needed to know about. Nothing good could come of leaving that knowledge in these hands.

"They've probably converted most of the rooms above, but the biggest one is the main dining hall. I think we're best off starting there." They all had a rough idea of the layout, too, from his own map. There was little point in trying to decide anything now, when the plan could change thirty seconds in the future depending on what they found.

SĂ©verine took point, leading the way with shield. Romulus paused only to give Khari a brief squeeze on the shoulder, but it was obvious that he was of the same mind Leon was. Death was the kindest thing they could give to the woman. Assuming a spot in the middle of their line formation, Romulus drew his blade again.

They moved slowly and quietly, finding a nearby set of stairs that took them up to the next floor. They slowed even further here, as they could hear the ominous sounds of others moving about above them, almost certainly Red Templars judging by the weight behind the noises. SĂ©verine took measured steps up, checking the way forward carefully as they arrived in another hallway, clear for the moment to at least escape the stairs and gain level footing.

Unfortunately, their luck did not hold. Though the hallway they emerged into was clear, a trio of reds turned a corner at the end, putting them face-to-face with the Inquisition, only about fifteen feet of space separating them. That wasn't going to last, either: the templar in the lead immediately hurled himself forward. He was one of the larger and bulkier knights, crystallized protrusions of lyrium giving ridges to his arms and spine. One had even erupted from his forehead, slightly off-center and jagged. The two behind him were both shadows, and they charged in at his flanks. The hallways was just large enough to accommodate all three of them across, meaning that there was no way all five of Leon's party would be able to meet them at once.

He certainly intended to, however, and stepped forward to be beside SĂ©verine; Ophelia moved up next to him on the other side, leaving Romulus and Khari to watch the rear. No doubt the noise would draw others in short order anyway. Leon took a few strides out to absorb the knight's dash, successfully stepping around him and using his own momentum to trip him, taking the both of them to the ground, where the templar's sword would be of much less use. One of the shadows drew up short at that, aiming the long protrusion on its left arm for his face.

SĂ©verine intercepted the strike with her shield, following up with a swift thrust of the short sword into a gap on the templar's side. He growled in discomfort more than overwhelming pain, but all the same SĂ©verine strongarmed him into the wall, where they proceeded to struggle for positioning. With Ophelia engaging the other, and Leon locked in a deadly engagement in the center, a sort of battle line had formed that it was difficult for either Romulus or Khari to contribute to without risking a hit on their allies.

"Quick, over the top," the Inquisitor suggested, sheathing his blade and briefly putting his back to the fight so he could present Khari with a foothold she could use. Obviously he meant to help throw the elf over the trio of fights, so she could tip one or more quickly in their favor by attacking from behind.

She didn't waste the opportunity, backing up quickly a few paces to get a running start, stepping up into the foothold he'd made with his hands. With Romulus's assistance, she sailed over the heads of all three Red Templars, one of the shadows only narrowly missing her when it tried to stab upwards with an arm blade.

By the time Khari had landed on the other side, her knife was in her hand, and it didn't take her more than half a second to decide where to put it, lunging for where Leon and his opponent were tangled on the floor and driving the blade up under the knight's helm. There was a dull scraping sound, no doubt where the knife encountered lyrium, but it was both long and sharp enough to do the job anyway. Even a red couldn't function with a dagger in the brain. She pulled it out again and backed up a step, giving him space to move while she assessed her new options.

Back on his feet, Leon gestured for Khari to help SĂ©verine, and himself moved to where Ophelia was hammering away at the other shadow with armored fists, striking mostly for the softer parts of its body. If the impact sounds were anything to go by, she'd nearly completely caved in his ribs, but of course what would completely incapacitate most people only inconvenienced a Red Templar. Drawing back, Ophelia kicked upwards, striking the shadow's helm. He staggered; Leon stepped in and grabbed him from behind, fitting his arms under the templar's armpits and pulling him back against his chest. There wasn't a lot he could do from this lock position, but there was plenty Ophelia could.

Stepping forward, she tore the shadow's helmet off, exposing a face half-caked with red lyrium crystals, then took his head in both hands, wrenching sideways. He struggled, kicking back ineffectually against Leon. Their strength was formidable, but they were no more skilled than they had been before, and it was positioning that sealed his fate. His neck snapped, and he went limp in the Seeker's arms.

Meanwhile SĂ©verine had maintained enough awareness of the fight to know that she had help to her side, and twisted the shadow in her grip in that direction as an attempted stab glanced off her armor. The templar was served up for an easy stab in the back by Khari, and SĂ©verine plunged her short sword down into him at the neck, sinking it in nearly up to the hilt. She twisted, and with a choked cough the shadow stilled. The two women pulled their weapons free, and SĂ©verine pushed the templar over onto his back.

She pulled up, looking expectantly down the hall but finding nothing. "That was too loud," she said. "I thought more would come for sure."

"As did I." Leon felt himself beginning to scowl. He wondered if all of this hadn't been a little too easy, from the unguarded tunnel to the unwatched prison to the utter lack of reinforcements now that they had definitely been found. "I'm beginning to believe we're expected."

Ophelia's expression was hard. "You think this was a trap. That he let it slip where he was in hopes of luring us here."

He shrugged. "In his position, it's what I'd do. Now I'm almost sure he's in the main hall. And I doubt we're getting out of here without confronting him."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
A trap, huh?

Khari glanced between the others, registering the looks on their faces and concluding that it was probably going to be difficult to survive springing it. Not that they had much choice, anymore. Lucius had to know they were here, and he wasn't just going to let them go without pushing them into it. Sheathing her knife, she went for the greatsword on her back instead, shrugging her shoulders. “Okay. I mean, it's gonna be hard, but we knew that already. Might as well just go do it."

Hell, maybe if they could just kill Lucius, that would be enough to at least give them a chance against the rest. One thing she'd learned during her time with the Inquisition was that leaders, whether they were the best fighters or not, were absolutely necessary. Even big, scary powerful forces tended to fall to pieces if they went down. They'd probably only won at Adamant because they'd managed to fuck with the way the hierarchy went among the Wardens there. Corypheus knew it, too, considering all the trouble he'd gone to in his attempt to take out the leaders in Orlais.

Not that she was overly eager to follow Darkspawn logic, but strategy was strategy, and they knew what theirs had to be. All they had to do now was give it their best shot. And she had faith that it'd be good enough. It always was.

No one seemed that inclined to linger, anyway, but Leon looked a bit in his own head. He was holding a glass vial in his hand, she saw, his thumb brushing over the cork in it repeatedly, like he was trying to decide whether to open it or not. Khari wasn't sure what that was about, but he wouldn't waste the time if it wasn't important, so she shifted to take her turn at point, figuring that'd give him the rest of the walk to decide.

Navigating was just a matter of remembering what was where, and she'd studied the map for long enough to know how to point them at their destination. They didn't encounter any resistance on the way, not even another patrol, making it more likely that it really was a trap. They didn't pass any exits—those were further to the front of the building. They'd probably be heavily-guarded, to keep the party from getting out. Didn't really matter much anyway, as far as she was concerned.

The Lord Seeker needed to answer for what he'd done. Khari didn't pretend she knew what was right all the time, but she knew that much.

As it turned out, the main hall's door was already cracked open. Only an ominous silence greeted them at this point, and she couldn't see anything through the crack—it was too dark for that. Pausing, she turned back over her shoulder, shifting her grip on her sword to level it out in front of her. “Ready?"

SĂ©verine had sheathed the short sword in favor of her flail, no doubt expecting there to be more room to swing in the main hall. For the moment she held the chain against the handle, both to reduce noise and to prevent accidentally touching anyone with the spiked metal ball on the end of it. "Let's have it done," she said, her expression conveying more anger than nervousness.

Rom nodded as well, and didn't feel the need to voice anything. He'd pulled his mask down, eyes locked at the space where the door was cracked open. He looked a little more tentative than usual, but he'd never backed down from a fight when there was one in front of him. She hadn't seen him take anything today, before or during the mission, so perhaps that was it. This fight was going to be all him, no unfair advantages applied.

Leon used the moment's pause to down the contents of the glass vial, shaking his head a little at the taste of it and replacing the empty vessel at his belt. Ophelia cracked her neck both ways, then nodded.

Jaw set, Leon stepped in front of Khari and pushed the door open.

It swung back smoothly on its hinges, but the motion was clearly a trigger for some kind of mechanism, because all at once, magelight torches lit on either side of the room, brightly enough that Leon's step hitched. He nearly reeled back, but then the sound of a low whistle cutting through the air reached them and he reacted to it seemingly on pure instinct, snatching the arrow out of the air with his right hand. It snapped in his hand, and he actually growled, the sound echoing softly in his helmet. Throwing it aside the remains, he burst forward, making a direct line for the most impressively-armored man in the room.

That man—surely the Lord Seeker—wasn't wearing a helm, but was otherwise in well-wrought full plate, a halberd resting easily in one hand. Arrayed about the hall in organized columns were Venatori and Red Templars both. Any remaining doubt that this was an organized trap was dashed. The mages volleyed various elemental attacks at the charging Seeker, but by either luck or reflex, he bypassed them all, still barreling forward.

The numbers were bad: there were at least twenty reds here, and ten more Venatori, a few of them wearing the white robes of the most elite mages under Marcus's command. They wasted no time in moving to engage the Inquisition, either.

So Khari didn't waste time going to them. Even she registered a bit of trepidation at the sheer number of opponents to be had here, but even that disappeared when she took a deep breath and let the Haze come over her, sinking into the part of herself that was—would always be—hurt and furious and violent. The details around her seemed to sharpen in her vision, in her hearing. The haptic feedback from her body swallowed more deliberate thinking, sharpening her natural instincts. Those in turn drove her forward, the fight-or-flight dilemma resolved in the same way she always resolved it.

Sensation, raw and visceral, hummed beneath her skin when she swung for the first Red Templar to come within range. A shadow who'd gone in for a flank and found her more mobile than expected. Her sword shrieked where it scraped against the crystalline arm-blades on the other woman's body. The dizzy-sick feeling of being so close to the lyrium didn't even register. Not anymore. Khari's lips pulled back from her teeth in a silent snarl; she pushed forward, breaking the lock with a hard step in and changing her angle.

Her blade found the weak spot just under the templar's chestplate, slipping in and bursting out the other side. But these were not so easily put down as any ordinary foe, and she anticipated that, twisting the sword with both her hands and then kicking the woman off the end of it, chopping into the sliver of skin between her gorget and her helmet when she staggered backwards from the blow. She dropped.

A mace caught her across the back of her chainmail, knocking the wind from her and throwing her to the ground. Khari rolled, blindly choosing to angle to the left, just in time to avoid the follow-up, which slammed into the stone floor where she'd just been. Finding her feet, she whirled, putting her back to the wall and dismissing the pain ricocheting up her spine as irrelevant. All pain was irrelevant. Nothing mattered as much as bringing the next one down.

She lunged.

SĂ©verine took on several enemies at once on one of Khari's sides, helping her avoid being surrounded for the moment. The templar's flail swung about in wide arcs, forcing all in front of her to think twice about rushing in. Each time it connected a small burst of red lyrium shards flew through the air, and she was quick to get her weapon moving again, constantly moving. The hits weren't lethal immediately, but all inflicted damage on the fallen templars. The first to die to her weapon was a Venatori whose helm proved insufficient against the spiked ball. The flail crunched through his skull, momentarily getting stuck as a red flood poured out. SĂ©verine had to plant a boot to his chest to free her weapon again.

It was a moment longer than she had at her disposal, and a barehanded knight took advantage on her unshielded side. His lyrium-hardened punch found her ribs on the right side, denting her scale mail and sending her stumbling unfortunately right into Khari mid-swing, with enough force to upset both of their balances. The knight pressed in, a hand grappling around her throat while the other tried to secure her wrist.

After a moment of fruitless struggle, she was relieved when Rom hurled himself onto the knight's back as best he could, his blade already dripping with blood. It was his marked hand he struck with, however, managing to get a hold on the knight's shoulder and unleashing a powerful blast that swallowed that lyrium encrusted upper arm, bursting the rest in a shower of red. Rom lost his grip immediately after, falling to the ground. He was forced to roll away from a downward stab of a less-corrupted Red Templar, who he dealt with quickly, finding an opening and driving his blade up into her throat. SĂ©verine discarded the knight that had grabbed her, and threw herself back into the fray.

Up ahead, Leon had at last reached the Lord Seeker, who was doing his apparent best to keep him at bay with the halberd, which gave him a significant reach advantage. The fact that there were two extremely large Red Templar knights at either side of him was no doubt helping with that, though like Khari, Leon seemed to be unconcerned with pain right now, if he even felt it. Knocking aside a heavy two-handed blow from one of the knights, Leon intercepted a downward swing of the halberd, catching the blade in his hand and using it to pull Lucius forward. He was heedless of the crimson spatter that dropped to the stone, evidence that the blade had cut into the thinner protection offered by the inside of his gauntlets.

Lucius lurched, and Leon had time to get in one powerful blow to the Lord Seeker's face, crunching his nose in with a low crack audible even to Khari. But any chance of a more fatal follow-up was precluded by the intervention of another knight, who drove a spear for Leon, forcing him to take a step back, lest his chainmail fail against the enhanced strength given by corrupt lyrium.

Lucius's face twisted. "Ugh, barbaric. I had almost managed to forget you were Ophelia's brat." He didn't dwell on the injury, though, not even as it gushed blood down his lips and chin. Instead, he firmed his grip on his halberd and swung again.

Ophelia herself had torn into the sole cluster of archers, including the one who fired the first arrow. He was unmoving on the floor, but there were plenty of others, and no few of them had drawn blades now that she was so close. Her ferocity was more contained than Leon's or Khari's: she placed her blows for maximum effect, every time. Already she'd felled three, but four more were surrounding her, and she clearly knew it, launching herself at one and physically bowling the smaller woman over to get clear of the knot. The moment any of them was truly surrounded would quite possibly be their last one.

Khari had found herself in a similar predicament, her mobility hampered by the fact that she didn't have much room to make use of it. She'd been separated from SĂ©verine by several yards as the fight wore on, and enemies had filled the gap. Between the suppressing fire some of the Venatori had shifted to using and the three Red Templars she was currently trying to handle, she'd seen better positioning, to say the least. That fact registered only dully, however, and she parried the next incoming blow, then swung around to sidestep the next. The third swept her feet out from under her with his poleaxe, and she went to the ground.

She attempted to roll away, but didn't make it too far before a heavy boot landed on her shoulder, hard enough that she'd definitely have a bruise if she survived this. The spearhead that followed was less merciful, punching through her chainmail into her belly. She shouted, a harsh yell as much fury as pain—more. One-handed, she swung her sword in a mighty arc, catching the templar's throat with the tip of the blade more by luck than anything. Clearly, they were not used to fighting those who could function in pain almost as well as they could.

Her wound pulled as she regained her feet, ducking under another swing of the poleax and stepping in, driving her pommel up into that one's chin. She could sense the other coming in behind her and dropped back to the floor—his blade ran through his ally instead of her, and Khari drew the knife from her hip, stabbing it viciously into the back of his knee, where both armor and crystals were less protection. He didn't react overmuch, but she'd clearly severed something important, because the leg collapsed underneath him, leaving him to try and rebalance. He didn't get the chance—still on the floor, she drove her sword up into his lower back, severing the flexible cord part of his spine. A chunk of crystal fell away when she pulled the sword back out.

She was slower to rise this time. Slow enough, in fact, that a Venatori's well-aimed ice spell caught her left leg, sealing it to the floor. Two more followed, until she was encased in ice from her foot to her hip on that side. The mage, one of the white-robes, readied what seemed to be a much larger spell, from the way it crackled and hissed at her fingertips.

A short crossbow bolt found the mage's side, lodging between her ribs. Rom had loosed it, and rushed the mage leading with his shield. Rather than unleash the charged lightning spell at the temporarily rooted Khari, she turned it on Rom to protect herself, unloading a torrent of disorganized lightning out in front of her. The spell was wide enough to catch several Red Templars caught in its path, but Rom was in the center of it, and received it in full.

Khari had seen Rom shrug off worse spells like they were mere annoyances, but this one stopped him in his tracks, and when the blinding light faded, the Inquisitor was shaking violently on the spot, barely able to remain upright. A knife-armed Red Templar took advantage, plunging the blade into his lower back, likely only missing the spine because it was a moving target. He withdrew the knife as quick as it went in, flipping it into a backhand grip to plunge it in somewhere much higher, but Rom managed to turn and catch his wrists. He was driven back to a wall, and there the two grappled for a moment, until Rom, smoking skin and all, headbutted the Red Templar to stun him. Gaining control of the man's hands, he pushed them down hard, plunging the dagger into the man's own abdomen. A swift knee up into his head was enough to knock him flat on his back, and knock him out cold while he bled.

In the meantime SĂ©verine had rushed in on the mage. Her shield glowed with a white light, one that was expelled forcefully when she bashed it across the mage's head, her templar ability purging the remaining mana from the Venatori woman. She dropped to her knees, unable to rise, and SĂ©verine brought her flail around in a long arc, uppercutting and wrenching the mage's head back grotesquely. She tipped over and did not rise.

Several enemies closed around her at once after that from multiple sides, too many to deal with at once. Her flail drove back one, her shield blocked another, but an arrow of all things slipped through two of them and punctured into her abdomen. The hit came just before a shadow rushed in with a low feint followed by a downward slash from the other blade protruding from his arm. It caught SĂ©verine across her unprotected face, opening a bloody line from her forehead above the right eye, across the bridge of her nose and down to her left cheek. She stumbled back, reeling under the blows that followed on her shield and struggling to get a breath with an arrow lodged in her.

By this point, Leon was bloodied, but he'd successfully felled the original two knights with the Lord Seeker. Of course, more had diverted from their positions elsewhere, along with several of the Venatori that had been supporting their allies from the edges of the fight. A fireball struck Leon square in the back; he roared and lunged for the offending mage, closing his hand around her throat and squeezing. Something popped, and he dropped her, leaving a bloody smear where his hand had been and whirling to face the red closest to him.

The shadow attempted to stab him, its lyrium blade tearing a gash in Leon's chainmail like it was ordinary leather, but the commander twisted, avoiding the worst of the blow and taking the appendage in both hands. The eyes showing through the gaps in his helmet were as much red as violet, though the hue was not the same luminescent crimson as that belonging to the templars. It was closer to scarlet, a touch of orange or gold or something else in it—whatever it was, it had to be the effects of that potion he'd taken before the fight. He gripped the lyrium arm and used it to swing the shadow, picking him up bodily and hurling him the few feet necessary to slam into a pair of Venatori. All three crashed to the ground in a heap; one of the mages was unlucky enough to be impaled on a red lyrium crystal protruding from the shadow's armor.

Another knight moved in behind him, jumping up onto Leon's back and wrenching his helmet off. It clanged against the stone where it hit the ground. Leon heaved, throwing the knight over his shoulder with great effort, bringing his boot down against the gap in the templar's helm where his face was. The knight fell still; whether he was unconscious or dead was hard to tell.

Lucius took the opportunity to slash at Leon's exposed face, splitting open his nose and cheek on the left side, down to the bone. He snarled, teeth bloody, and followed the halberd's retreat, taking hold of it beneath the blade with both hands and pulling. Lucius lost his grip, and Leon tossed the weapon away like a useless trinket. Blood ran freely over his armor, patches of it darkening his plain cloak. How much of it was his as opposed to someone else's was impossible to say, but his strength seemed only to grow with it in either case. Lucius took a step backwards, and another two reds converged upon Leon, who grabbed for the first and caught her by the shoulder, wrenching her head to the side to expose pallid skin, dark veins of corrupted lyrium splayed out beneath the nearly-translucent surface.

Rather than break her neck efficiently, as he'd done dozens of times before, Leon leaned down and bit her, tearing savagely into the flesh of her throat. She screamed—apparently some things were painful enough for even a Red Templar to feel pain. Or perhaps it was fear, instead. Either way, it didn't last long before she was limp, and Leon threw her down like chattel.

Abruptly, he staggered; the other Red Templar's longsword erupted from the center of his chest, coated in bright red blood. The shield on the templar's other arm lashed forward, catching him in the back of his head, and Leon fell to the floor, unmoving.

Ophelia lowered her shoulder into the templar responsible, carrying him away from his opportunity for any final blows, and shouted over the din. "We need to leave, now!"

That was probably true, but first—Khari had only two things she wanted to do. And since she was temporarily free of assailants, she was damn well going to do both.

The Lord Seeker was dangerous even when disarmed, something he proved when he dodged her first swing entirely, drawing a sidearm from his hip and slashing for her exposed face. She leaned back out of the way of it and retaliated, sweeping low for his legs and stepping in when he hopped backwards in enough time to avoid it. Her aggression and his current lack of protection backed him up against the wall quickly, and though he managed to land a slash just under her jawline, the long fight with Leon had clearly worn him down, and without a Red Templar's endurance, he could not hold her off forever.

The edge of her sword found his chin, and she drove it up and back, striking the wall behind him with the tip before she wrenched it back out. Once that was done, she hurried back to Leon, where a predicament presented itself. She couldn't carry him with her sword strapped over her back, nor would one arm be sufficient, especially not in her injured state. Grimly, she tossed the blade aside, kneeling to situate him over her shoulder as well as she could. He was heavy, probably moreso than anything she'd managed to lift in training yet, and his height made it even more awkward. Still, she did her best to distribute his weight the way Mick had taught her—evenly across her shoulders.

Her wound damn near screamed at her when she tried to stand; she pulled a breath in through clenched teeth and returned to her knees. Maybe it would work if she were already standing, but there was no way she could get there on her own.

"On your feet!" Rom shouted from behind her. Before she could make the attempt his arms were looped under hers. "Now." He lifted with her, and the two sets of legs proved sufficient to get Khari's feet under her, stable enough to carry Leon, though the progress would be slow.

Rom came around in front of her, intercepting a Red Templar on the way. He blocked a downward strike with his shield, plunging his blade multiple times into the enemy's abdomen until the wounds were big enough for some of the man's innards to spill partway out. He shoved him off and turned to look at Khari, spattered head to toe with blood, and almost no way to tell how much of it was his. He gestured for her to get moving, and continued guarding the way forward for her. Somewhere behind her the clashes of metal and lyrium on shield and armor continued, as SĂ©verine watched her back. A pained grunt escaped her when she took another hit, but Khari didn't hear the sound of her falling, and that was all that really mattered at this point.

Ophelia led the way out, directing them no doubt more from her mental map of the place than anything. As Khari had predicted, the Templars and Venatori both were considerably less organized without their leader, and though the reds still seemed willing to engage, the Venatori were much more inclined to retreat and not face potential death. The lyrium warriors must have heeded their commands, at least in part, for those they met on the way out were few in number, and almost never in groups of more than two. The three in front of her were able to handle them without Khari's help.

Leon's teacher paused in front of one door, eyes narrowing. "Get him out," she said gesturing further down the same hall. "I'll take care of the research. Don't wait up—I can find my own way back, and you need a healer." Without pausing to allow argument, she opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her.

The rest of the path out was straightforward, and though they were slow, their progress was steady. By the time they were loaded up onto their horses and a few miles out, they could see a plume of smoke rising from Kasos, orange tongues of fire lighting up the windows.

Though they traveled through the night, Leon did not stir.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon grimaced, rubbing absently at his chest through his tunic. A week in the infirmary and he'd been cleared to at least return to office work. It had taken about that long for Ophelia to find a boat to Jader anyway, and she'd arrived the day after he was released. This morning. The wound still throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but there was little to be done about that. Asala had done what she could for the wound, and Rilien's potions would have to take care of the rest. He wasn't inclined to take more than prescribed.

It was an ugly, thing, the scar. White and twisted, the tissue growing back over the wound rough and thick and ropy. One more for his inventory. The Red Templar's sword had barely missed his heart. Even then, if Khari and the others hadn't gotten him out as quickly as they had, he'd probably have died. Leon knew he could only cheat it so many more times, before his time would be up.

Even now he wondered if it was worth it to live, given the price he was paying for it. What he was becoming. He swallowed, certain he could still taste the tang of tainted blood on his tongue. Frankly he was lucky he hadn't contracted the Taint himself, but the action had been instinctive, visceral. A compulsion that was at once of him and not.

"Leon. Stop." Ophelia's tone brooked no argument; she knew what he looked like when he was brooding. Feeling guilty and sorry for himself. A useless sentiment, by her reckoning. She was probably right.

He sighed, returning his eyes to the book in front of him. "Is this all you saved?"

She shook her head. "No. There were a few other things. Bryland's journal, some other books. More important than the relics. I could only take what I could carry."

Such practicality. Most of the devout would think Havard's finger-bone worth considerably more than a dusty journal written by some long-dead pirate king, but the latter contained knowledge. He'd never read it, himself, but he trusted her to know what was most vital. Ophelia had been a Seeker for a very long time. The tome in front of him was not one he recognized, either: its cover was plain brown leather, scuffed and darkened with age and wear. No doubt it was much more significant than it looked.

"Once," she said, "that information was only for the Lord Seekers and their successors to know. I think it best if you have it now; I've already read it."

"If that's who it was for, I'd best not," he replied. "I won't last long enough to do anything with it." Those were the facts, cold and hard as he found them. He closed his eyes for a moment. His wound ached; he waited for the worst to subside again.

When he opened his eyes, Ophelia had pursed her lips. "There aren't many of us left, Leon." She said it bluntly. "The rest will need someone to lead them when this is said and done."

He shrugged, meeting her eyes steadily. "Then I wish you luck, Ophelia, because it won't be me. I have a year left, after what I pulled in Kasos. At best." Rilien had confirmed it, out of anyone else's earshot. That vial had been triple his usual dose of the Reaver tonic, and even then, it hadn't been enough. No doubt he'd just jump-started his death clock, which might have slowed with how cautious he'd been before. Knowing they'd miscalculated and run into the Lord Seeker's trap had left him no other choice. There simply hadn't been enough of them to survive any other way.

"Don't say that before you've read that book," she replied simply. "Or have that friend of yours read it. The Vint with the eyes." She gestured vaguely to her own. He knew who she meant, in any case, though she could have been referring just as easily to either of two, since they shared the characteristic in question.

"I planned on it, in any case." In fact, he'd called Cyrus here for the purpose of sharing the information. And Captain SĂ©verine as well; he didn't believe anything that so affected the Chantry should be decided without her input, and what was more, he probably owed her an explanation of some things. Their positions relative to each other required trust, and he had to hope what he'd done had not lost him hers.

It wasn't long before they arrived, and Reed admitted both of them at once. SĂ©verine entered the room first, much more slowly than she usually did, but her own injuries also had her not moving quite like usual. She hadn't been in the same amount of danger Leon had survived, but the amount of blood she'd lost had still been perilously high, and even a week later she had yet to really recover her color. Most of the cause of that was a shadow's red lyrium blade cutting across her face, which as Leon heard it had left her head a horrific shade of red from blood running down it for all of their escape.

It was still a grisly injury to look upon, the scar cutting from above her eyebrow almost all the way across her face. In truth she was lucky; the blade had narrowly missed her right eye, which was still tinted a bright shade of red around the iris. With the Inquisition's healing it was likely the wound wouldn't disfigure her overmuch, and would simply serve as a reminder of the events at Kasos instead.

She didn't say anything as she entered, offering a nod to Ophelia and finding a seat. She sank into it carefully and with a quiet exhale once she was settled. She hadn't spoken to Leon much at all after he'd reawakened, and it seemed she didn't plan on having the first word now, either.

Cyrus of course hadn't been injured at all recently, though no doubt by now he'd heard most of the news. He didn't come by the infirmary regularly, but Leon knew enough to know that Astraia used the roof of his tower often, and no doubt he'd made the relevant inquiries of her. He glanced once at Ophelia before folding his hands behind his back, perhaps remaining standing in deference to the injured, should Leon's teacher decide to occupy the second chair in front of his desk.

“Commander." He inclined his head at Leon. “I won't say you look well, but from what I hear this is still much recovered. I'm glad."

Leon attempted to smile, but did not quite succeed, ending up with an expression more like a grimace than anything. Still, however light the words, he suspected Cyrus's sentiment was sincere. "Appreciated," he replied quietly. Shifting slightly, he glanced at all three of them in sequence, leaning back against this desk chair as much for the support as for the formality it added to his posture.

"As all of you either know firsthand or no doubt have heard, the Lord Seeker is dead." Khari had seen to that, as the story had been related to him. She'd done quite well in general during that outing; he'd have to make a point to tell her so at some moment in the near future. "The keep at Kasos was being used to conduct experiments with red lyrium, on Seekers specifically. From what Ophelia discovered after our departure, and from what we saw, it's clear that, though we are resistant to the transformative effects in ways templars are not, even we will die after sufficient exposure." From the Taint rather than the lyrium, if the physical resemblance to those afflicted with the darkspawn disease was anything to go by.

He pressed his lips together. "The experimentation killed almost all of the Seekers remaining in Thedas. We were always few, and always answerable to the Lord Seeker, something he took full advantage of." No doubt many of those he had known were among the piles of the dead, or those disposed of elsewhere. There had not been time to go looking, and he didn't think he'd have wanted to, anyway. "That leaves an entire branch of the Chantry with only two confirmed members."

"There may be others," Ophelia said, shifting her weight. "But one of us would have to go looking. Search the hideouts and known locations in person."

With a nod, Leon turned his eyes down to the wood grain of his desk. "And I cannot. Even if I were in the physical condition to do it, I wouldn't be able to leave the Inquisition for that long." He shook his head slightly. The burn on his back itched; he lifted himself forward off the chair back again. Nothing he did was comfortable for more than a few minutes. "Ophelia would be able to, but there is still the matter of whether she should. Finding others is a long shot. Recruiting and training new Seekers is another option. If we did that, there might be worthwhile progress by the time there's a new Divine to command them, but there also might not. The third option is, of course, doing neither. You might be most immediately useful here, helping us."

It was something that was at the back of his mind, now. If he died before the Inquisition had done its work, there would be few with both the command experience and strategic knowledge necessary to take his place. None with all of that and the respect his title earned him among the faithful. None but her. But if that was to happen, she would need to remain. Get to know the troops, the organization, the people she would be working alongside. And that would mean all but abandoning the Seekers of Truth, at least for now.

"I asked the two of you here because you represent what needs to be considered. The Chantry has no central authority—not anymore—but it is a decision that will affect them greatly now and in the future. Having or not having Seekers at her disposal could make all the difference in how effectively the next Divine is able to begin and maintain her tenure. But there is also a more immediate concern, and that is what resources the Inquisition can and cannot afford to have or let go of." No doubt they would both be able to see the interplay between the pictures involved. No doubt also they were very different ideologically, a balance Leon felt that he needed. It wouldn't be right to make the decision alone. If the Inquisitors needed to be involved later, then that was fair enough; for now, he only wanted to see the options through the eyes of people he trusted.

"I think the Seekers are needed," SĂ©verine answered quickly enough. Her voice didn't let the words come out very clearly, evidence that she had hardly used it all day, but she cleared her throat and sounded normal enough again. "And I don't just say because as a templar I have no authority to think they should be gone." Indeed, a chief responsibility of the Seekers of Truth was to watch over the Templar Order, making it rather difficult for a templar to impartially request their removal.

"The Seekers do needed work," she explained. "Without them this Inquisition would not have been born, and where would the world be now without that? They are needed now more than ever. And now..." She looked between the two Seekers in the room. "Whatever flaws the Seekers had before, they're dead and gone now. Much was lost, but it can be rebuilt, and rebuilt properly. I don't presume to know what secrets were learned from what was recovered at Kasos, but... I trust both of you to do what is right, for the Seekers, the templars, and the people we were created to protect." Whatever her misgivings were about other subjects, she seemed very certain in this.

"My opinion is," she continued, "the recruitment and training of new Seekers should begin as soon as you are able, which perhaps may not be for some time yet. There must be candidates among our ranks here that would be suitable, and I can contact Knight-Commander Cullen to request the same of his templars in Kirkwall. If there are other Seekers out there, let them hear of the order's rebirth here, and they will return if they still desire to serve."

“It would be better to start from scratch, in a sense." Cyrus remained neutral in his expression, dipping his chin just once to indicate that he was more or less in agreement with everything SĂ©verine had said. “If there are any others left, you'd have cause to be suspicious of them. Were they not where they were supposed to be because they didn't trust the Lord Seeker... or because they were useful enough to him that he chose to keep them from the fate of their fellows? There might never be any way to tell. The last thing you need in trying to rebuild the order is to have that mistrust lingering, or a traitor in the ranks. Our templars at least can be trusted to make better decisions than that. Worth a bit of delay to train them, I think."

He paused then, moving his eyes from Leon to Ophelia and back. “Though... there is one other question. Do they train here or elsewhere? If you mean to keep High Seeker Ophelia around because you foresee her needing to step into at least part of your role at some point, there would be advantage in the former. But it would also increase the perception that the Inquisition means to control the future of Thedas, something that the Chantry in Val Royeaux no doubt believes it and it alone has a right to." His tone placed a delicate disdain on the last words, but clearly he knew that it was not an attitude widely-shared.

He was right, of course. They both were. Leon shook his head. "If rebuilding the Seekers is the goal, then the Inquisition keeps its influence as far away as possible. If Halamshiral proved anything, it's that people already think we have too much to do with things outside our official purview." There might even be something to that—no one group should have too much power. It was just asking for corruption and in turn disaster. It was important that whomever was next appointed Divine would have forces at her disposal who had little to do with them, even if that made things more difficult in the short term.

"Then we're all in agreement." Ophelia seemed satisfied. "I will take recruits from among the Templars here and in Kirkwall. No more than twenty in all, at first. We'll use one of the old fortresses. You'll know where it is, in case you need to, but beyond that, we'll stay out of your business. It will be at least a few years before they're really ready, anyway." She crossed her arms over her midsection. "Though that does still leave you with a rather obvious problem."

And it did. Leon pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger, feeling a headache coming on. No doubt it would only compound the rest. "I'll find a solution," he said quietly. "I'll have to." But he was hardly in the mood to linger on it, and it wasn't why he'd called the meeting.

"Cyrus, would you do me a favor and take a look at this?" He pushed the leatherbound book forward to the edge of his desk, meeting eyes with the other man. "It contains knowledge once meant only for the leaders of the Seekers of Truth. As they are now more or less defunct, I see no reason to keep it from you. Perhaps there will be something of significance in it." He dare not hope that a solution to his own problem could be found within, as that had much less to do with his profession as his reaver status, but at the very least there might be something the Inquisition could use in there. He hadn't the time to make careful study of it himself. If anyone could make use of it, then, it would surely be Cyrus.

He stepped forward around SĂ©verine's chair, taking up the book with a rather speculative expression, cracking it open to a random page and scanning over it with a quick motion of his eyes. “I'll take a look." His tone was little more than a thoughtful murmur, but he snapped it shut and lowered it to his side. Tilting his head a bit, he fixed Leon with a searching expression, brows furrowed. “Do take care of yourself, Commander. I doubt you would be half so easy to replace as you seem to think—and I don't just mean your job."

Sparing a brisk nod for the other two, Cyrus paused a moment to make sure there was nothing further, and then took his leave when there wasn't.

In the silence that followed, SĂ©verine shifted uncomfortably, reaching halfway up towards the new scar across her face before she stopped herself. "It's not a templar's place to demand information from her commander, a Seeker at that, but... it has become very obvious that something is being kept from me, and as your friend I would like to know what it is, and if there's anything I can do to help." It was likely that SĂ©verine had noticed something severely amiss back in the Emerald Graves, but perhaps kept her silence then by attributing the events to the particularly fierce fight that resulted against the Red Templars. Clearly she was not willing to keep it now, when others were partially acknowledging it in front of her, leading her to believe she was being kept out of an important loop.

He sometimes forgot who'd he'd told and who he hadn't, but not at the moment. Leon grimaced. "I do apologize for that," he replied. "It's not the simplest thing to explain, but by rights I've should have done it sooner." He didn't intend to keep it from her now, however, and explained it as completely as he knew: what reavers did, how his case was different, and why that difference meant he had little time to waste.

"I... overdid it, at Kasos, when I'd realized my miscalculation. It wasn't—" He wasn't even sure how to finish that. To call what had happened unpleasant was to do a gross disservice to how disgusting and brutal it was. How sick it made him feel, to think about it now. "I thought it was the only choice, given what we were walking into. All things considered, I don't regret it, but it has made the matter of timing considerably more... urgent." He sighed through his nose, feeling the weight of that settle on him. It was all but guaranteed that he'd have to push his responsibilities onto someone else now. The Inquisition's tasks seemed unlikely to end in a year, when Corypheus still had not shown his face since Haven. When so much of what he planned was still obscure. Ending the Lord Seeker's life and research had no doubt been a heavy blow to those plans, but far from a decisive one.

SĂ©verine took the news pretty evenly, all things considered. No doubt she had thought about the things she'd witnessed of him, and the possibilities they could enable. Whether his being a reaver was among them she didn't say. "Well... a lot of things make a lot more sense now." Her hand reached up again, and this time she was unable to stop herself from briefly scratching at a spot on her cheek, where the scar ended.

She leaned forward, lacing her fingers together and mulling it over. He'd already covered that the people most capable of helping him already knew and had known for some time, so she didn't ask after how she could help again. "For what it's worth, I think Cyrus is right. You might think you're replaceable, that Khari or Maker forbid I could take over for you, but... you make all of us better through your work. The Inquisitors, the mages, the templars, the army. It's something that goes beyond the motions of being a commander. The Inquisition would never be the same without you." She let that sit for a moment, before she smiled slightly, the motion twisting her scar slightly and causing her some pain, which she visibly ignored.

"And besides, I've become far too ugly to command any inspiration, while you've managed to keep your pretty face intact somehow. The Maker must be watching out for you yet."

Ophelia outright snorted; Leon constrained his mirth into a smile, though it was a real one, at least. He hoped he wasn't turning red, but there were really no guarantees. "I think we'll have to agree to disagree on the last. I think they give your face just the right amount of character." The smile faded a little, then, and he nodded much more seriously. "But... thank you. For the rest. I... I'll do my best not to resign myself to my fate before it's upon me. I'd hate to leave anything unfinished."

That, at least, couldn't be more true.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari set her chin atop the stack of books she carried, shuffling up the stairs onto the battlements in a way that was admittedly less-than-graceful. It wasn't so much that the tomes were too heavy—she'd been consistent and ambitious enough in her exercise and training that she didn't often run into that issue anymore. Rather, they were just awkward to carry, piled on top of one another and also taking some pretty steep stone stairs.

But she could handle it, brushing off the offer from assistance one of the guards on the wall started before he could properly finish it, hitting the last stair with a sigh of relief and striking off towards Leon's office. It was actually kind of hot today, which happened even in Skyhold, at least smack in the middle of summer like this. She didn't envy the patrolmen their heavy armor in the heat, and had kept her own attire to a sleeveless tunic and the loosest pair of trousers she had. Hell, even her shoes were the kind that left her heels and toes uncovered. Kind of elfy, for her, but practicality won out on a day like today every time.

She didn't bother to knock when she got to the office, in part because that would have probably involved dropping all the books. The door was cracked, probably a concession to the temperature, and she shouldered it open. “Sorry I'm late, Leon." she said, moving immediately to the table where he usually had her do strategy exercises and dropping the books with a heavy thud. “Chess match with Cy ran late. He's getting a lot better. Almost had me this time." Khari could never quite get over the little bit of glee she felt at being able to regularly hand an actual genius his ass at a game for smart people.

She exhaled at being relieved of her burden, rolling her shoulders and shaking her arms out. After a bit of contemplation, she took hold of her long, haphazard ponytail and curled it around itself several times until all of it was off her neck, shifting a couple pins around on her head to make it stay there. Even the office was hot, but at least this way the sweat beading on the back of her neck might actually help cool her down instead of making her feel like she was slowly melting.

Leon didn't seem to be handling the heat any better than she was; probably in part because he was still wearing full sleeves for some reason. He never seemed to want to expose much of his skin, even when it would make sense to do it, and today wasn't an exception, clearly. He glanced up from his work when she entered, smiling with what seemed to be a slight edge of strain, but he refrained from speaking until she'd settled a bit.

"It's not a problem," he said mildly. "I was trying to catch up on some of the things I fell behind on while we were at Kasos anyway." And the week he'd spent in the infirmary after, no doubt. "Are you done reading those already? You really can't do anything halfway, can you?" He sounded vaguely impressed, or maybe just bewildered.

The latter was a reaction she was pretty used to. Khari grinned at him, then nodded once. “You bet. I read the history of the first Blight one twice, too." She was pretty proud of herself, actually, though it wasn't like it had been hard. The account had been gripping, narrated firsthand from one of the first Grey Wardens. Probably ever, since it was the first Blight and all. She had no idea where Leon got all these rare books from, though being a Seeker no doubt had something to do with it. It occurred to Khari, not for the first time, that by the time he was done with her, she'd probably have one of the best strategic and tactical educations of anyone in Thedas, for the books alone. Never mind how good he was at explaining things to her.

There was something a little bit humbling about that. A lot humbling, really. She took her customary seat at the table, pulling the quill and inkwell on it a little closer to herself. She wasn't sure if she'd be drawing maps, plotting assaults, or what today, but she was looking forward to it.

Leon tilted his head at her, leaning forward a bit in his seat to brace himself against his desk on his forearms. "All right, so tell me: how did the Grey Wardens first start? What's the tactically relevant information about their capabilities during the first Blight?"

Khari pursed her lips, but it didn't take her long to come up with the answer. Tactically relevant meant cutting out all the unnecessary stuff and providing as much detail as she could about the who, when, and where. Also how. Especially how. “Minus three hundred five Ancient." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “They were all veterans; they all knew what fighting darkspawn was like already, so they didn't have to waste any time training new people, and they discarded all the previous alliances they had, so they could move when and how they wanted, without having to answer to anyone else. That gave them mobility, tactical fluidity, and experience all at the same time."

Not so unlike the Inquisition, in that sense—or at least the Irregulars. Except not all of them had been particularly experienced beforehand. “Their first leader was Carinus, or so the stories say. Some scholars debate his existence at all, but the ones who acknowledge him say he was already a leader before, and was convinced of the danger of the darkspawn, and the connection between them and the Blight itself. They put themselves to getting information first, and from everywhere. Tevinter blood mages, elven slaves... everywhere. That helped them figure out the Joining, which was and is their biggest advantage over the 'spawn."

Her brows knit. “Actually, we're a lot like them, I think. They had the Joining, we have the marks. And the people to help us figure out the use we can best put them to, and the independence. Probably some of the governments at the time didn't like them much, either, but the book never said anything about that."

Leon smiled, clearly pleased. "The analogy had occurred to me as well," he admitted, "though perhaps it is best not made too frequently. We might be thought of as putting on airs were we to dare it publicly." The Wardens of the first Blight at least were considered unequivocal heroes, and that had been and still was the attitude of many towards their current incarnation, the events at Adamant notwithstanding. "We'd best take care to emulate only part of their history, however." Leon seemed to be thinking along that line, anyway.

He took a deep breath then, pausing before he exhaled it softly. "In any case, well done. I've got a few more for you to read, and perhaps some planning exercises as well, but... first I'd like to tell you something, if you don't mind." Leon's face wore an expression that was hard to place, as if it had been caught somewhere between melancholy and... something else. Acceptance, maybe, or thoughtfulness.

Khari might be pretty socially oblivious on the best of days, but even she knew this had to be something important. She stiffened almost by reflex, but then forced herself to relax, blinking large green eyes over at Leon. She didn't like the look on his face—hated it, in fact. He might be a pretty serious guy on the average day, maybe, but she knew all about the dry-bone sense of humor under it, and the fact that she couldn't sense it now bothered her. He shouldn't have any reason to look so fucking sad.

But even she had a feeling she wasn't going to get what she wanted on this one. “Is it about what happened at Kasos, before that guy stabbed you?" Khari had seen a lot of battlefield ferocity. Hell, she was probably one of the worst offenders she'd ever met when it came to sheer carnage. That was what happened when keeping herself alive meant tapping into her anger and letting it loose. But Leon that day... he'd made everything she was capable of look like a skinny kid with a stick all over again. In more ways than one, and not all of them good.

He grimaced; his jaw tightened. "Yes," he replied softly. "And no." Looking indecisive for a moment, Leon stood, crossing to the table she was seated at and taking the chair directly across from her. The table was only about two feet wide, creating a sense of very little space, considering how much he towered even with his posture hunched, as it was now.

He looked down at his hands, presently ungloved. They had become so mottled with damage and scar tissue over time that his knuckles were white spiderwebbed over shiny pink, gradually receding into the parts of his hands that weren't quite so frequently destroyed. But even there, lines crisscrossed, slashes of paler tissue knotted subtly over his already-fair skin. There was a new one forming over his palm, where he'd stopped the Lord Seeker's halberd mid-swing. He usually wore at least thin leather to cover them, but not when it was just them. "I don't know why, but somehow it's much harder to tell you this than it has been to tell anyone else."

Khari wasn't really sure why either, but she didn't like where this was going. “Because I'm so awesome it's intimidating to talk to me?" The grin she stretched across her face wavered and disappeared quickly, unable to quite penetrate the cloud of discomfort settling over their little corner of the room. Instead, she thinned her lips, ducking her head to meet his eyes. It wasn't so hard, considering the height difference. “Hey Leon... whatever it is, you know you're still great, right? Nobody can change my mind about that—not even you. I'm a stubborn sonuvabitch once I've decided I like somebody."

He exhaled a soft huff at that, though it wasn't quite even, like his breath would have shaken if he'd released it more slowly. "I know you are," he replied, dipping his head but choosing not to break eye contact. "Maybe that's what I'm worried about." He didn't explain that, though, instead visibly gathering himself to get around to what he wanted to say. "I'm... I'm dying, Khari. And not slowly. This might be the last summer I get." His throat worked as he swallowed, but he fell silent, regarding her with a clear mix of expectancy and resignation.

It felt like all the air had left her lungs. Like all at once, everything that kept her moving and active and alive had just... stopped. Heartbeat, breathing, train of thought, everything. She didn't know how long it lasted, how long she just stared at him, searching for the joke or the trick or the caveat she somehow knew she wouldn't find. He wouldn't joke about something like that. It wasn't the kind of thing anyone should joke about.

So he was telling the truth.

That thought started her brain going again, and the rest of her along with it. Khari shook herself, swallowing back the lump that had risen in her throat. “You're—but—how? Why?" She wasn't sure that was coherent, but then she also wasn't sure she could manage coherent right now. This wasn't the kind of bad news that she could just take in her stride, because it wasn't the kind where the setback was temporary, or where a little more practice, or effort, or just time would help it work itself out. And she knew without having to ask that there wasn't a damn thing she could do. That didn't quite hurt the most, but maybe the second-most.

Leon dropped his eyes to the table again, running a finger along the edge of a diagram she'd drawn during her last lesson. He'd had her running mock scenarios on some of the Inquisition's previous battles. The image was of Haven the night Corypheus attacked. "Reaver tonic," he said. "Repeated doses. I can explain the alchemy to you if you want, but it's not important." He shook his head faintly. "You know, if I were more like you, I wouldn't have this problem. But all my strength, all my... capability. It's borrowed. Not my own. This is just the debt coming due." He sounded almost wry. Like he'd accepted that much. Perhaps he had—he'd surely known it was coming for quite some time.

"I'm going to last as long as I can. Maybe it'll be longer than I think. But this... it's not the kind of thing willpower or strength can resolve. My body is decaying. Healing magic won't stop it. I wish I could say something more optimistic, but my position demands realism."

Khari felt her lower lip tremble. Probably she should be angry. Angry at him for not telling her, angry that the world had treated him this way, that this was his lot. Angry at the inevitability of it and angry that he seemed to think he deserved it—that it was just the price he owed for being what he was. And she was, she thought, angry about all of that. She could feel it in her guts, a slow volcanic simmer. But more than that—worse than that—was the chill she felt, a little higher up in her chest, like someone had found a way to shoot an ice spell directly at her heart.

“You can't—you can't die." Her voice cracked, but she didn't care. “Who's gonna command the army? Or get out there and practice with the troops first thing in the morning? Or lead the charges from the front, or quiz me on all the books I read, or teach me how not to be a big idiot, or beat me at capture the flag or—" Her teeth clicked shut. She could say a million other things, about how other army commanders wouldn't have cared enough to look after a bunch of orphaned kittens or talked to an elf in the ranks like she deserved to be taken seriously, or stuttered hilariously when she told him how impressed she was with his conditioning. Mostly they were selfish things, though, and really they all came down to one basic point.

“You make me feel like it's gonna be okay, Leon. Like we've really got a chance, like what we do matters, and I don't—fuck." She couldn't even finish her sentences right. There was a hot sting at the back of her eyes; she could feel the pressure building behind her cheekbones.

Leon looked like he didn't know what to do with himself. Almost shellshocked, like someone as strong as he was had punched him square in the jaw. "I tried not to make any friends," he said, almost too low to hear. Reaching up, he dragged both hands down his face, letting them land heavily on the table again. His eyes weren't any drier than hers. "I did my best to set things up so that it would be simple, to keep them moving if it happened while I was here." He exhaled, the tremble in his breath obvious now. The faintest hint of a wry smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "But you really don't make it easy for people not to be your friend. Before I knew it, I had more than one, even."

He shook his head, hands closing into fists where they rested. "My whole life, I've managed to be more or less alone. Solitary. Willing to give up whatever was necessary to do my duty. And now, when I really can't let myself be otherwise, suddenly I—" He grimaced. "Suddenly I just want to live."

Khari gritted her teeth hard to stop whatever it was that fought to tear free of her. Probably a sob, or a hiccup, or something like that. Instead, she gripped the edge of the table, pulling herself up onto it and lunging forward, scattering papers and knocking over her neat stack of books. They didn't matter. What mattered a lot more was the fact that he was within hug range now, and that was what she did, leaning forward and throwing her arms around his neck. She didn't have anything to give him but this. No advice, no solution or cure or anything. Just this.

That was what scared her about having friends. About caring about people. Situations just like now—where someone she wanted to help was suffering and there was nothing at all she could do. He said he hadn't wanted to make friends, and she understood perfectly well why. Because this hurt a million times more than it would have if they'd never mattered to each other. He could have died content enough with what he'd done, and she wouldn't have had to watch it from such a near distance. Her fingers tightened in the roughspun fabric over his back, forehead resting against his shoulder. Even with her knees on the tabletop, he was so damn tall.

Leon went from stiff to slack underneath her, less relaxing than surrendering, like the whole thing was inevitable. Cautiously at first, he slid his thick arms around her middle, leaning his head a bit so his chin rested on her crown. When she remained where she was, he tightened his grip a little, a heavy breath gusting over her head. "When it happens, I—will you be there?"

She didn't want to think about it. Khari didn't want to plan what she would be doing on the day Leon died, because she didn't want to face the fact that he would. She didn't want to believe she'd have to wake up some morning and learn that it was the last day she'd get to spend with her friend. But it was worse than that, because Leon was something more than just her friend—a word that, on its own, she threw around too easily. He was a teacher and a mentor, but that wasn't quite right, either. She didn't have a word for what it was, and that frustrated her, too. All she knew was how important it was.

“If." She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling two warm fat tears leak out of their corners. Khari couldn't bring herself to give a shit. If there was anything worth crying over, something like this was it. “If it happens, I'll—" She choked, then sobbed, unable to make it stop. “I'll tell you the stupidest fucking jokes, and give you the best fucking hug you've had in your whole fucking life, Leon. Whatever you want. Whatever—" She turned her face into his shoulder, unable to say anything else.

Something landed on her head, like the first raindrop on a cloudy day, but warmer. He shook in her grip, a strained chuckle and maybe something else bubbling partway up in his chest. "It'll be difficult to beat this one," he said, rubbing her back a little with one huge hand. "But I'll hold you to that."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by AugustArria
SĂ©verine watched as the red-headed young templar focused intently on the hilt of her sword, the tip planted in the dirt before her. Across the training yard from her, a straw dummy stood with arms outstretched, blank face taunting her with every moment it remained intact. Other templars trained around them, the air filled with a familiar chorus of clashing practice swords and clangs of weapons against shields and armor. It would be harder to focus without all the noise, to be honest. That was how accustomed they were to it.

Their captain had been drilling them daily, and drilling them hard. They knew why, and they were more than willing to meet the challenge. Impossibly powerful though the Red Templars became physically, they lost certain gifts that their uncorrupted brethren maintained. A templar's purpose was to destroy corruption, and her abilities were suited for it. They betrayed what they were, what they swore to protect, and so they had to turn to foul new gifts and diseases they could spread like a plague.

Of course, a templar's traditional gifts were difficult to learn, and they went beyond striking magic away with a swing of a sword. The templar SĂ©verine observed, one Knight-Corporal Leanna, had been working at one specific skill for the entire week, ever since she publicly declared to her captain that she was capable of it. She proved nothing if not patient, and while it seemed as though she came close several times, she'd never been able to replicate her success in front of SĂ©verine.

She wondered if she shouldn't say something, but Leanna had shown no signs of frustration, and so she continued to watch. Her faith was rewarded no more than a few minutes later, when the templar's sword suddenly glowed a bright white, and a pillar of cleansing light gathered around the straw dummy. With a loud crack, the ground was powerfully scorched all around it, leaving the dummy almost immediately cooked to a crisp.

The templars temporarily ceased their training to turn and look at the aftermath, no few of them offering quiet congratulations before they returned to their work. They knew what SĂ©verine would say before she opened her mouth.

"Well done, Knight-Corporal," she said, offering a little smile. "Now, do it again. The enemy will not give you several days to prepare your abilities."

"Yes, Captain." She nodded, turning her attention to the next dummy, resetting her stance, and focusing again.

There was a minor disturbance off to the left; several of the Templars abruptly stood at attention and saluted. It was quite clear why when Leon's head and shoulders appeared above the rest. He tapped his fist to his heart in a short response, scanning over the assembled until his eyes found hers. "Captain, if you have a moment, the Lady Inquisitor has requested we see her in the war room."

SĂ©verine nodded, and followed after him as they left the training ground behind. Estella was not known for calling people away from their work or training without very good cause, so she didn't bother questioning what for. Likely Leon didn't actually know yet either. She watched his gait while she caught up to him, studying it. He seemed to be recovering well from the wounds suffered at Kasos, but he wasn't fully healed yet, that much was clear to her. He was better than most at hiding such things as well, she'd learned.

They walked in silence, making their way up the stairs into the central keep, a pair of guards saluting their arrival at the massive doors leading inside. The weather was pleasant enough to simply keep one of them open at all times, and it saved the guards on duty the trouble of opening and closing them for every new arrival. They slipped inside and walked briskly past the main hall, the soft clinks of the mail under SĂ©verine's templar armor echoing quietly off the walls.

They took a left before reaching the throne, making their way down the hall and to the doors of the war room, where Leon opened the way and closed it behind them. SĂ©verine did find this room suitably impressive, particularly the carved table serving as a seat for their map, like the powerful roots and trunk of a great tree holding up Thedas.

"Inquisitor, Spymaster," she greeted Estella and Rilien in turn, the Inquisitor apparently having already fetched their head of intelligence. They gathered around the table. "What's the news?"

Estella offered a slight smile. "Captain SĂ©verine. Leon. Thanks for coming." She stood on the opposite side of the large table, directly next to Rilien. "I've asked you here because we received a request for help from Kirkwall." She nodded at a trifolded parchment on the table, its broken wax seal in crimson easily recognizable as the Viscountess's. "You can read it if you like, but there aren't many details. I believe Sophia was vague for reasons of security. The gist of it is that there are some issues with red lyrium arising in Kirkwall, and she's hoping a small group of our people will be able to lend assistance."

She paused there, pursing her lips momentarily. "I thought the two of you might want to come, for a variety of reasons. Most importantly, you've been dealing with the red lyrium issue more directly than anyone else, and it's exactly that experience that Kirkwall probably needs most right now."

SĂ©verine wasn't quite ready for the jump her heart made, and not entirely for good reasons. On the one hand, home. She'd never really been sure she considered Kirkwall as such until she was forced to leave it behind for some time, but then it became perfectly clear. It was where she'd found herself, who she wanted to be. The thought of returning again was as tantalizing as it had been last time, only now... red lyrium in Kirkwall again. It was somewhat troubling that the Viscountess would be hesitant to give details in the letter, in case of interception. In all likelihood that meant they had something that would lose its value entirely if the enemy found out about it.

Which meant they needed to act on this quickly. "I can prepare to leave at once, Inquisitor. Will you be leading the team, then?" It would certainly make sense, as Estella had a good relationship already established with Lady Sophia, and she was familiar with the city besides, neither of which could be said of Romulus.

"I will," Estella confirmed with a small nod. "Given that this represents the first time a head of state has officially asked the Inquisition for its assistance, Lady Marceline will be accompanying us as well. I thought Khari would round out the group effectively, but since Sophia asked for a small group, I think it's best not to add anyone else." She paused, glancing down at the map. "Though if anyone had any contrary suggestions, I'm perfectly happy to discuss them before we make anything final."

"It seems sound enough to me," Leon replied. "I doubt we'll want to involve Lady Marceline if there are anything like Red Templars to be fought, but a diplomatic attaché would not be unwise for this situation. And we'll have better numbers than our last encounter with them, I'm sure." His smile was a little strained, evidence that he may yet be in pain, though whether it was physical or not was a bit harder to tell.

Rilien inclined his head by way of agreement to the last statement, it seemed. “Kirkwall's native forces are not inconsiderable." He blinked, moving a flat gaze from Leon to Estella. “No doubt there will be plans in place already when you arrive, but do not hesitate to suggest amendments if you see places they can be made. It is likely that the Inquisition's knowledge and expertise is the point of the summons in the first place." The advice seemed to be directed for the Lady Inquisitor specifically, almost as if the tranquil were trying to reassure her of something.

Whatever its intent, it looked to have that effect; Estella's shoulders eased just enough to be noticeable. She hummed a short note. "Right. I'll keep that in mind."

So that was settled. SĂ©verine would go with Estella, Marceline, Leon, and Khari to Kirkwall to assist her Excellence with the red lyrium problem. SĂ©verine found that she was both excited and a little nervous, perhaps in part because of what she felt she should say next. Though she hadn't called this meeting, the thought had been occurring to her over the past week or more, and now seemed to be the best time to voice it.

She cleared her throat. "Since I have your ears for the moment, and since we'll be traveling to Kirkwall, there's something else I've been meaning to discuss." She glanced at Leon when she said it. Admittedly, she'd meant to have the discussions with him first before bringing it to the others, but Estella was easy to speak to, and while Rilien was undoubtedly not the warmest person, he never came across as unreasonable. "The Chantry has been floundering and leaderless for far too long now, I think we can all agree. They bicker endlessly over who should be the next Divine. As for our position, Halamshiral served as proof that our influence can have weight. If we were to lend our support to a candidate, they would have an excellent chance of becoming Divine."

Her eyes fell to the map on the table, to the spot where the City of Chains was marked on the southern coast of the Free Marches. "With that in mind, I thought I would put forward the idea that Lady Sophia might make an excellent Divine, if given the chance. With your leave, I would like to present the idea to her, and see how she feels about it."

Despite the fact that they hadn't spoken of this directly, Leon didn't seem particularly surprised by the proposal, glancing at her for just a second before his eyes settled on the Lady Inquisitor. "The Captain makes a fair point," he added. "There are... not many standout candidates."

Estella tilted her head thoughtfully. She crossed her arms, though only loosely, shifting her weight to a more comfortable standing position. "Who are the others? Not that I disagree Sophia would be a good one, it's just... well, giving anyone official backing would depend on a lot of things." She smiled wryly. "Definitely including her interest, as you implied."

Rilien, of course, gave absolutely no reaction at all, therefore parting with no clues as to whether he'd expected anything of the sort to come up. At Estella's question, though, he removed his hands from his sleeves, where he seemed to keep them a lot of the time, and let them drop to his sides. “There are dozens of potential candidates, most of them tied to the existing hierarchy in Val Royeaux. None of them are especially strong; it is well understood that those who survived the Conclave generally did so because they were not important enough to have been in attendance." He paused, eyes falling to the map.

“It is not common for the Divine to be drawn from outside the Chantry structure, but it has happened before. Likewise, most have been nobility, but commoners are possible as well. My agents report that little has been decided among the acting Grand Clerics; there isn't a single establishment candidate. Some names appear with higher frequency than others." Turning his head slightly, Rilien regarded Estella from the corner of his eye. “Lady Sophia has been mentioned only in passing, but not with disfavor. High Seeker Ophelia comes up slightly more frequently, along with one or two higher-ranking female Templars, most of them from the Anderfels. And then, of course, there is you."

"The Anderfels makes sense, since the issues with the southern templars probably haven't reached that far—" Estella halted awkwardly midsentence, the last part of Rilien's statement only then catching up with her, it seemed. Her eyes rounded. "Wait, what? Me? They... they do remember I'm from Tevinter, right? And a mage, and—er." She cut herself off, grimacing. "They can't be serious."

Leon shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised if it hadn't gotten around that you were a mage," he said. "And while no doubt your nationality is a significant deterrent, it might not be as much of one as your reputation continues to grow. I'd prepare myself to hear a lot more of that, were I you."

"Um." Estella cleared her throat and shook her head. "I'll just go ahead and say right now that it's not happening. My magic isn't... it's not the only thing about me that would come as an unpleasant surprise to some of them, and besides that my place is here." She shook her head emphatically. "If the state of things is really that desperate, though, it might be a very good idea to see what Sophia makes of your suggestion, Captain." She looked a little unsure about that, her brows knitting together, but at a guess it wasn't because she thought the Viscountess a poor candidate.

SĂ©verine wasn't sure about it herself, but mostly for personal reasons. Her Excellence would be a very outside candidate; as SĂ©verine understood it her faith had become a personal matter due to events leading up to her reign. But if the Chantry didn't need a shake-up from an outside candidate now, then she didn't know when it ever would. And she couldn't think of a better woman to do that than Sophia. If her mind could be set to it, her becoming Divine would be all but guaranteed. The stir it would cause alone would give her enough discussion in the Chantry to be pushed over the top. All the other candidates were too forgettable, save for perhaps Ophelia or of course Estella, though SĂ©verine happened to agree that her place should remain as Inquisitor.

"I'll bring it to her, then," she said, glancing at Leon again. "Though, perhaps not alone." As much as she liked the idea of Sophia taking up the mantle of Divine, she was not fond of the personal cost she would be asking of her. She would need to give up much in the pursuit, least of all her rule over Kirkwall, the city she belonged to and loved through all of its hardships.

She shook the thought off. "If there's nothing else, I should go prepare. Need to make sure my templars take no rest while I'm away."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
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There, in the heart of them, sang a Lady radiant
And clad in armor of bright steel.
She paused her song to look upon Shartan,
And said to him: "All souls who take up the sword
Against Tevinter are welcome here.
Rest, and tell us of your battles."
-Canticle of Shartan 9:23
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The Riptide was smooth under her feet as it glided into the harbor. Estella stood at the very prow of the boat, watching the familiar line of docks get closer. The boom-chain across the slave statues hadn't been used in a very long time, but it wasn't necessary to create a very real sense of foreboding. A lot about Kirkwall could do that—perhaps, in time, when things were more peaceful and there were resources for such projects, Sophia might have them removed. But even the darkness of the city's visible history couldn't stop the flutter of anticipation in the Lady Inquisitor's belly.

Kirkwall. The place her life had changed forever.

Maybe that was a little bit dramatic, but that didn't stop it from being true. She'd come here half-dead, lost and alone. Certain that there was nothing for her in the world any longer, and that even if there had been anything, she wouldn't have deserved it. Because of what she'd done. Who she was. But somehow... the people she'd met here had given her a place to belong, people to belong with. The best parts of life, held out freely for her at every juncture, in patient hands that were willing to wait for her to decide it was okay for her to accept them. They'd made something out of her. Out of... not out of nothing, though she'd have thought so once. But out of someone broken. The city of chains had set her free.

Someone called out behind her, no doubt giving some signal to help guide the boat into port. Estella turned away from the docks in front of her, knowing that her old barracks were a mere stone's throw away, if she made the right turns. The temptation to visit there first was overwhelming, but she knew she couldn't do that. Instead, she headed starboard as the ship drifted into place, stopped by its anchor in the water, and the crew lowered the gangplank to the dock.

Rather than any large, official-looking greeting party assembled on the dock, the group from the Inquisition was met by a pair of Kirkwall city guards a comfortable distance on either side of a beardless dwarf. He was a familiar sight to Estella, a little less stocky than some of his kind, with golden blonde hair swept back from his face and kept in a short ponytail. He was dressed in his usual style, a longcoat with rolled up sleeves, and a shirt opened up halfway down his hairy chest. As ever, his uniquely advanced crossbow was slung across his back, his most precious possession.

"Stardust," he greeted amicably. "You're looking well. I figured all that saving the world would've chewed you up, but here you are, still in one piece. It's good to see you." He turned his attention to the others of the shore party as they made their way off the boat. "Varric Tethras, at your service. Queenie sent me to walk you up to Hightown. You're a little early; we might even beat her back to the Keep."

"Varric!" Estella smiled brightly. She'd not have guessed that he'd be leading the welcoming party, so to speak, but neither was she all that surprised. He always seemed to have a ear against every door, so to speak, and if anyone knew what was going on in Kirkwall better than he did these days, she'd be surprised. "It's good to see you, too. We got a nice wind on the sea, I suppose."

She paused long enough for the others to descend. "I'm sure the introductions will repeat like they always do, but this is Khari, Leon, SĂ©verine, and Lady Marceline. I'll save the titles for when they're really necessary." They certainly weren't right now—though she had no doubt they'd soon be in much more official company. If they were being taken straight to Hightown, it seemed there was little time to waste. "Lead on."

"Right this way," he said with a slight flourish of his hand. "I hope you all like stairs." The guards assigned to him kept at a reasonable distance to allow the visitors to walk alongside Varric if they wanted.

The city had changed in a number of subtle ways since Estella had last been there. The streets were cleaner in both the figurative and literal senses, though it could just be that any suspicious figures had enough sense to get out of sight when an Inquisition party and city guards came up the street. There was no hiding, however, that the bustle and activity in the city was higher now than it ever had been a few years ago, in the aftermath of all the chaos the rift between mage and templar caused. It seemed in the quiet afforded by peace Kirkwall became what it was meant to be again. A port city with connections to Orlais, Ferelden, and the other Marcher states, a hub of trade.

Varric hadn't been kidding about the stairs, though of course Estella had no need of the warning. Kirkwall was a very vertical city, and still unable to escape the correlation between altitude and prosperity. That said, there was noticeable improvement to Lowtown as well once they entered it properly, and no few passerby greeted Varric as he led them onwards.

"I'll give anyone who wants one a full tour once Queenie's done with you, but for now..." He paused at a crossroads, at the base of a much more impressive set of stairs leading steeply upwards towards the pale stone walls surrounding Hightown. "This here's the top of Lowtown. Foundry district to the west, Alienage to the east, docks to the south the way we came, and markets everywhere you look. If you'll look behind you," he waited for anyone who chose to do so, "you'll see my pride and joy. Temporary hideout of Wardens and Viscountesses alike."

There was a touch of melancholy to go along with the pride of his last words there, for reasons Estella did not need to guess at. Behind them was Varric's beloved watering hole, The Hanged Man. It seemed it too had seen some renovations, though it remained to be seen if the quality of the drinks had improved at all.

"You'll have to stop by for a game of Wicked Grace before you leave. Can't say I've had much of a challenge since you left, Stardust."

Estella's smile grew; she almost laughed. "Can't say I really have either, Varric. You might have to take it easy on me; I haven't needed a good graceface in a while."

He grinned at her, and gestured for them to follow again. "Alright, up we go."

Lady Marceline took the stairs easily, gliding upwardly behind the dwarf. "If you do not mind me asking, Ser Varric," she began, taking in the view as she spoke. "But if the Viscountess is not currently at the Keep, then where might she be?" She asked. "I understand she is a rather active leader," Marceline added. She appeared to ask out of personal curiosity than any official sense, and waited for the answer with a raised brow.

Varric laughed a bit awkwardly. "None of this ser business is necessary, first off." He didn't seem offended by it at all, however. "No matter what titles Queenie wants to give me, I'm no noble. Not here, anyway. As for her whereabouts, she took her shiny new citizen-army out beyond the walls for some training exercises. Getting the commoners and nobility to run some drills side by side. We should catch them on their way back in."

Khari had mostly been listing slightly off to the side, untroubled by the number of stairs and using the opportunity to take in a place she'd never been before. At the mention of a citizen army and drills, however, her attention returned predictably enough to the group and the conversation. She clearly hadn't been tuning it out entirely. “A militia? Last I heard, Kirkwall had a city guard and some famous mercs, discounting the criminal guilds. Starting up an army's a pretty bold move for a midsized Marcher city." From her tone, it was clearly boldness she personally appreciated.

Varric took a brief moment to make another appraisal of Khari, deciding something. "I'd say Qunari armies and mage-templar wars have convinced this city it could use something a little more formidable, Red. For defensive purposes only, of course. I hear that was something Queenie repeatedly had to convince some representatives from Ostwick of." That was unsurprising. The Free Marcher states all dutifully watched one another, wary of any move that could be seen as a power grab. The building of an army was certainly something that would cause some alarm.

"With any luck the city will never need the army, and we'll get along fine with our mercs and guards. For now it's a nice team building exercise. Even got a few elves in the infantry. Her Excellence turns away no volunteers, but that's no surprise. She's spent more time in Lowtown than the rest of the nobility combined."

Next to Estella, Leon reached up to scratch the bridge of his nose. He wasn't showing it, but the stairs might have been wearing on him a little more than the others. Understandable, considering how recently he'd been on the cusp of death—Estells understood that the sword he'd been stabbed with had only barely missed his heart. "Defensive or not, I would be unsurprised if this proved to be the beginning of a trend in standing armies for the Free Marches," he remarked thoughtfully. "And that will get just about everyone's attention."

It would certainly get Tevinter's, Estella thought. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing by any means, and no doubt Sophia had weighed all the factors very carefully. The possible implications spun out in her thoughts, but she put them aside for now. They were here to help with a more immediate problem, it seemed like, and though she'd never not be concerned with her friends and this place that had done so much for her, there was a time for everything.

"And how have you been yourself, Varric? The Hanged Man's looking... nicer."

"Not too much, I hope," he answered with a laugh. "We've still got to fit in with the rest of Lowtown. But it's been good, these last few years. Turns out there's time for productivity when there's less excitement. Aside from running The Hanged Man, Queenie's named me one of her advisors. She can't escape the Keep as much as she used to, so she makes use of me to keep her up to date on what Lowtown needs. It's been a good deal." The two of them went back a number of years. When Estella had first arrived in Kirkwall Sophia had actually been living in The Hanged Man.

"And of course there's been more time to write. Got a few things with my editor I think you might be interested in. I'll make sure Skyhold gets copies." It seemed they were finally reaching the top of the stairs. SĂ©verine gave Leon a subtly concerned look, but made no mention of it, instead turning her eyes on the Hightown market.

It was more colorful than before, with many stalls that would not have been out of place in Val Royeaux for their lavishness. Of course, Kirkwall received traders from all over Thedas, and nearly everything from jewelry to exotic northern fruits could be found in Hightown. They hadn't come to shop, however, and Varric led them up the last few smaller flights of stairs, onto the most impressive streets the city had to offer.

Before them was the intentionally intimidating approach to the Viscountess's Keep, a wide, stone-paved road flanked by rows of white pillars and covered walkways on other side, leading up to yet more wide steps that would take them into the keep itself, the towers of which soared into the air. To their right was Hightown's main street, lined with rows of trees casting merciful shade to protect citizens from the harsh summer sun. Beyond would be the chantry building, fully reconstructed after its destruction at the outbreak of the mage-templar war, though Sophia had elected a more modest design for the city's place of worship.

Far to their left they could see the city gates, which were just now opening. The city guards stepped aside for a column of riders fully armored in shining steel, their horses similarly geared. The riders came in at a trot, carrying lances with tips pointing straight up to the clouds. They had a definite aura about them, perhaps not the same deadly confidence a fully trained group of chevaliers carried, but all the same a certain pride that conveyed that they were formidable.

At their head was the Viscountess, armored head to toe and unmistakable atop a white destrier. An attendant immediately approached to receive her lance and helm, but her hand-and-a-half sword remained sheathed across her back. Spotting the party Varric had retrieved, she dismounted and handed off her reins, approaching them on foot. Her golden hair was bound up in several braids around her head to restrain it underneath the helmet, and a gleam of sweat could be seen drying across her brow. She pulled off her gloves and tucked them underneath her belt as she came before them.

"Looks like I made it back just in time," she said, smiling at them all. "Thank you for escorting them, Varric."

"It was my pleasure." Varric bowed perhaps more deeply than was necessary before he turned to Estella. "I leave you in most capable hands. See you around, Stardust." He grinned, and took his leave.

"It's good to see you again, Estella, Lady Marceline. SĂ©verine." She nodded in greeting to the templar captain, who saluted and bowed her head in return. "Ser Leonhardt." Sophia had met most of them briefly when she visited Skyhold, but it would seem she hadn't met the last member of their group yet, judging by how her smile grew slightly. "And you must be Khari. I don't believe we've met, but I've heard many good things about you from the Lady Inquisitor." She offered her hand for Khari to shake.

Khari grinned, accepting the handshake with no reservations whatsoever. “Stel would say good things about a bereskarn. It's nice to meet you, Lady Sophia." She blinked. “Unless I can drop the 'Lady' part, in which case it's great." She seemed pretty confident that Sophia wouldn't mind. Probably because that's how Estella always referred to her.

"Of course," she conceded, turning to see the ranks of Kirkwall's infantry passing through the gate behind the last of the mounted troops. Whoever had outfitted them had done excellent work. They didn't appear as any cobbled-together militia, with each soldier only wearing what he or she could scrounge up before being sent off to battle. The majority of their protection came from mail, with some added plate guarding the most vulnerable areas, and hardened leather covering the rest. Those armed with crossbows went without the plate, but all troops were equipped with sturdy steel helmets.

It didn't match the impressive plate the members of the city guard wore, but then, there were much fewer of them. They walked in alongside the infantry, though as the last ranks filed in and the gates were closed behind them all were allowed to disperse. It would seem their weapons and armor were their own to take back to their homes. Obviously pleased, Sophia gestured for the others to follow her. "Come, we should get inside, have something to drink. There's much to discuss, and not all of it pleasant."

As they made their way towards the Keep a rider made his way alongside them. He was plainly one of the nobles, sitting with an ease in the saddle that implied years of experience. He was also extremely handsome, with shoulder-length waves of thick brown hair, and the way he carried himself said that he both knew it, and enjoyed it. Not unlike Ves, in that respect. He smiled down at Sophia. "I think that went very well, Excellency. Perhaps we could discuss it tonight, over dinner?"

"Perhaps. If other matters do not keep me." She glanced at the Inquisition party walking beside her. "Everyone, this is Lord William Alston, Baron of Rose Hall." Indeed, the flower had been emblazoned on the face of the shield across his back.

"And Captain of the Queen's Companions," he added, his smile morphing to a grin.

"An unofficial name, at least for the moment." Sophia made the correction with some irritation. It wasn't hard to tell that this William had been using it for some time, and also ignoring her reservations about it.

"You're with the Inquisition," he pointed out, noting the crests a few of them wore. His eyes then went to Sophia. "I wasn't aware we were receiving them."

"They'll be staying a short time," Sophia assured him. "Lady Inquisitor Estella is a personal friend of mine, and of Kirkwall's. She needs no one's permission to return here."

"Lady Inquisitor," William repeated, as though he'd only just now seen Estella walking with them. He dismounted, the group coming to a temporary halt as he bowed. "Forgive my rudeness, I did not recognize you. It's an honor."

Estella would hardly have expected anyone to recognize her on sight. It wasn't as though she presented herself in such a way as to make her position obvious. Distracted by the mention of 'Queen's Companions,' she almost took too long to catch up with the rest of the conversation, but her reply was timely enough. "No need to apologize, milord," she replied easily, "and certainly no need to be so formal. As Sophia mentioned, I'm a friend, and we're here mostly because of that." She liked to think she was getting a little better at dealing with this sort of response, though—the first few times had felt a lot more awkward than this one did.

He lifted his head and smiled at her. "Ah, wonderful." He looked back to Sophia. "Allow me to get out of your way, then."

"We'll speak later," she promised. "But you've done well. The cavalry are looking very promising."

He bowed his thanks, before turning to smoothly step up into the saddle again, and turn his horse around, rejoining some of the others of his group. Mercifully no one else approached or stopped Sophia on their way in, and it wasn't long before they were in the cooler shade of the Keep's interior.

Unlike the rest of the city, the Keep looked more or less the same as it had before, with no great change in the decor from the way Sophia's father had left it. Long rugs of crimson trimmed in gold covered pathways of dark stone. The entryway had always had a cold feel to it, but it was difficult to avoid with how high the ceiling was, how massive the pillars were. There was a new falcon statue against one of the walls, in the direction of the guard quarters.

Sophia led them towards her office rather than the throne room, taking them left and up a short flight of stairs. On the balcony her seneschal, Bran, awaited her, though he merely nodded in greeting upon seeing she was accompanied by several guests. He opened one of the doors and let them in.

She kept her workplace tidy and well organized. Ample space greeted them as they first entered, room to meet with guests such as themselves, while a smaller table with two chairs around was tucked into the near right corner for speaking with just one visitor more personally. The floor was covered by a large square rug, deep burgundy in color, probably Antivan. One of the walls was lined with bookshelves, each one filled to the brim with tomes that looked to be either historical or informational in nature. On the opposite wall was a prominently displayed painting, the style of it immediately familiar to Estella. The woman portrayed could only be Sophia's mother, judging by the likeness.

"I'm afraid water's all I have on hand at the moment," Sophia said, pointing to a pitcher and cups on one of the corner tables. "I'd have prepared a better greeting for you, but I didn't want to make a show of your arrival. This matter with the red lyrium is somewhat sensitive, and if word spread about why you were coming we might lose an opportunity." She unbuckled her sword sheath, propping it against her desk before she took a seat in the chair behind. "Ash can explain the situation more fully, he should be along shortly."

It did not take him long to arrive either. His footsteps were heard before he was, and after a muffled exchange with Bran behind the door, he allowed him in. Ashton strode into the office with his bow unstrung and hanging from his quiver, which also hung from two fingers over his shoulder. He did not arrive alone either, a stalwart looking Mabari hound padding gently at his side. He looked better than Estella had last seen him. A faint smile even managed to linger in the corner of his lips. His hair was a mess, undoubtedly the helmet that he carried under his other arm was to blame, and his plate still bore evidence of activity, with a fine layer of dust on the shoulders, and sand on his boots.

He inclined his head toward their visitors, the faint smile growing stronger with their sight. "Stel," he greeted first, before turning toward the rest of them, "Uh, Inquisition." The Mabari fixed her gaze on Estella as well, before she loped up to her and stared up expectantly, panting softly and wagging what little of a tail she had. Ashton chuckled as he made his way toward an empty chair and dumped his gear into it. "Think Snuffy wants some love, Stel," he laughed, pouring himself a glass of water.

And Estella was happy to give it, kneeling down to put herself on a level with the hound and reaching over to scrub her hands over Snuffy's neck and back, pausing to scratch at a particularly favorite spot over one of her hips. "And how are you, Serah Princess von Snufflynose?" she asked, voice pitched higher than usual.

Snuffy loved it. Her spine straightened and her eyes closed as she gave into the scratching. It caused Ash to grin from the sight of it. "Didn't miss much, did I?" he asked, before taking a drink.

"Not yet," Estella replied, giving Snuffy and her many unnecessary titles one last pat before she stood again. "We were hoping you could give us the rundown on the situation, actually." She offered a half-formed smile. "It's good to see you, but seems best to save the catching up for after the rest of this."

"Alas, duty calls. As always," he said with a mock bow, before taking one last drink. He then made his way over to Sophia's desk, and chose an unoccupied corner to take a seat. "You already know we've run into some issues involving red lyrium," he said, pausing for a second to reflect. "Well, recent issues, I should say," he amended with a shake of his head. Undoubtedly he was referring back to Meredith and her red lyrium induced madness those few years back. He shrugged and continued.

"Well, the gist is we believe that red lyrium is being smuggled into the city," he laid out flat for them. He let that sink in for a moment, before he continued and explained further. "Thanks to Varric and his many, many, eyes and ears in the city, we were able to track down and apprehend a Red-- alive, believe it or not," he sighed deeply at that and shook his head again, "It... was not easy, though I bet you already knew that," he added with a half smile.

Snuffy had drifted away from Estella by now, and took up a seat on the other side of Ashton. He let his hand dangle loosely so that it rested on top of her head, where he absently scratched as he spoke. "She was part of a crew that was trying to bring the red lyrium into the city," he glanced at Sophia before returning back to the Inquisition. "We believe that her people haven't noticed her capture yet, so our thoughts were that if we were able to get her to cooperate... Well, it would make our job rooting out the rest of the smuggling operations a hell of a lot easier."

He leaned back after than, using a hand to prop himself against Sophia's desk. "My bet is on bad stuff going down in Darktown--well, worse then usual," he added with a shrug. "We just don't know where to aim without any useful information yet." He scratched at the shadow that was starting to grow in on his chin. At least it appeared he was shaving regularly again. "We're kind of pressed for time too, with the Red that we have," he added with a raise of his brow.

"Turn the Red Templar against her side before she dies, then?" SĂ©verine stood with arms crossed, taking in the situation. "Well, she's already a traitor, perhaps she'll be one twice over."

"It may be that this is new ground for all of us," Sophia pointed out. "But I trust you all to handle this with care, and act decisively to do what is best for Kirkwall. I'd go with you, but sadly I can't be spending my time rooting out evil in Darktown anymore. Still, I do the best I can from here, and that means sending you." She pushed back to her feet. "If you need any rest, feel free to take a moment here in the Keep. When you're ready, Ash will take you to the Gallows to meet with the prisoner. Cullen will be waiting for you there."

"We won't fail, Excellency," SĂ©verine promised, pressing a gauntlet to her heart.

Estella nodded. It wouldn't be an easy task, from the sounds of it, but... they could do this. "Leave it to us, Sophia."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by Talisman
It wasn't long after that Ashton had guided the Inquisition back down the numerous stairs from the keep and to the dock that faced the Gallows. After a short talk with the ferrymaster, they were all presently waiting patiently on the barge that would take them across the water to the Gallows. Ashton glanced upward at the towers that waited for the across the water and shook his head. They always looked so ominous as he approached them, though fortunately he had gotten used to them by now, on account of him basically working there. Still, he couldn't help but wonder about the thoughts crossing the minds of the others. Stel would have been used to it as well, he supposed, but the others...

"Heh, I'm sorry for the oppressive vibe the Gallows give. I should probably talk to Sophia about painting it a more cheerful color, or maybe changing the name," he chuckled. As he spoke, Snuffy had ventured away from his side and currently stood at the bow of the barge, watching their course resolutely and dutifully. "Though at this point, I think it might be too ingrained with the rest of the city. And besides, who wants to risk breaking the law and ending up getting sent to a place called the Gallows?" He added with a waggle of brows.

Lady Marceline glanced between him and the place in question before acquiescing with a nod of her head. "It is certainly a... deterrent," she agreed.

"It's no prettier on the inside, either," SĂ©verine commented, though the look she gave one of the towers was somewhat strange. Not fondness, but... respect, perhaps. As a former Kirkwall templar, she too had spent a great deal of time on the island fortress. "No sense hiding what it is, though. A prison and a dungeon, and a formidable one at that. Some of the slave imagery could use an overhaul, no doubt, but the fortress itself will always be strong, and I have a feeling the name will stay stuck, too."

Some of the slave imagery she mentioned went along with Meredith. The red lyrium idol piece she'd worked into her sword was powerful enough to animate the slave statues meant to intimidate all who passed through, and their subsequent destruction meant that their metal could be melted down and put to use elsewhere.

A group of templars awaited their arrival on the docks, their leader wearing a pelt of dark fur of some kind across his shoulders, hands resting on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip. Cullen Rutherford was lucky to be as well liked as he was in the city. A more hated Knight-Commander would have been kicked out by the nobility already, but even though Cullen had supported Meredith until her madness became apparent, he then did what he could to bring her down, and restore the city afterwards, a fact not lost on its people.

SĂ©verine was the first off the barge when it came in reach of the dock. Cullen offered her a smile, which she returned in full along with a salute. "Knight-Commander," she greeted. "We're here to help."

"Welcome home, Knight-Captain," he swept his eyes over the others as they disembarked. "And thank you for coming on short notice, Inquisition. High Seeker Leonhardt," his gaze settled on the tall Ander, "SĂ©verine's written about your efforts. I'm glad the Inquisition has you at its head. I believe there are some matters we should discuss, once this business is dealt with."

The Inquisition's own commander inclined his head, a mild smile on his face. "Knight-Commander. I look forward to it." He touched a hand to his chest just briefly, but did not divert the topic from the matters at hand.

"If you'll follow me," Cullen said, leading them off the docks and into the Gallows proper. There was a certain emptiness to it now, like the fortress was half dead already and gasping for air. There were likely a lot of factors contributing to that. The Circle tower had been unoccupied for years, any tomes or artifacts of value in its halls long since cleared out. Neither Cullen's templars nor the city guard had any use for it, so it simply sat in silence. The Gallows themselves were not as filled with prisoners as they had been in the years of Meredith's rule, or Marlowe Dumar's before her. Crime had been driven down, and though it could never be eliminated altogether, it had been a long time since a group like the Coterie had held any real power in Kirkwall.

The Knight-Commander took them into the dungeons, the prison cells, which were housed in the largest tower rather than beneath the earth, and operated by a constant shift from the guard, while the others were stationed in the Viscountess's Keep. Ashton had walked their halls a number of times, and not always as a guard. Cullen didn't take them up to the general holding cells, but rather to those in the base of the tower, the darkest cells with the smallest flames to provide light. Isolation cells, for the especially troublesome prisoners. It went without saying that a red templar would qualify as such.

Cullen stopped outside of the cell in question, which was guarded by a pair of city guards, and turned to face the others. "We haven't been able to get so much as a name. She won't speak to any templars, and so far the city guard haven't fared much better. It might be best if you wait here with me, SĂ©verine."

She couldn't help but show some disappointment, but nodded her acceptance. "As you say, Knight-Commander."

"Any questions before you begin? She can't hear us out here."

Leon hummed, a low rumble of sound, then crossed his arms. "What have you tried so far?" he asked. "And how have her conditions been, in general? It would help to know where we're starting." He sounded like someone who'd conducted more than his fair share of interrogations. Probably had, being a Seeker and all.

"The Gallows are not kind," Cullen admitted immediately. "Normally smuggling wouldn't put a prisoner on this level, but we can't put her in more open cells. The red lyrium, it... well, I'm sure you've already experienced the effects of exposure to it. We can't subject the other prisoners to that, so we were forced to put her here." He obviously wasn't fond of the result, but it was clear that there was nothing to be done about it.

"We haven't tried any physical means of interrogation," he continued. "Not that she hasn't suffered anyway. She grows sicker by the day without red lyrium. Rarely keeps any food down. At this rate, it seems she'll be dead within the week. This has made getting information from her problematic. Likely she doesn't see the point in doing much of anything."

"Grim," SĂ©verine remarked. "It sounds like a rough hand isn't what's needed here, if she would be welcoming of death."

"Then maybe we try a gentle one," Leon concluded, turning his eyes for a moment to Stel. Admittedly, she was a natural choice for such an approach—she didn't have the intimidating appearance most of the others shared.

She noticed, brows knitting, but then nodded slowly. "I'll help however everyone thinks is best, but this is Kirkwall. It's up to Ash how we go in, I think."

"You guys are the experts on all this red business. Our usual tactics haven't worked, so I'll follow your lead on this," Ashton stated. It wasn't like they were interrogating an undisciplined bandit who'd sell out his mates for a slice of bread, after. The templar was trained and drilled, and chances were wouldn't spill anything unless she thought it was her idea. She wasn't their usual customer, that much was certain. Even Cullen's templars couldn't get anything out of her--the Inquisition was their best bet.

Ashton leaned forward a bit, casting his gaze downward to the faithful hound that had been listening intently to their exchange. "Think you can stand guard out here and keep these two in line for me?" he asked, tossing a wink in his guards' direction. Snuffy accepted the order easily, though the lingering gaze that she'd given him told him that she wasn't entirely excited about it. He smiled as he watched her take up a watchful position in front one of the guards.

"Welp, shall we?" He asked the others, gesturing toward the door leading into the cell.Well

"Good luck," Cullen said, and the guards opened the door.

A single little torch burned on the wall left of the door, but it didn't even cast enough light to illuminate the corners of the room. The back right corner was quite obviously where their prisoner kept herself, judging by the fact that she herself was something of a light source. The woman sat against a wall curled into a round shape, stripped of her armor, wearing only the shirt and pants that had been underneath the disguise they'd caught her in.

As Ashton had heard it, her red lyrium corruption wasn't all that bad yet, but it was still difficult to look at, especially when the person bearing it was no longer threatening. The most notable bits of red lyrium were the ones that had begun to grow from the left side of her face, along her jawline and up her cheek, ending somewhere near the temple and eating away at the hairline there. Her hair was inky black, almost invisible in the darkness, thick and long, going down to the middle of her back.

Her color was terribly pale, and her skin seemed... thin, almost deathly so, though perhaps it was simply an illusion cast by the fact that many of the veins running down her arm were quite clearly visible, pulsating with a low red light in a way that was clearing causing her almost constant pain. She scratched at her side near the ribs with her hand, both arms crossed around her and tucking her knees into her chest. She looked young, no more than mid twenties. She'd lost a remarkable amount of weight since they'd captured her. Her body was consuming itself, it seemed, in the absence of any red lyrium.

She shook, either from cold chills or pain, but probably not fear. Her eyes shot up to the guests in her cell as soon as they entered. One iris was a hazel green color, while the one closer to the lyrium was turning scarlet. Her cracked and dry lips remained sealed as the door was shut behind Ashton. It wasn't long before they could feel the red lyrium emanate from her in waves. Unpleasant, to say the least.

“Shit." That was Khari, muttering the word under her breath in a tone caught somewhere between pity and revulsion. Not loud enough to make it much past Ashton, though, and she clearly didn't intend to do much of the talking herself, planting her back against the near wall and crossing her arms loosely over herself.

Stel didn't react too much, either to the captive's appearance or the sick feeling of red lyrium in the room. Her face was that deliberately-neutral one she wore for card games at the Hanged Man, the one she'd learned from Rilien, who almost always had it on. She pulled in a long, slow breath through her nose, then carefully moved to the same corner of the cell as the red templar, her motions smooth, deliberate, and careful. She stopped about three feet from the prisoner, then lowered herself until she was sitting, crossing her legs beneath her and resting her hands on her knees.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly.

"You're the Inquisitor," she said, her voice incredibly quiet, only able to be heard due to the heavy silence in the cell, only interrupting by the sounds of their breathing, shifting of their gear, and the low burn of the little torch on the wall. "I... I saw you, at Therinfal. We were to capture you, k-kill the others. It—" She turned her head into her shoulder and coughed violently. A wet sound, and when she turned back her lips were stained red. She wiped at them ineffectually.

"No one should know my name."

Stel brought her hands together in her lap, keeping her eyes on where they folded together for a moment before lifting them instead to the prisoner's eyes. "You don't have to tell me if you really think so," she said, tipping her head a bit to the side. "But I'd like to know. And I'd like you to call me Estella. Seems to me the problem started because we forgot to think of each other as people with names and lives and things to live for." She didn't put any finer a point on it than that, though, leaving the statement to sit in the still air between them.

"I have none of those things." Her hand reached up to tug away strands of hair that the red lyrium on the side of her head was encroaching on. "Just this song, now." A hint of a melancholy smile appeared. Her teeth were yellowed and decaying as badly as the rest of her. "It was sweet, once. Now it's like dagger tips running along the inside of my skull. I wish the daggers would just cut deeper, and be done with it."

Her eyes wandered to the others in the room, and she took in a long, shaky breath. "You can call me Em."

"Em," Stel repeated, nodding slightly. She shifted slightly where she sat, the only indication she'd given that the red lyrium was uncomfortable to be around. "The Guard-Captain said you were captured on the docks here in the city. Can you tell me what you were doing there?"

That was something that hadn't yet become clear, even after Varric's people had identified her as a Red. She'd been going somewhere, and clearly with purpose, but she didn't have any lyrium on her person, so she clearly wasn't transporting it herself.

She thought for a minute, then apparently deemed it okay to respond. "Leaving." She swallowed, the action clearly causing her some pain. "The others said I'd stayed too long, moved too much, taken too much. I had to go, or... this would happen. Guess it was too late." She smiled again, her eyes falling to her knees. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead, though she still appeared to be shaking from the cold.

"It's how the operation works. Never the same people for too long. Except for me. The weak link." Her eyes went to Ashton. "There's a red storm building beneath your feet. Meredith's vengeance. You might think it's your city. But you'll think differently when the Red Templars wash over it."

Ashton frowned and leaned heavily against the back wall. He felt tired just hearing the words slide out of her mouth. Same old song he thought to himself. He wondered if they would ever be free of Meredith's influence. Or if Kirkwall would ever not be in danger from within. He sighed and shrugged, the usual mirth in his character replaced by the veteran stoicism he'd earned through out the years.

"I doubt it," he answered flatly. It didn't matter if the city was finally at peace, or if the flames of battle were consuming it, Kirkwall would always be his city, his home. It always had been, no matter what she faced, or what she will face. If the red was expecting him to answer with anything more, then she'd be sorely disappointed. He didn't have a whole lot to say to threats, and he trusted Estella to be able to extract the information they needed.

Estella expelled a breath through her nose. It was slightly uneven, something he might not have noticed but for the utter quiet that pervaded otherwise. "Is that... something you want, Em? For this to go through, for the Red Templars to take Kirkwall?"

"I can't remember wanting anything other than the red for..." She let out a breath, her eyes listing sideways for a moment before she righted them again. "I don't know how long its been. I should be like the others by now. Pillars sprouting from my back, not these little pebbles." She then succumbed to another bout of racking coughs, the shaking growing so violent that she tipped over onto her side, cheek pressed into the wet, dirty floor beneath them. Splotches of blood further dampened it.

"I can't—" It was all she could manage for the moment, as tears streamed from her eyes, her limbs tense and locked like a drawn back arm of a catapult.

Stel hissed, a sympathetic sound, and lifted herself to her knees, shuffling over towards Em and carefully laying a hand on one of her shoulders, deliberately avoiding any actual red lyrium crystals, no doubt. Her brows knit and her eyes closed, a line appearing in the skin just above her nose as she focused on... something. Whatever she was doing didn't have any visible effect, not even the soft blue light Nos's healing magic had once caused.

A few moments later, the coughing stopped, as did the shaking. Em moved her face from the small pool of blood that had formed there, slowly and steadily rising back to her seated position, obviously confused. She blinked several times, the look in her eyes more clear now than it had been before. More focused. "The song... it hasn't been this quiet since..."

She didn't need to finish the sentence, and instead looked at Stel's hand. "What did you do to me?"

A thin smile preceded the answer. "What I could. Just a little bit of magic is all." She retracted her hand, settling back on her legs and resting the palms of her hands on her thighs. "Is there anything you can tell us about what's coming? The storm?"

She seemed almost to answer, but then hesitated, confused. Debating internally, or perhaps questioning if her current line of thought was correct, or if all the previous ones for years were correct instead. In the end, her decision seemed clear, but still conflicted. "It's brewing below the surface. In Darktown. Places the Coterie once owned, sitting abandoned. Now red. I followed orders, went where I was directed on the docks, received a box, delivered it to Darktown. They prepare it, make it small, and hand it off to others."

An idea struck her, one that required her to take in a breath before she could say it. "We could do it tonight, if the spot hasn't changed. Go there, kill the one that arrives in my place, wait for the shipment. Let me take the box, and follow me. I'll take you to the red hole, get you inside. You kill them all, destroy their operation." She swallowed, a tremor running through her that was obviously nervousness more than chill or pain. "I have a condition, though."

"What's the condition?" Stel looked like she had an idea, and from the grim expression she wore, she didn't much seem to like it, but whatever the hypothesis was, she did not make it aloud.

"You have to kill me," she said, sounding very certain of it. "If not you, someone. After it's over. There's too much red in that place, I—I may even try to kill you. And I'm dead already. The templars would kill me for betraying them. The red templars will kill me for helping you. And the red itself is killing me, with either its presence or its absence." She almost reached to grab Stel, but stopped halfway, withdrawing the red lyrium encrusted hand when she realized the danger. "Make an end of it, and make it quick."

Pressing her lips together, Stel nodded slightly. It seemed likely that this was exactly what she'd guessed. "I... understand," she said quietly. "And I'll do what you ask myself, if you help us as you've promised."

Ashton pushed himself off of the wall at that, though he still kept his arms crossed. He wasn't exactly ecstatic about the idea of trusting a red, but with nothing else to go on, it was a chance that he believed they needed to take. It was unlikely they'd find another red templar that'd be willing to help them, even harder than trying to capture another alive. He left his frown visible to everyone in the cell, but nodded. "It's an opportunity," he admitted, "One we probably won't find again."

He turned toward Leon and spoke, "I'll let Sophia know and gather a few of my finest. Stel?" He added, flicking his attention in her direction. A small smile formed in the corner of his mouth. "Bet some of the Lions would want to be there too," he said.

"I don't doubt it," she said, a faint smile appearing over her face for just a moment before it dropped, and she stood. "I'll collect whoever's available, and then we'll come back for you, Em. Shouldn't be too long." She glanced between the others for a moment, then nodded. "We all need to be at the docks by nightfall."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon's armor hadn't felt this heavy in a long time.

It was something he put down to the fact that he was still recovering from his injuries, a piece of information he was doing his best to make obvious. No doubt most of the others had noticed anyway; they were as a rule observant, and three of them at least knew him quite well. Certainly well enough to spot something like this. It wasn't so bad right now, when he just stood at the docks, awaiting Ashton's arrival with his contingent of guards. The last lingering fingers of sunset were fading now, disappearing quickly behind the horizon, slightly off-angle from the harbor itself.

Estella had managed to find two Lions who were not occupied with other work at the moment, either for the Viscountess or private contracts. They'd introduced themselves as Ainsley and Farah, and they way they stood together implied long and close familiarity, a unit within a unit. Both wore powerful-looking longbows, and the arrow Ainsley was twirling between her fingers had a heavy, barbed head on it, no doubt chosen with red templars specifically in mind. Each also wore a sidearm, in case things drew closer than arrow-range, no doubt.

Otherwise, it was himself, Estella, Khari, SĂ©verine, and whatever forces Ashton brought to bear. Along with, of course, their red ally Em. Leon couldn't say he was entirely convinced of her intentions, but he was naturally suspicious, and for now, willing to let things play out. He couldn't fault Estella's approach to the conversation, at least.

Pursing his lips together, Leon drew up the hood on his cloak, obscuring his pale hair in hopes of preventing it from catching much light. Ainsley and Farah did the same, though the others weren't in much danger of it.

They needn't wait long before Ashton and his guards finally came into their sight line. It appeared that he had brought a pair of guards with, along with his mabari. He was speaking with one as they walked side-by-side, an olive skinned woman with an ugly scar slicing diagonally across her face. She stood shorter than Ashton, though not by much, and she carried a shield and longsword on her back. Her features were hard and there was a certain intensity about her. The other walked slightly behind and was a fair haired man with a youthful expression. He was shorter than the other two, and more lightly armored. A pair of shortswords rested on either hip revealing him to likely be more of a specialist than the usual rank-and-file. Each had their helmets tucked beneath their arm.

Ashton seemed to have even prepared Snuffy for their foray, as her fur was dyed with what to be be kaddis in patterns that brought to mind the symbols associated with Kirkwall. Noticeably, each guard had a matching streak of kaddis along the armor of their right arm. Once within distance, Ashton gave them a wave and approached. "Hey guys," Ashton greeted, though a bit more subdued from his usual jovial nature. "My finest, like I said. Lieutenant Vesper," he gestured toward the woman, whom delivered a succinct nod, "and Sergeant Samuel, though he prefers Sammy," he added, with a wink to the man. Samuel in turn gave them a light-hearted salute with a pair of fingers.

Em watched the introductions from a short distance away, clearly having no intention to take part in them. Her hood was drawn up over her head, the cowl concealing most of her features from the light save for her eyes, which she was intentionally keeping towards the ground. Apparently she'd worn no armor on her person when she was captured, and only concealable weapons, all of which had been confiscated by the guard. Her clothes had been given back to her. They were in shoddy condition, but mostly hidden by her cloak. Also hidden was the knife that Estella had parted with and given to her, though by her stance Leon could tell her hand rested on the knife's hilt, and had rarely left it since the weapon was received.

It had been given since their plan required the young red templar to put herself in a large amount of danger, effectively acting as bait and hoping the others wouldn't immediately think her a traitor. SĂ©verine had briefly voiced her disagreement, but the captain knew the Inquisitor's tendencies well enough to know that if she parted with the knife, she had reasons for doing so, belief to back it up.

When all confirmed they were ready to begin, Em led them deeper into the docks, away from the most common landing sites and warehouses. Kirkwall's docks were extensive, with a number of the storage areas directly accessible to the sea. On the edges of the docks were places still abandoned, rarely in use, or simply not watched over at night, if the owner had no means of surveillance or proper security. It was to one of these warehouses that Em led them, though she stopped before entering an alleyway.

"Shipments are nightly," she explained. "Can't say when exactly, but this was the place I was sent to. Someone should be along soon. We need to kill them, there's no time for capture."

“Lemme at 'em." Khari's tone was quite dry, but Leon could tell she was a bit restless, perhaps on the grounds that her role so far in the proceedings had been limited. She was no interrogator, no negotiator, even if he was slowly making a strategist of her. But this was well within her skillset. “Drop them quickly, right? I can do that." Her eyes moved to a position near the likeliest entrance, and the rest of her followed.

Leon himself stayed closer to the center, taking up a post behind some unloaded cargo, crouching slightly to maintain a sight line to the entrance Khari had chosen without putting himself in one from the other direction. Estella chose a doorway with an awning, and her archer friends went a little higher, onto the first-story roof of a nearby customs building. Em was able to conceal herself behind the same cargo Leon was using, and SĂ©verine took up a position close by, no doubt to keep an eye on the red templar. Ashton found himself an elevated position, though on the opposite end of the alley from the Lions. Vesper apparently had the same idea as Leon and SĂ©verine and found a spot to crouch behind some barrels, with Snuffy quietly accompanying her while Sammy pressed himself against another doorway.

It didn't take long after they'd settled in their places for the promised courier to arrive. The agent moved with some stealth, a large cowl drawn up around his features. From the shape of him, he was far from the most advanced stages of lyrium growth, probably two dozen doses better off than Em. There weren't any visibly-protruding crystals, though a soft red glint gave away the fact that the stuff had crept in behind his eyes, lending them the same unearthly light as most of his compatriots.

He paused a moment several yards from where Khari was hidden, glancing around warily, but the near-disaster at Kasos did not repeat itself, and she made no noise or subtle movement that risked giving away her position. Apparently satisfied, he hurried forward again, treads falling almost silently on the flagstones of the dockside pathway.

Khari was just as quiet when she appeared behind him, the dull whistle of her sword through the air far too late a warning to save the red templar's life. The blade cleaved deeply into his neck, stopped only by the bones of his neck, and he fell with nothing more than a wet gurgle and a dull thud.

Em approached the body almost as soon as he'd fallen, reaching out to put a hand on the wall of the nearby warehouse building. The movement seemed to be doing her some good, or perhaps that was just the help that Estella was able to occasionally give her, helping her fight off the red lyrium's effects for the time being. "Good, this is good," she said, looking down at the body to confirm that he was also taking the red lyrium. "This means they'll be here soon. A boat, with the red."

Her hands were on the red templar only a few seconds after Khari had pulled her blade from his neck, rifling through his pockets and the inside of his cloak, perhaps searching for something. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it, but she stood again and looked to Estella. "I need to do the next part alone, inside. Smugglers will come, and give me the box with the red. No one interferes. The smugglers don't need to die, and we can't risk the box." There were some obvious risks, of course. Em was much shakier than the red templar they'd just killed, and the smugglers were undoubtedly dangerous. And it remained to be seen how well she'd handle receiving a box full of the substance that her life depended on.

This was easily the diciest part of the plan, and Leon liked it the least. Still, it made sense to avoid the unnecessary deaths if possible. He nodded slightly, but said nothing further—the plan was already agreed upon, and there was little time for deviation now.

Estella emerged from her hiding place to stand next to Em, reaching out to place a hand on the other woman's elbow. "You can do this, Em," she said, almost too quietly to reach Leon. "You're strong enough." It was hard to tell, but it looked like she was using her magic again, probably trying to give the other woman as much assistance as possible before she was forced to confront the source of her weakness.

She refused to meet Estella's eyes, dipping the rim of her hood down in a half-hearted sort of nod. "Thank you," she said.

They moved into the warehouse carefully, to find two large rowboats hanging from the ceiling by thick ropes, and several large piles of poorly organized crates of varying sizes. The floor was packed down dirt, which gently sloped down into the water at the house's edge, going just far enough that the water wouldn't be disruptive during high tide.

Hiding positions were taken up again, though this time there was no plan to intervene unless absolutely necessary. Em leaned up against one of the walls, moonlight just barely hitting her feet, water coming and going and brushing against the toes of her boots. As these things tended to go, it quickly became a tedious and constantly tense wait, as the smugglers did not immediately show themselves, and the other red templar's arrival didn't necessarily mean the exchange was imminent. They had to be patient. Em scratched at her arm more than once, and rolled her neck to try to loosen something up in her upper back.

A sound broke up the rhythm of the gentle waves. Oars, dipping into the water and coming out dripping. A rowboat soon came into view, gliding along the water from somewhere even further out on the docks, or perhaps not even. It was a small craft, only big enough for the two of them and their cargo, a small but dense looking chest with handles on either side, and no obvious way to open it.

The rowboat brushed up against the shore, the first of the hooded and cloaked smugglers hopping out. "You look familiar," he said to Em, his voice gravelly and low. "Didn't we deliver to you last week?"

"Other guy got himself killed," she answered, eyeing the chest. "I'm taking the boxes until they find someone else."

"If you see your Red Hawke, tell him the sovereigns need to start coming in quicker. Getting hard to move cargo in Kirkwall these days."

"You'll have your gold. Give me the box." No more words were exchanged. The two smugglers hauled out the little chest and set it at Em's feet, before they stepped back into their boat and pushed away from the shore, disappearing as quietly as they came. Em waited until the sound of their oars was gone before she stooped to pick up the chest by its handles, and made her way back to the others. They emerged from their hiding places.

"Straight to Darktown now," she said. "Keep your distance. There will be lookouts. If you can spot them, kill them quietly. When we get to the door, I'll try to get us in. As soon as it's open you need to rush them, cut them down before they can organize."

“Uh... about how many are we expecting here?" Khari glanced down at the box once, then reached up to tug at her ear. “Also, what was all that about a red hawk?"

"The Red Hawke is the leader," she answered simply. "We won't see him, I've never met him. But he leads the Red Templars now."

"Hawke?" SĂ©verine repeated, eyebrow raised, her tone skeptical. "With an 'e' on the end?" Em nodded, causing SĂ©verine to expel a quiet gust of air that might've been a laugh. "Maker's breath..."

"Fifteen, maybe twenty in total," Em said, answering Khari's original question. "No knights, no ascended. Maybe a few shadows. They won't be ready for you." She glanced at SĂ©verine. "We need to leave now. Time to talk about leaders later."

Leon figured there might not be that much time later, considering their informant's current condition, but SĂ©verine had clearly recognized the name and that was good enough for the moment. The priority had to be disrupting this particular operation right now. There was an order to everything, as he'd once pointed out in an attempt to encourage the Knight-Captain.

Though he had been listening to the conversation at hand, Ashton found a moment to have a different one. "Sergeant, remind me to order your unit to patrol the docks a couple of nights when we get back to the barracks. I want those smugglers caught," he ordered in a serious vein. When Em stated their need to leave, his attention snapped back to her, and he nodded. "Let's not keep them waiting then," he said with a fairly serious frown.

"Can you stay above for our trip to Darktown?" That, Leon directed at the two Lions.

Farah nodded. "Help us spot, and we'll get rid of the lookouts for you." She glanced once at Ainsley, who grinned almost as widely as Khari tended to, and the two of them disappeared, no doubt off to gain altitude once more.

It was fortunate that they had; near one of the entrances, Leon paused at a corner and glanced around it, spotting a hooded figure leaning casually against the wall of a building. Would have been easy to miss her if they'd just followed their route directly. He whistled lowly, and the sharp hum of an arrow through the air answered, striking the lookout beneath her hood and dropping her.

The red templar's feet were disappearing into a nearby alley by the time they passed, Ainsley winking as they passed. With the body moved off the main road, soft footfalls put her back on one of the roofs, and so she and her teammate remained, until everyone was forced to descend together into the underground section of the city.

As with the other regions of Kirkwall, Darktown proved to be quite literally named, especially now that it was night. They had to descend a long flight of stairs carved out of the rock before they could enter it properly, and by then they were very much underneath Lowtown, or perhaps far, far below Hightown. Any lighting came from torches or little braziers that were sporadically placed along walls, illuminating only a small radius before the heavy darkness stopped their advance. As Leon had heard it told, Darktown used to be a far busier place, back in the years when Kirkwall had been nearly overrun by Fereldan refugees fleeing from the Blight.

The refugees were either gone, dead, or moved up to become permanent residents, but poverty was much harder to eradicate, as was the criminal underworld. To these groups Darktown would always belong, barring extreme measures such as the destruction, burning, or collapsing of entrances to this place, which it seemed unlikely the Viscountess would consider. The guards and the templars did not make patrols down here unless they were after something very specific, something worth risking life and limb. The risk was easy to see; any shadow could hide a knife well enough here.

At the moment, they were the knives in the shadows, trailing along behind Em as she made her way through twists and turns, moving swift enough to appear in a hurry, as she would be normally, but not going too fast to lose her escort. She looked to be struggling a little with the weight of the chest after a time. She was still quite weak, physically, and the effects of Estella's magic were hardly permanent.

She made it to their destination unassisted, however. It was an inconspicuous door deep in Darktown with no obvious markings to speak of, simply set into the wall. Em glanced once behind her, then turned and quietly kicked the bottom of the door.

A few seconds later, a little window at eye level swung open on its hinges from the other side. A door guard, inspecting the visitor. Em kept her hood down, holding the chest of red lyrium so that the guard could see. No words were exchanged. The guard closed the view hole, and an uncomfortable few seconds passed before the sound of a bolt unlocking reached their ears. The door swung open, and Em slipped inside.

Khari slipped after, drawing her sword from its place at her back as she moved. Though the door was nearly closed by the time she got there, she shouldered it back open with abrupt force, throwing the guard forward when he didn't let go of the inside handle fast enough. Swiftly, her sword found his chest, skewering him and emerging from his back. With her elbow, she threw the door wide, and then disappeared inside after Em.

The rest of them filed in afterwards, into a small entry area, with the only way forward being a long hallway that eventually bent a sharp left out of sight. In typical Darktown fashion there was nothing to speak on in the room save for a single dying old chair. Em waited until the last of the team was inside, and the door was shut behind them.

"Around the corner," she whispered. "It'll open up. Templars everywhere. Kill them all. There's a back exit, a hatch that drops into the sewers. Someone needs to reach it, block it off, or some will escape."

"Understood, we'll take it from here," SĂ©verine said, shouldering her way past the red templar to the front of the group, shield and short sword in hand. "Let's make this quick."

They moved swiftly and quietly down the hall, and then charged around the corner, SĂ©verine's shield leading the way. The hall led into a much larger room, what had likely once been a Coterie safe house or even an armory. The reds were working at tables on similar chests to the one Em had brought in, the red lyrium exposed to the air. They were creating draughts of it, converting it into consumable forms. There were perhaps ten working, and five more sleeping in makeshift bunks, with a pair of shadows watching over the operation. The workers wore no armor, save for those that could no longer remove pieces of theirs, but all were armed with bladed weapons, and a few had shields on hand. SĂ©verine cut on down before he could turn to defend himself, but after that the fight was on. The shadows charged aggressively into the attacking group with arm blades of red lyrium, trying to disrupt them, inflict wounds, and then retreat. Neither engaged an enemy for long.

Perhaps most alarming was that two or three of the templars in the room didn't appear corrupted at all. One them immediately made a break for a hatch at the rear of the room.

Khari, for once at an advantage due to her size, ducked under one of the shadows' blade-arms, making a break for the back hatch. She managed to bring her sword around and slam it into the wood, holding it down and preventing the would-be escapee from bolting. She lashed out with her foot, catching the half-stooped man in the temple with the steel-plated toe of her boot. He dropped immediately, but there was another swinging for her with a one-handed axe, and she didn't have time to pull her blade free of the trapdoor to block.

The swing fell wide of its mark, and reason was soon apparent. One of Ashton's guards, Samuel judging by the weaponry he used, had gripped the templar's collar and yanked backward. Once Khari was out of immediate danger, Samuel's shortsword slipped beneath his target's arm and bit deep beneath the armpit twice, leaving the templar to fall limply to the ground. Sammy spared one glance for Khari, though his helmet obscured his expression, though he did give her a sharp tilt of his head before slipping off to find another target, though he never strayed too far from the trapdoor.

On the other hand Ashton hung back and let the reds come to him. And Snuffy, it seemed. A red set his eyes on the captain, but before he could reach him, the red found the mabari's teeth embedded deep into his calf. The moment's hesitation was all it took for Ashton to clean up, plunging his sole longsword into his chest. Snuffy dodged the now dead weight deftly and fell into practiced step beside Ashton. Vesper added the weight of her shield to SĂ©verine's, apparently deciding to stick close to the templar to pool their strength.

For once, Leon was the last into a fight instead of the first. Fortunately, it didn't seem to be a particularly arduous one, in the sense that these templars were unprepared, and few of them were even properly reds, lacking the obvious signs of lyrium tainting. Something to think about later, but assuredly not now.

The Lady Inquisitor engaged the shadow Khari had ducked under, preventing him from chasing her down as she went. Leon moved to intercept a dagger-wielding fighter intent on flanking her. The wound in his chest stretched uncomfortably when he reached out to seize the woman by her collar; his grip faltered before he could finish pulling her back into a hold. She still staggered, and that was enough to let him disarm her—the knife clattered away on the floor. Leon adjusted his movements, focusing on blows that didn't require strength or much movement to deliver; the sort that needed precise positioning and not much else. He struck with his elbows and knees, until he could maneuver himself behind her and wrap an arm around her neck from behind, bracing his other hand on the back of her head.

He held it a few moments past when she went limp, to be sure she wasn't bluffing, then dropped her and moved to the next.

As far as fights went, it wasn't even close. Since her near-miss, Khari had allowed no more openings, and with her sword back in her hands, stood over the trapdoor, cleaving into anyone who even attempted to get near. So far, that had been two more reds, both now still on the floor at her feet. She fended off an attack from a third even now, keeping herself planted solidly on her spot, adjusting much more smoothly to the cramped quarters and stationary positioning than she would have even as little as a few months ago. The scant light from the small sconces on the walls glinted off a coating of dark blood on the zweihÀnder before she plunged it up into another woman's armpit, yanking it out again with enough force to throw an arc of red off the blade and onto the already-stained wooden floor.

Estella kept herself a little more mobile, but with a shorter, lighter blade, that was easier to do. She seemed to be keeping track of which templars had the lyrium corruption and which did not—the deadliness of her force increased considerably when the signs of red lyrium use were obvious, and she'd felled at least one of the others without actually killing him, though no doubt the severed hamstring on his left leg was exceedingly painful. Wisely, she'd elected not to use magic in the engagement, saving herself the pain of being smited as a result.

Leon took another warrior's knees out from underneath him, following him down with a heavy punch to the face, gravity lending the strength that escaped him otherwise for the moment. The nose under his gauntlet caved in, and he stomped on the back of the templar's knee when he tried to roll aside of the follow up. The wet crunch of the impact was enough to inform him of his success; his opponent passed out from the pain a few seconds later. He glanced up, assessing the state of the rest.

Vesper had broken off from SĂ©verine's flank and currently found herself in a stand off with another red, her large shield standing between him and her. He attempted a feint to get past it, but Vesper proved to be a more seasoned warrior than he, and he was met with the flat side of the shield. However, it was not Vesper that struck first, nor the templar, but Snuffy. Once again, her fangs found an uncorrupted part of his calf and she pulled. In the confusion, Vesper let a bit of aid by pushing him with her shield, and then disengaged. Snuffy cleaned up afterward, sinking her teeth into his exposed throat.

The numbers had quickly turned against the red templars, and the last few were being felled. SĂ©verine had managed to pin the second of the two shadows in a corner of the room, using her shield to intercept any attempts to escape. It took several thrusts of her blade to fell the heavily corrupted templar, but after the fourth strike he fell, gurgling out his last breaths before he stilled.

Em had entered the room behind them, knife drawn. She made her way quickly over to the templar Estella had hamstrung, falling to her knees and plunging the blade into the back of his neck with force. She held it there until he ceased his struggling entirely. Her hood concealed her face, but in the open air of the room she wavered forward on her knees, as though she was about to collapse. The effect of the red lyrium was much stronger in here, enough that she began to cough quietly.

Estella quickly sheathed her sword, tsking softly under her breath. She took the few steps necessary to put herself in front of Em, then crouched there, one hand on her own knee, the other reaching towards the red templar, almost as if to touch her, only to pull up short. "Em, are you—" She seemed to think better of the obvious question. Probably something she'd been doing a lot recently, and not just here, for that matter. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Make the song stop," she said, fairly urgently. She kept her head down, still kneeling over the dead templar's corpse. "It makes you forget, forget everything. What you are, what you believe, what you fight for. When it's quiet, sometimes you can remember, but then there's sickness, and pain, and the pull to the red, and you forget again."

She looked up, eye glowing dull red under the hood, her hand clutching the knife tight enough that it shook, her skin ghostly white. Her eyes locked on Estella's, and she coiled in place, making her intentions quite obvious. "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!"

She lunged at Estella with the knife.

At that range, with the positioning she had, not even someone as fleet as the Lady Inquisitor could hope to avoid the lunge entirely. In the time it took anyone else to react, Estella's head slammed back against the ground, but she instinctively raised her arm to protect herself, something that likely saved her from the worst, as it meant Em's lyrium-encrusted free hand closed around her bracer instead of touching her skin directly, or—worse—cutting into it.

She didn't have as much luck fending off the dagger, and it sliced into her just under her jawline, tracing a red ribbon from about halfway down her neck up and back to just beneath her ear. Blood welled from the wound, but it was much less dire than it could have been.

The pain might even have been a favor, for it certainly seemed to snap Estella out of her daze, and her hands closed over Em's forearm, wrenching it and the knife to the side. She got her knee between them, and rolled them both with an impressive heave that also unfortunately made it very dangerous for anyone else to intercede immediately. That seemed to be all she needed, however, because she made eye contact with Em, pinning the red templar's free arm with her knee and maintaining a tight hold on the other.

"I promised," she murmured, expelling a shaky breath. Her eyes closed with it, and a few tense moments later, Em went slack beneath her. Estella didn't move for several more, but then she set the templar's arm down carefully, and climbed off her, struggling somewhat to get her feet underneath her. She looked vaguely sick, though whether that was red lyrium exposure or something else entirely was hard to tell. Immediately, her hand pressed to the bleeding wound at her neck, trying to staunch the flow.

"D-does anyone have a potion? I don't think I've got enough left to..." She staggered sideways and leaned her shoulder heavily against the wall.

"Here," SĂ©verine offered, sheathing her sword. She'd been looking for a way to intervene after Em attacked Estella, but once the Lady Inquisitor handled it herself SĂ©verine replaced her sword with a potion from her belt, offering it to Estella.

"The Viscountess won't be pleased to hear about any of this," she said.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari was pretty sure Sev was right about Sophia's feelings on the matter. Not that she really had to deal with it; the others were doing most of the breaking of bad news. The elf stood off to one side of the Viscountess's office, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed over her middle. Even for a spacious study, it was pretty full of people, most of them bristling with weapons: their little adventure party, minus the Lions and Ashton's people, but along with Marcy, the Knight-Commander, and of course Sophia herself.

They'd just gotten to the part about the hideout in Darktown and their discovery there. It probably sucked to learn that an entire cell of reds had been using your city to move their shitty lyrium around for long enough to be that established, with their own supply lines and regular deliveries. She didn't know the whole story about what had happened here with Meredith and all that, but there was no way red lyrium wasn't a sore subject around here.

To her credit, Sophia seemed to be taking the news evenly, evaluating it with a level head. It was probably one of the worst things she could wake up to in the morning. Unlike the day before, she looked the part of the noblewoman rather than the warrior. Free Marcher style wasn't nearly as extravagant as Orlesian, but it was still remarkable that anyone could look so put together after what was undoubtedly a nerve wracking night of waiting, and an early morning filled with bad news.

"And there were uncorrupted templars among them?" she asked.

Sev nodded. "Yes, Excellency. A few that showed no signs of change from the red lyrium, assuming they'd taken any at all." She hesitated then, looking to Cullen. "I'm worried they may have infiltrated your ranks. Outside of the Inquisition, this is the other seat of templar power in the south. They must hope to topple it."

"I trust most of my templars," Cullen responded. "But certainly not all. Corruption won't be allowed to spread in the ranks. I'll make sure of it."

"Your injury," Sophia said, pointing out the slash Stel had taken to the neck. "This was the red templar captive's work? Did you learn anything from her, apart from the operation she was a part of?"

Estella nodded, probably to both things. "She said the leader of the Red Templars was someone named Hawke." Her fingers moved almost automatically to the wound, which was already scabbing over thanks to the potion, though it would probably leave some form of scar. "SĂ©verine seemed to know who he was?" Her eyes moved to the Knight-Captain as she said that.

Cullen reacted to the name as well, though it was Sev who answered. "He was a Knight-Captain here in Kirkwall, before I left. Around my age. An intense sort, certainly none too happy, but..." She looked to Cullen for an explanation. "What happened to him?"

"Carver Hawke left the Order almost a year ago. He was... troubled, I think, before he left. Something to do with Elias Pike's return to Kirkwall. He harbored a particular hatred for that mage. I know many of us did, but for him it was personal."

"His sister," Sev said. "Bethany, I think it was. A twin sister. She was a mage in the tower. I remember him saying it was why he became a templar. She died in the chaos after the Chantry explosion."

"And Carver blamed Pike for it," Sophia concluded. "I saw justice done to him as best I could myself. Was he not satisfied with that?"

"I'm not sure," Cullen said. "He visited the Gallows often while Pike was awaiting his fate there. I've no idea what they spoke about, but Hawke became increasingly distant. It was perhaps a week or two after Pike's death that he left the city."

Khari felt her lips pull into a frown at that. “Pike was a pretty unstable piece of shit." And that was putting it mildly. “I can't see him convincing anyone of anything, especially not someone who hated his guts. Unless he was trying to convince him that he needed to go to crazy extremes to stop even crazier mages. Dunno anyone who could make a better case for that than him."

Sophia nodded her agreement. "Regardless of how it happened, at least our enemy has a face and a name now," she said. "This isn't something we can fight with subtlety anymore, I don't think. The lyrium you found, it was destroyed?"

"As best we could," Sev said. "It's a dangerous process that can potentially affect a templar doing it, so only those we trust should be allowed anywhere near it." Cullen nodded in approval of that. "You might also speak with Varric, see if any of his contacts could provide an alternate method."

"Good idea. Either way, there will be more found that needs disposing of." She made sure to catch her guard captain's eyes next. "Ash, we have work to do. The smuggling needs to stop, first of all. Heavy patrols of the docks will make things difficult for them, and I'd rather scare them off than try to catch them and risk letting more lyrium slip into Darktown." She expelled a breath, obviously uncomfortable with the whole situation.

"And I think it's time we started kicking some doors down. Work with Varric, get whatever information you can on other possible red lyrium sites. When we have leads I want to hit them hard and fast. I think the guard and the Lions together should be up for the task. Agreed?"

"Agreed. I'll get with my Lieutenants and Sergeants and we'll draw up a few action plans for you to review," he said. It appeared that he already had a few ideas stirring around in his head. In fact, Sophia's admissions seemed to invigorate the man, and he seemed eager to get to work. "That being said, we will definitely ramp up patrols in the docks. I had already intended to have Sammy and his unit put some eyes in the shadows, but I'll also get Vesper to get some muscle there as well. Hard and fast," he agreed with a confident smile.

"Any suggestions from the Inquisition?" he asked, turning his eyes toward them.

"Don't touch the lyrium directly, and be extremely careful when you handle it. Including what's on their bodies. It nearly killed one of ours, even in liquid form." Leon said as much with a shrug. "Also, any time you know you're facing reds, bring three men for every one you're expecting, and then more on top of that for the ones you aren't."

"Whatever they're planning, they won't find Kirkwall an easy target," Sophia promised. "We're far more capable of defending ourselves than we ever have been in the past." A thought seemed to occur to her, and she stood. "I refuse to let this dominate my entire day, as well. There's something I'd like you to see, Inquisition." Her eyes found Khari. "From what I've heard, I think you'll like it."

"Perhaps Leon and I could speak to you alone, Knight-Commander?" Sev asked, glancing at Leon before her eyes returned to Cullen. "There are some templar matters to discuss, among other things." Cullen nodded.

They split up from there, with Sophia leading them out of her office and out of her keep, while Leon, Sev, and Cullen remained behind to discuss their templar matters, and Ash set to work on his duties as guard captain. Sophia took Khari, Stel, and Marcy down the steps and away from the keep, along one of Hightown's narrower streets. "I've heard you're aiming to become a chevalier," she said to Khari. "Not the easiest field to break into. How's your progress been?"

Khari hummed. “I mean, still kinda waiting for an opportunity to actually break the, uh, ceiling, if you know what I mean, but... the training's going really well, I think." She offered Sophia a grin. “I'm not sure if it was Stel or Lucien that told you that, but either way, I'm pretty damn flattered."

"Maybe they both did," she said, returning the smile. "You have a way of making impressions on people. We have no chevaliers here, but between you and me, I am rather proud of what we've created. I think it's brought the entire city closer together. Through here." She led them to a wide gate flanked by city guards, who pushed them open for their Viscountess with a salute.

It was a training facility, quite simply, with a wide open courtyard of soft dirt, rectangular in shape and extending far ahead of them. The training grounds were exposed to the sky, with pillars and awnings surrounding it and providing shaded areas, a number of doors leading to armories, storage spaces, and the like. Stables were found off to their right, certainly not the only ones in Hightown. These were likely horses belonging either to the nobility, or to Sophia herself. They looked to be war horses all, strong and swift and fierce.

There was a melee ring in one of the far corners of the grounds, but the most obvious draw was the long wooden fence running along the length. A horse was thundering down its length away from them, an armored rider bearing down on a shield and weight-armed dummy with a lowered lance. With a crack the lance connected, punching the shield away and sending the weighted bag swinging around, but the rider was well beyond it by the time it would've struck his head. A few other nobles looked on, some tending to their horses while they waited for a turn, either against the dummy or against each other.

"Always a safe bet to find him here," Sophia remarked. The rider wheeled about and removed his helmet, revealing himself to be the same one that had ridden up to them the day before, William Alston. He trotted his horse back over to them, laying the lance across his lap. By the sheen of sweat on his brow, he'd been at it for a while already.

"Good morning Your Excellence, Inquisition. Come to see the Companions in action?"

"I thought they might be interested in seeing one of Kirkwall's undertakings, yes." She turned to Khari. "I also thought Khari might be interested in joining you for some practice. Have you worked with a lance much?"

Khari's eyes lit up; she'd shifted up onto the front of her feet before she'd actually thought about it, as if to better observe the goings-on. At the offer, she glanced quickly between William and Sophia, confirming that what she'd just heard had actually been said. If possible, her smile stretched wider. “I prefer swords, but Mick makes me practice everything. Ser MichaĂ«l, I mean." She gestured vaguely in Marcy's direction, half-forgetting and half-not-really-being-concerned that not everyone would know who he was. “Skyhold doesn't have an actual jousting setup, though; can I really use it?"

She tried to brook her obvious enthusiasm, but she wasn't successful.

"Absolutely," Sophia assured her. She paused for a moment, and then explained further. "Truth be told, I'm hoping word about this can reach the Alienage. I won't force anyone, but I want them to know the rest of this city is open to them. Not everyone can do what an Irregular of the Inquisition can, but if they hear an elf was able to take her turn at the joust in Hightown, I think it can only do good things."

"Some of the others took some convincing," William admitted from atop his horse, "but personally, I get tired of riding against the same people day in, day out. Some fresh meat is always welcome." He grinned. "If you're interested in a few tilts after getting warmed up."

Khari certainly didn't mind being the first. It was pretty much what she'd dedicated her life to being, and any step forward was one worth taking. She nodded, a little more seriously this time. “Give me a few minutes to loosen myself up and some equipment to ride with, and I'll take you up on that."

She found that all of it was readily provided, including the heavy lance and shield, though she left those on the ground while she mounted, making sure the saddle was on right and the horse beneath her was responsive. It was a blood bay color, with a broad stripe on its nose concealed beneath practice barding. Confirming that everything was where it was meant to be, she fitted the helmet down over her head, her vision narrowing to several vertical slits in the visor. Her breaths echoed in the space between her face and the cool steel.

“Hey Stel, can you hand me my lance and shield?"

"Do I get to be the squire, then?" Stel's reply was clearly intended for humor, and she obligingly handed up the shield first, waiting for Khari to get it set in the position she wanted before lifting the lance as well. It was wooden all the way down, without the metal tip used in less friendly circumstances, but it was still about ten feet long and somewhat unwieldy, painted in red and gold stripes. Stel foisted it up with both hands, holding it mostly level so Khari could tuck it against herself. "Good luck out there. Show them what you're made of, okay?" She flashed a smile and stepped back.

“Gritty sand and backtalk, and they're all gonna know it. I promise to be a better target than a quintain, at least." Khari figured her chances at actually winning a match were pretty low, but she might be able to break a lance or two on him if she tried hard enough. Shifting her grip just under the vamplate protecting her hand, she lodged the lance into a better couched position, steering the horse around with her legs to line herself up with the her side of the lists. There she stopped him, checking everything to make sure it was in order, then moved her eyes to the spectators.

“Someone want to call the rounds? I'm ready whenever Will is."

The young baron lifted his lance at the other end. "Morgan! Get off your ass and get the flag, will you?" A man who appeared to be the youngest of the Companions that were present almost jumped out of his bench upon being addressed, and rushed to grab a short crimson flag decorated with the white falcon symbol of Sophia's house. He rushed out to the center of the track, pausing to look both ways at the riders, checking to see they were both prepared.

Will pushed his visor down into place, his horse stamping about in anticipation. The flag was lifted, and he charged.

Khari wasn't quite as quick to react, but half a second later, she was charging too. The three-beat rhythm of the horse's canter smoothed out into the four-beat of a full gallop. Khari leveled her lance and pulled in a breath. It didn't take more than five seconds for contact. She knew on the half-stride in that she'd placed her lance slightly too high, and instead of splintering, it skidded off the side of Will's shield with an uncomfortable screech. She felt a heavy impact in her arm at the same time, and twisted slightly on instinct. A crack sounded, but not the shattering of a full break.

Then they rushed past one another, and Khari started pulling the horse up underneath her, her breath leaving her in a slightly-shaky rush. There was something exhilarating about that. About everything going into what was basically just a single moment. Wheeling herself around, she stood in her stirrups to readjust her seat.

Will's lance had broken, a split down the middle rendering it unusable, but it was a near thing, not a resounding loss on her part. That wasn't bad; she knew she could do better. Khari rolled her shoulders in the armor, grinning despite herself.

“Let's do that again."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by AugustArria
SĂ©verine had no right to be here, asking this favor.

She tried to convince herself that it wasn't really a favor for her, that it was for the entire Chantry. For Cullen, for Leon and Ophelia, for all of her templars, and every Chantry sister and brother in every city in Thedas that still felt doubt at the lack of a Divine in Val Royeaux. But it still felt like a personal request. Even if others had considered the same thing, she was the one who put voice to it, giving legs to the idea, and she would be the one asking Sophia.

And it wasn't like handing her a great honor, even though the Chantry might frame it as such. To be Divine was to serve as much as it was to rule. To sacrifice as much as it was to gain. And Sophia had already sacrificed so much for the things she cared about. She cared for her city and her home perhaps above all, but SĂ©verine knew she cared for the Chantry too, despite everything it had done to her in the past, every way it had betrayed her. She cared for the Maker, trusted in the Maker, and would want fellow believers to be able to trust in the organization that supposedly watched over them. But for her to do that, more sacrifices would need to be made.

SĂ©verine knew Sophia could make those sacrifices, and that made it all the worse.

After she and Leon had discussed the matter in depth with Cullen, they politely requested of Sophia's seneschal, Bran, to relay the message to Sophia that they were waiting to speak with her in her office. It wasn't long before she returned, without the company she had left with.

"This is something to do with the templars, I'm assuming?" She walked smoothly around her desk and sank into the chair behind it, settling her arms on the rests.

SĂ©verine folded her hands together in front of her, hesitating now that the moment had arrived. She didn't let it keep her silent for long. "We can discuss that after, but there's something else I wanted to bring up first." She paused to take a breath. "I believe, and others agree, that you might be able to bring an end to the stalemate in Val Royeaux, regarding the next Divine."

Whatever Sophia had been expecting SĂ©verine to speak of, it was not that, and it showed momentarily on her face. "I suppose my voice might have some weight there, yes, but... which candidate would I support? I'm barely familiar with most of them."

"Yourself, Excellency. I believe you should be the next Divine."

Again she was caught off guard, this time quite fully, and she paused to make sure she'd heard correctly. When SĂ©verine simply waited uncomfortably for an answer, she shifted in her seat, trying her best to formulate one. "Me..." She took another moment to consider the idea, or perhaps just the plausibility of it. "I—why? Why should it be me?"

This question at least was something SĂ©verine had adequately prepared for. "For a number of reasons. Your faith is well known. More than that, it is known how much your faith has been tested, and endured. You led the way in the reconstruction of the Chantry here in Kirkwall, as well as assisting in the recruiting and approving of the brothers and sisters to replace those we lost." She glanced at Cullen. "You defended the true templars who chose to remain in Kirkwall when the city wanted us thrown out. You gave us a place to remain and good works to do while we figured out how to move forward." Without her, many more would have flocked to what became the Red Templars, and perhaps all would've been lost.

"You are loved and adored by your people, and respected by foreign rulers. All have seen the remarkable recovery Kirkwall has made since your reign began. You've proven yourself strong, intelligent, compassionate, and reasonable. And now more than ever the Chantry needs a Divine with those qualities. It needs you."

Sophia took a moment to let it sink in, tilting her head slightly. "You've obviously given this a great deal of thought." She exhaled, studying something on her desk. Something on the infinite list she needed to attend to as Viscountess, no doubt. Part of SĂ©verine wondered how this wasn't just too much to absorb all at once, but the other part knew that it was yet another reason she felt Sophia was right for this. "Perhaps I'm not in the best position to judge my own worthiness. But I'm still not convinced Val Royeaux would see things the same way."

She lifted her eyes to the Seeker in the room. "I'm assuming you're all in agreement about what SĂ©verine has said?"

"The idea has considerable merit," Leon said, voice a bit raspier than usual at the edges. He'd looked quite stiff that morning, but that at least had faded by this point. "And the facts are the facts." He paused for a moment, considering something, then expelled a breath from his nose, almost a sigh. "But..."

His brows furrowed, carving a line above his nose. He folded his hands behind him, clasping them at his lower back. "Like ruling a nation or joining the Grey Wardens, something like this is the work of a life. And while it is rarely those who seek power who are best suited to wield it, it's also true that anyone who cannot assume the burden of this duty wholeheartedly should not assume it at all. Even if she is otherwise the best choice." His mouth twitched, as though he'd attempted to smile in his usual way but only gotten halfway there. "I don't mean to presume to say I know your heart, Lady Sophia, but I might have some insight into how you deliberate, and I wanted to say that this is not the kind of thing you ought to take up only for the good of others. If it is not good for you as well, the work will consume you, and itself suffer."

His hands tightened where they were clasped. "And perhaps you already knew that, and I've made myself redundant. Even so, I should think it no moreso than the facts already discussed." He did manage to smile that time—it was true that the argument for Sophia as Divine effectively just involved reciting her well-known history and almost equally-well-known character traits. It didn't really require any more than that.

She took in a long breath, leaning back in her chair, pressing a finger to her lips and thinking. There was a very long moment of silence, during which no one deemed it necessary to intrude. Cullen did not even have to voice his agreement; the fact that he'd remained silent was evidence enough of that, and he knew Sophia far better than Leon did.

It was not an easy thing to even begin considering, and though there were no doubt many emotions to work through even trying to approach, Sophia did that without letting many of them show in overt ways. She looked back to Leon. "If I were to agree to try for such a thing, you think my chances of actually becoming the Divine would be good? Even against the other hopefuls?"

"I do," he confirmed readily. "As of now, the strongest candidates have no interest, and the interested candidates have little strength or support. And the Chantry is in dire need of leadership at the moment, which will make them more open to considering candidacies that would have been near-impossible in any other circumstances. No offense meant, of course, but if any of the senior clergy had survived the Conclave, this would not be in any way a question right now."

"Of course," she agreed, returning to her deliberations. SĂ©verine knew for a fact that Sophia had been quite close to Grand Cleric Elthina, that she'd been largely responsible for Sophia's devoutness growing up, a trait her father and brother had only loosely shared. SĂ©verine also supposed it was a good thing she didn't need to recite any of these facts out loud, and reveal how well she had studied and learned of her Viscountess's life since the two of them had come in contact. No doubt Sophia was thinking of Elthina now, and how she would have made an excellent candidate for Divine, if she still lived.

Of course, if she still lived, there might not be a need for a new Divine. The facts remained, and it appeared that Sophia had accepted that she was potential candidate. A good one, at that.

But she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I can't accept this. Not yet, anyway. My duty to Kirkwall, my home, must come first for the moment. We've been recovering, steadily on the rise, and now this threat of red templars looms. My focus has to remain here, at least until they've been defeated."

"Perfectly understandable, Your Excellence," SĂ©verine said, almost relieved that she had declined, even temporarily. "We will continue to hunt for their stronghold of power, in hopes of crushing them before they can bring any more harm to Kirkwall. I won't fail you." Sophia nodded her approval. SĂ©verine was tempted to let it go at that, but found herself pressing on all the same. "When it's done, though... you'll consider it?"

"I will," she said, the words leaving her heavily, like she was settling another weight on her chest. "You know what it is you're asking of me, and I know you wouldn't ask it lightly. If you truly believe there's no better candidate, then I will do what I can, when I can."

"Thank you, Sophia." SĂ©verine blinked. "Er, Your Excellence."

Sophia waved a hand in dismissal. "Please, don't bother yourself over the trivial things, you've enough to worry about."

"There's still the matter of the future of the Templar Order to discuss," Cullen pointed out. "You have a recommendation, High Seeker?"

"A bit of a self-serving one, yes." Leon shifted his arms to cross them loosely over his chest. "Recently, the Inquisition discovered that due to Lord Seeker Lucius aligning himself with Corypheus, the Seekers of Truth have been depleted to two: myself and my mentor Ophelia." The crestfallen expression on his face lasted only a moment, no doubt one spent thinking about those he had known personally, now more likely than not among the anonymous dead. "The next Divine, whoever she may be, will need more than us at her disposal, and no doubt the Templar Order will, in some measure, require the oversight the Seekers could help her provide, to ensure that no traces of our present problems remain."

It went almost without saying that Red Templar loyalists within the rebuilt ranks would be an utter disaster, tantamount to a snuffing of any confidence they might be able to win back by defeating Corypheus. Public opinion of the Templars in general had never been lower. "Ophelia is both capable of training and willing to guide a new group, to make Seekers of them. There are few enough Templars to choose from, and the Inquisition needs most of our own to remain where they are for now. No doubt she will pull more from Nevarra, Antiva, and the Anderfels. But if there are any in Kirkwall you think particularly-suited... she would have a place for them, and they a place in what is to come."

"I can think of a few," Cullen said thoughtfully, "but it may be best to wait until the current conflict is over to draw any from Kirkwall. Last night made it apparent that I may not be able to trust every templar under my command. No doubt the next few months will prove a initial trial of loyalty. This will undoubtedly be for the best, to ensure you don't end up training traitors."

"And after the Red Templars are dealt with?" asked Sophia. "The will of the city is to see the templars removed from the Gallows eventually. The people are thankful for the work they've done, but understandably they don't wish to be the bystanders caught in a templar conflict again. Nor do they ever want to see a Knight-Commander vying for power with a Viscount again. So where will they go?"

"The largest body of Templars currently resides at Skyhold." Leon moved his eyes between Sophia and Cullen. "Given the issues, we'd have to vet others carefully beforehand, but it makes sense to try and reunify the southern branches of the Order. We have the capacity for it, if they are willing to fight for our cause before they are once more put to the direct service of the Chantry." Having said that, he turned his attention to SĂ©verine. "Of course, that plan of action would depend on the Knight-Captain's willingness to accept such an increase in her command. I run the army as a whole, but she leads the Templars. I certainly will not deny that." A half-smile pulled at his mouth, and he inclined his head in her direction, curiously pleased if his tone was anything to go by.

"I think I can manage it," SĂ©verine said, half-smiling herself. It honestly wasn't as daunting as taking command of those she gained at Therinfal. The Kirkwall templars were men and women she'd trained with, and she knew many of them personally over years of service. Granted, that meant many of them knew her through her years of work for Meredith, and some were far more forgiving of that than others. But she wasn't that person anymore, and most had seen the change before Cullen had her follow Lucius. Any who hadn't... well, she'd get them to come around.

"Then we have an arrangement, I think," Sophia concluded. "The templars remain in Kirkwall until the Red Templar threat is dealt with. At that point, with Knight-Commander Cullen's leave, the templars will join the Inquisition in full."

"Stealing my command, are you?" Cullen asked of SĂ©verine, his tone light. She was honestly caught off guard by that. He didn't joke very much, and he didn't even seem against the idea. It was almost enough to redden her cheeks, but she liked to think she had more composure than that.

"Er, not meaning to," she said. "We'll work something out."

"It's fine by me, I could use some time off after all this is done."

Sophia sighed, though she looked glad to see the humor in her office as well. "I think we all will."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The voyage back from Kirkwall had been rather uneventful, all things considered. But as was almost inevitable, there had been plenty of work to do immediately upon returning to Skyhold, and it was only now, a fortnight after they'd returned, that Leon at last found himself with the free time to visit Cyrus.

He wasn't the only one invited; Rilien and SĂ©verine had been extended invitations as well, and he had little doubt that the Lady Inquisitor would also be present—apparently, some matters of interest had come up in Cyrus's perusal of the Lord Seeker's tome. Leon didn't know what to expect, but at this point, he'd be a fool to be overly optimistic about the news.

Coming to a stop outside the door, Leon knocked once and announced them before stepping inside, holding the door for the other two. Cyrus's office always had a distinct sense of dishevelment to it, one that clashed with Leon's military sensibilities but typified its occupant very well. A strange mash of the chaotic and the orderly, the scattershot and the precise, the overwhelmed and overwhelming. Not entirely unlike Cyrus was in conversation: a great deal of interesting things to say, but not always the firmest command of how to say them.

Estella greeted them with a thin smile, gesturing to the empty seats. All of them had been arranged in a circle with the ones she and Cyrus occupied, around a tea service and snacks, from the look of it. Maybe it was paranoia, but that was almost a worse sign than it would have been if things were only perfunctory. Still... he did like tea, and took one of the seats readily. "Got through the whole thing already?" Leon directed the question at Cyrus. Had it been anyone else, he'd have expected to be waiting much longer for any detailed study of the contents.

Other people slept nightly, after all.

The book itself sat on Cyrus's lap, his legs folded up underneath him on the armchair. His cat had wedged herself between it and the arm, inspecting the visitors with disinterested green eyes. He balanced a teacup on the other rest, humming at the question. “Thrice. It's very interesting reading, with some relevance to everyone present. Which is of course why you're present." His brows knit. “I'll be honest: I haven't really given much thought to what order I present this in, so I suppose I'll start with the biggest thing."

He took a sip of his tea, lowering it back to the armrest before tapping the book's cover with his other index finger. “Not only is there a cure for Tranquility, but the Seekers have known about it for as long as they've been conducting Vigils."

"Wait... what?" Estella broke the silence first, glancing between the rest of them like she was surprised none of them were expressing more shock. "There's a... a way to reverse Tranquility? I thought it was permanent." Her eyes landed on Rilien for a moment, then slid back to her brother.

Truthfully, Leon was surprised, but only about one part of what Cyrus had said. "A few years ago, there was one confirmed case of someone becoming Tranquil and then the process being reversed," he explained. "I have no idea how it was done; details on the incident were sparing, and the subject has since disappeared. In the rest of the chaos at that time, it's not all that unusual that even something like that would have fallen through the cracks, but... you're suggesting the cure is much older than that."

Cyrus nodded. “It's not just that, Leon." He frowned, looking troubled by something. “I honestly don't even know how to tell you this, but... not only have the Seekers known for as long as they've existed, but it's integral to the Order." His thumb dragged repetitively along the bottom edge of the book's cover, smoothing over worn leather quickly enough to suggest some level of agitation. “For the sake of getting everyone on the same page: how would you explain the Vigil to someone who didn't know about it?"

Leon considered the question, taking a sip of tea and pursing his lips as he swallowed. "It's what happens when we've finished the training particular to our Order. The training itself isn't what gives us our... particular powers. It's just an education in things like strategy, interrogation, espionage, history, and the like. The Vigil is—once we know all the rest of that, we are taken to a cloistered area, and left there for a year. No contact with anyone, meals left anonymously. We're meant to contemplate our faith, taught how to meditate the right way. When it's over, we—" He paused, digging back through his memory to try and recall exactly what had happened when his year was up.

"Our seniors return for us, and... something happens. I don't remember exactly what. Ritual words—mostly I just remember going outside and seeing the sun for the first time in a year." It had been a revelatory experience, that part of it, so much so that the rest of the recollection utterly paled in comparison. Still, he was surprised by the number of missing details, now that he was trying to recount them in particular. What had happened?

“According to this..." Cyrus trailed off, his eyes finding the ceiling for a moment before they dropped back down. “By the end of that year, the end of the Vigil, you are Tranquil, or close enough to it. What happens after is blurry in your memory because part of it involves having your mind touched by a spirit drawn from across the Fade."

He let that silence sit for a moment, but before it could truly settle, Rilien spoke. “I can confirm that proximity to powerful enough spirits or demons does temporarily lift Tranquility, if they will it so. It is not an implausible leap to suppose they could make it permanent."

Cyrus nodded. “And in fact they do. The Seeker's mind is touched by a spirit of Faith, and in so doing they are able to access power that comes about as a side effect. The source of the ability to use templar-like talents without lyrium."

Leon didn't have any reason to disbelieve what Cyrus was telling him. The information tracked with what he knew, and explained the gaps in his otherwise-decent memory. No doubt having one's mind interfered with by a spirit might cause some memory loss, at least of the event itself. And perhaps... perhaps it even explained why that first step outside was so vivid. If it was the first thing he'd experienced after some months as tranquil, then... his brows knit. "If that's the goal—to bring us in contact with a spirit in that particular way, why go through the Vigil at all? It's not as though spirits cannot reach those who aren't tranquil. In fact, it would surely be easier."

Cyrus hummed. “Actually, that's just the problem. If you weren't tranquil, you would have had strong emotions of your own in the mix, and there would have been no guarantee that something negative wouldn't have corrupted the spirit. That's all it takes, you know—to turn one into a demon. It's part of the reason so few instances of possession ever end well. Even if the possessing entity isn't a demon to begin with... the negative aspects of their host can cause them to become warped."

"How detailed are the instructions for this... ritual, or whatever it is?" Estella reentered the conversation with a troubled look on her face. "When I think about all the mages for whom Tranquility was a punishment for disobedience—something like this could go a long way towards healing the rift that started a war, don't you think?"

Leon shook his head slightly. "It would be vastly more complicated than just that," he said softly, holding his teacup in front of his mouth but forgetting to actually drink from it. "The number of questions that would arise, the number of accusations... there's no doubt that this information was misused in the past, but if that were to get out now, when what the Chantry really needs is stability and rebuilding... I'm not sure any attempt to repair its credibility would survive. Before, unjustified uses of the Rite were something to be blamed on individual Knight-Commanders, rogue subordinates, or at the very worst, individual Circles. But if the Chantry has had the ability to reverse those injustices this whole time and never used it..."

“There are... further ramifications." Cyrus moved his free hand from the book to Pia's head, stroking absently at her ears. “To be reintroduced to one's emotions and connection to the Fade after a few months without is one thing. But some Tranquil have been that way for years or more. There is a chance the very act would drive them mad."

Rilien was silent, stirring a small measure of sugar into his teacup impassively. There was no mistaking that he was listening, however, his attention every bit as keen as Leon had always known it to be.

No doubt if he wanted to know what the elf was thinking, Leon would have to ask. He was parting his lips to do so when Estella made a frustrated noise, like she'd been trying to clamp down on a thought for a while and could no longer manage it. "But then what? We wait until the Chantry is more stable and then tell everyone about this? Won't that topple credibility just the same? If... if you've got a bad foundation, you can't just sweep away the old house and build a new one on top. It'll fall, too. You've got to rip out the foundation and redo that first." She exhaled heavily, shifting in her seat. "I understand that the Chantry's position is precarious right now, and I understand that it needs to be rebuilt. But I don't think it should be rebuilt like it was, with all the same designs on the same foundation and new boards to fill old places. It should be something new, something better than its history."

Her lips thinned. "And you can't start that process by continuing to deceive people, even by omission. No one here is responsible for making this mistake. But the positions we have, the influence we could wield... we could be responsible for either fixing it, or just repeating it. The two of you especially." Her eyes moved between Leon and SĂ©verine.

SĂ©verine looked to Leon, but when she saw he was waiting to allow her to weigh in first, she shifted and cleared her throat. She'd been quiet, absorbing the information no doubt with some difficulty. "I may not have much place to speak on this," she began. "After all, I've suggested using the Rite before, in a manner that was deemed unjustified or at the very least unnecessary. But... I think Estella has a point here."

She looked to Leon. "At this point, we're starting from scratch. The people that knew about this secret before, they're dead now, all of them. We're the ones who know about it now. We're the new foundation, if we're using the Inquisitor's metaphor. The faith has survived so much already. And people are seeking answers now more than ever. I think honesty is the way forward. An admittance that the old Chantry we served was wrong, in many ways. So they know that our goals aren't the same." She glanced at Rilien, no doubt wondering what he was thinking as well.

"We might soon be living in a world where mages aren't made Tranquil ever again... but that won't help those that already are. And if secrets like this are kept to ourselves, I'm not sure we're any more worthy of trust than all who came before."

Leon let himself consider what the both of them had said. In all honesty, he knew they were right, and he wondered when it was he'd lost that same sense of justice and rightness that seemed to be where they were speaking from. Perhaps his convictions had never been strong enough after all. After a few moments, he dipped his chin in a slow, ponderous nod. "Then we'll release the information. Maybe not the details, but at least the knowledge that reversing a Rite is possible, and the information that this had been concealed by the Chantry in times past." Convincing people of the last part would be perhaps the most crucial step, but like everything else of great import, persuasion would be more a matter of actions than words.

"Is there anything else in there that we ought to know about? If there are demons to be exposed and slain, we'd best be sure to get them all."

Cyrus lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing particularly damning. Lord Seekers were apparently once privy to a lot of rather dirty historical secrets, but much of the rest of it is just a record of their various tenures in the position and events contemporary with their lives. It's fascinating as a matter of record, and of course I'll let you know if anything else seems off as I continue, but I'd say that was the big one."

He paused a moment, then, moving his eyes to Rilien. “Of course, the ritual is described in enough detail that we could very easily conduct it here, had we a reason to do so. It only takes a couple of mages, some lyrium, and a Seeker. Something to consider, perhaps."

The tranquil in the room blinked, clearly aware of the implication. “Perhaps."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
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"A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten
And be forgiven, but a slave never.
If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight."
-Canticle of Shartan 9:7
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Somehow the raven knew to find him specifically. Dark wings, dark words.

Rom didn't know when to expect it, but some feeling in his gut told him it would be soon. Chryseis didn't allow things to go unfinished forever, and had a way of making progress even where none was to be found. He couldn't say he expected it to be made quite like this, but then the Venatori were not a force to be trifled with, and Chryseis's resources in Tevinter had become somewhat limited of late.

The raven that carried the message had flown into his quarters through the mouth of the undercroft's cavern, flapping to a perch on his armor stand and waiting patiently. There was an unnatural light to its eyes, some spell that Chryseis had learned. He'd never seen her turn into an animal of any kind, as she had little interest in it, but dominating minds and thoughts was very much her strength. It was a simple enough task to get a raven to deliver a message for her. And a simple enough task for the Venatori to see its direction, predict its contents, and let it go.

He held eye contact with the dark bird for a few seconds, wondering if she could see him through it. If she could, she'd read the thoughts written on his face and know he was pondering just tearing up the message, scattering it to the winds and letting her die. She was formidable, but those she faced were too, and to fight them on her own would surely mean her death. Only with a strong reminder of her purpose and what it meant for his friends and his cause did he stay his hand. They needed this. For Vesryn, Estella, Cyrus, Ithilian, Amalia. For Zee to have a chance to resolve things with her family. For the Inquisition.

He folded the paper carefully in his hands and made his way out to the door. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs drew his gaze up, where he found Khari on her way down. It was about time for them to train together, something they'd continued to do after the conversation they'd had on the walls. It was undoubtedly a little more awkward now, but neither of them made any mention of it.

"We're gonna have to call it off today," he said from his doorway, holding up the folded letter. "Chryseis is in Ferelden. I need you to get Estella and Rilien, bring them to the war room. I'll get Leon." It went without saying that he'd want her there as well.

Khari didn't waste time asking unnecessary questions—she nodded shortly and reversed direction, heading back down the hallway at a brisk clip. She hit the door just close enough to him that he could slide through the gap before it closed behind her, but then they peeled off in opposite directions, hers carrying her towards the Spymaster's tower.

Rom didn't have as far to go to get to Leon's tower, and the Commander didn't make himself difficult to find, nor did he question him any more than Khari had. Rom handed over the small letter to Leon on their way up to the war room so he could read for himself. The script was quite small, but Chryseis had always been precise with her letters, and there was no difficulty in making out any of the words.

They didn't have to wait long in the war room for Khari to return with Estella and Rilien, both dressed for the training they'd just had interrupted. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Rom stepped up to the map laid out on the table in front of them.

"Chryseis Viridius contacted me. She says she's in Ferelden. Venatori forced her from her home in Minrathous, and have pursued her the entire way." He paused. That information was a bit incredulous on its own, that the Venatori had neither captured her nor lost her trail. "They're using her as bait, well aware that she would contact the Inquisition for help. She recommends that we go anyway, and spring the trap."

Estella stepped up to the map table on the other side, her eyes falling to where Ferelden was laid out. Not a small country, by any means. "Where exactly in Ferelden is she?" She asked, reaching up to rub at the scar just beneath her jawline. A recent one; from Kirkwall, he understood. "And why not try to come here, I wonder? Jader would have made the most sense as a landing place, wouldn't it have?"

"I don't think she came by boat," he answered. He imagined several dead horses, to make it this far south in reasonable time. "And I expect any move she made was only because the Venatori allowed it. If she tried to make for Skyhold, they'd attack and kill her. If we go in force, they'll kill her. She might as well be their prisoner, but they allowed her to get this far because they know it'll tempt us to go after her." He pointed to a spot on the map, due east of Haven. "She's at an inn called the Bright Water, on the west banks of Lake Calenhad. No mention of the exact Venatori strength, but if they're avoiding notice from locals, it can't be much. A few elites."

Khari was frowning openly; it wasn't hard to figure out why. No doubt the idea of so directly aiding Chryseis didn't sit well with her. She crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at the the blue spot that represented Lake Calenhad. “So... who're we taking then? If this is anything like the last time we sprang a trap, it's going to go badly, but that was a lot of Reds and the Lord Seeker. This should be cake by comparison." Though the words themselves were dismissive, her tone didn't convey the same, not with the wry edge it carried.

Rom appreciated them all the same. This didn't seem likely to be as hard as Kasos, but the location was less than ideal. There were a few reasons why Chryseis might pick a place populated with civilians to wait for the trap to spring, and none of them were pleasant to think about. Even if he could see the logic behind it. "The trap is for me," he said, tilting his head slightly in thought. "Or an Inquisitor, at the very least. We have to assume they're watching the road in. If they see they aren't getting a chance at what they want, we might arrive to find only corpses and a burned inn. So it needs to be me." He certainly wasn't going to ask Estella to meet Chryseis for him and spring a trap, not when it had been his idea to use her help in the first place. And he did need to meet her.

"I'd like Asala to be there. I'm not seeing any way we get out clean, and we need to make sure Chryseis survives." He looked up from the map, to Leon. "I'd prefer if Khari and Zee can be there as well. And if you're up for another ambush, seems like you'd be well suited for the quarters and the enemies." He figured that was as large a group as the Venatori were willing to entertain combating, given that they had the advantage of surprise almost guaranteed to be on their side.

Leon smiled a bit, his eyes narrowing at the corners. "I believe you just suggested I would make a good barroom brawler because I punch things," he said, shaking his head minutely before his expression sobered. It was a mostly quite serious matter, after all. "I admit, to configure ourselves this way is to trigger the trap with rather more fingers than necessary, so to speak, but we almost have to, to make it seem worth the risk from their perspective."

No doubt the events at Kasos weighed heavily on him still, but as Khari had pointed out, this situation was considerably different for many reasons. After a moment more, he dipped his chin slowly. "I'm recovered enough to do this much. You may consider me at your disposal."

"Thank you." It was something of a weight off, to know he'd have many of those closest to him at his back. "It might be best if some of the scouts shadow us, but it should be at a distance. To cover us if we need to make an escape, or to catch any Venatori that try the same." Risk or not, he didn't think it best to chance them falling into Venatori hands. That would likely be worse than losing their way into Tevinter, if indeed Chryseis had arranged it.

"I think that's everything," he said. Nervousness was not something he showed often, but he was sure it was showing up now. "We should leave as soon as we're able. Once we have Chryseis, we can begin preparations for the journey north, however she recommends we make it." His eyes met Estella's as he said it. He knew she had been waiting for this day to come for a while as well, for her own reasons.

She wore an expression of vague unease, likely from multiple sources, but he watched her rid herself of it in her habitual way. Her shoulders lifted as she took in a deep breath, then offered a tentative smile. "I'll get that started here while you're gone. Be careful, Rom." She filed out first, followed closely by Leon, no doubt off to make his own preparations for a trip into the field.

Rilien glided out quietly after them, leaving Khari and Rom as the sole occupants of the large war room. She pulled her eyes up from the maps on the table and settled them on him. “So." She paused, clearly reaching for words that were not immediately ready to her tongue. “This probably isn't the way you were planning on meeting her next." She blinked, grimacing like she might have said something else, but whatever it was, she swallowed it instead.

"Honestly, this might be better than what I'd thought." The Venatori pursuing her were a rather obvious downside to things, but taking them out of the equation... "I thought we'd meet her in Minrathous. Then I'd just be waiting for it for weeks while we sailed there or something. I'd end up feeling as sick as you." He smiled slightly, remembering how well she'd fared on their journey to Llomerryn. "This way I'll just meet her before I even have time to think about it. And I've got friends with me, and we'll have much better things to do than talk about anything that happened in the past."

Maybe they would need to get to that eventually, but they could cross that bridge when they came to it. Rom did have some plans regarding that particular bridge, but he honestly didn't know if he should give voice to them. "Listen, uh... when we meet her, I honestly don't know what I'll do, or what she'll do. It's been a long time, and for all I know she might've changed as much as I have. Not necessarily in a good way, either. Just..." he hesitated, trying to find the right words for what he wanted to say. "Just do that thing you do, where you help me be a different person than I was before all of this. Maybe don't focus on her, but just me. If that makes sense." He felt a bit of heat rising to his cheeks, but ignored it. It was important to say.

Khari expelled a breath from her nose, a bit harder than necessary; her mouth pulled to the side. Clearly, she didn't take the request to be an easy one, but she nodded readily enough. “Okay." She pursed her lips, then nodded again, but more firmly. “I'll... uh, do my best. To help you. That's the important thing anyway." She cleared her throat, then smiled a bit. “But I think you'd be okay even if I didn't. You are a different person. You'll see."

"Thanks. I hope so." He knew he'd changed, but he wasn't willing to discount the possibility that he could revert, even if only temporarily. He also had to acknowledge that Khari's personality was not always the best in delicate situations. She'd shown as much at Halamshiral, thankfully not in a way that had caused lasting harm. She didn't know Chryseis, not like he knew her, so it was almost certainly better for her to follow his lead. As long as his lead was worth following. It was all very complicated, and to be honest he was looking forward to getting it over with.

"We'll handle the Venatori, and then we'll handle Chryseis." One way or another, he'd find a way to be rid of her. To purge whatever shadow she still had hanging over him, intentionally or not. But first they needed her help. He could wait, and endure her a little longer.

"Come on, we should get ready. Don't have much time to lose."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The Bright Water was fairly aptly named. As the Inquisition's small party approached it from the northwest, they could see moonlight reflecting off the surface of Lake Calenhad beyond, like a silvered mirror. They'd docked Riptide several miles up, to avoid spooking the Venatori, and now approached on foot, moving neither especially quietly nor in such a way as to make a production of their presence. Arguably they would have found actual stealth impossible, particularly considering that Asala was here. Khari knew she was next up on the list of not being able to keep it down, but the gap was more like a gulf, if she did say so herself.

They hadn't passed much of interest so far—just farmland, crops ripening that last touch before harvest, some of the leaves on ears of corn beginning to turn brown at the edges. This far south and at this time of night, the air was a little chilly; Khari was glad of her cloak, to be sure. A few times throughout the trek, she'd gotten the distinct sense that she was being observed, but none of the bastards had shown themselves, so she'd done her best to ignore it and keep moving.

But now they could see the inn ahead; it was a comfortably-sized building, two stories tall, sitting on a well-tended plot of land. Warm light poured from the windows, golden illumination pooling onto the surrounding lawn. She could make out smoke wafting regularly from the chimney, sure signs of a fire working to stave off the chill. In her traveling days, she'd have bypassed it, uncertain she'd be able to afford a room and too prideful to make any attempt to plead the fee down. She supposed that, with the Inquisition salary she got pretty regularly and never had much use for, that probably wouldn't be an issue anymore, but they weren't here for any purpose so mundane as staying the night and eating a hot meal. Much as she would have preferred that to what they were doing.

She stopped a good fifty yards from the building, turning over her shoulder to glance at the others. “So... are we just going in, or...?"

"In a moment." Rom was never the most talkative sort, but he'd been especially quiet on their way over, for the obvious reasons. He hadn't drawn up his hood or done anything else to conceal who and what he was. In the darkness a faint green light was usually visible emanating from his marked hand. None of the others needed to disguise themselves either, or hide the fact that they were ready for a fight. If anything, it might help warn the civilians in the area that they should avoid them. Trouble had a way of following them after all.

Rom took several moments to observe the inn, the surrounding area, the lakeside, the narrow extending a short ways out into it. Only big enough for a rowboat or something slightly larger. It wasn't clear what exactly he was looking for, or trying to read on the ground. Looking for signs of the Venatori, maybe. If he found any, he didn't comment on them. "I don't see where the Venatori would be hiding," he said, finally. "At least, not in numbers capable of ambushing us. They're probably inside already. Which means they're almost certainly disguised, trying to blend in." That wasn't a trick they'd seen before. The Venatori were usually pretty obvious with their bright white robes and obnoxiously pointy armor. And if they were mages, they didn't need to conceal weapons on their persons to be highly dangerous.

Leon considered this for a moment, crossing his arms and studying the building from afar. "The only other place I can think they might be would be the roof, counting on easy access through windows, or the upper floor, where they might need less by way of disguise, but both are less likely options." He glanced once at Khari, then back to the inn. "I think our best chance of figuring out who is whom is being proactive. Doing something that would make a trained Venatori agent react differently from a normal civilian. That would allow us to isolate and neutralize them while keeping the others out of harm's way."

He hummed. "If there were a way to draw them outside, that would be best, but I'm not convinced they wouldn't startle and kill Chryseis if we tried. So it will probably have to be once we're already in."

“Why not just kick the door down and force it?" Khari shrugged. “I mean, look: we do something really startling. Venatori react like they're trained to do, which is going for their magic or weapons. Civilians cower, or find cover, or whatever. We know who's who. Asala jumps in first, throws the best barrier she's got on Chryseis, and then we all get down to business. If we start the fight on our terms, we're most likely to end it that way, too. I don't like the idea of letting them strike at us first, and we're not out-subtling anyone as we are, in this group. We know what needs to happen, so let's just do it."

"If I might suggest a slight amendment," Leon offered, "the door will be drawing the initial attention, and whoever is first through it should be able to handle that. If Asala is shielding Chryseis, she is not shielding herself immediately." He glanced between them. "Better if some of us go in through the windows on the ground floor. I should likely handle the door, and the immediate retaliation that would result." He paused, his attention shifting to Rom. "And it might be better to know which windows go where, and where Chryseis actually is, before we kick over the hornet's nest."

"It would help," Asala added, repeatedly steepling her fingers together. A nervous twitch undoubtedly, "If we knew where she was before we entered," she agreed with Leon. "It would, uh, save me the time it would take trying to find her over the ruckus," she said with a shrug.

"Right," Rom said, tapping his knuckles lightly against Zee's forearm. "Think you can scout the place out for us? A few passes around the outside. Try not to be seen, but probably better to play it casual than full on sneak." It was likely a few people were already outside of the inn, on one side or the other. There would be no easy way to tell their intentions, or if they'd inadvertently tip off the Venatori if they reported it inside. Zee's appearance was also a little more subtle than Rom's, even avoiding taking the glowing hand into consideration.

Zahra’s eyes tore away from the building ahead of them and though her grin was a shade grimmer than usual, she stuck up her thumb and ambled away from them. Fortunately, she didn’t look too out of place here. It was an inn, and to anyone who spotted her, she may have well passed for a traveler. Just another face. A drunkard to anyone else lingering on the inn’s outskirts; they knew well enough she was an admirable actress.

She tugged her dark cloak tighter around her neck and headed towards the back of the building. There was another sound aside from her footsteps. A greeting of sorts. Slurred. Most assuredly hers. A mumbled response. Clearly uninterested. Nothing more. A moment later, and she reappeared at the opposing side of the building. She rounded back to Rom’s side, and regarded the others, “Chryseis is alone, sitting between two of the lakeside windows. Once we drop in there, we’d be swimming.” She paused for a moment and shuttered her eyes closed, “Northernmost is another window. It’s closest to the stairwell. Whoever goes through there will take a little longer to get to her. There’s more windows on the west wall. Bedrooms, and the hallway. The last one is in the south. Someone left it open a wee bit. Smells good. Good chance it’s the kitchen.”

There was a pull to her expression; as if she was unsure. She bobbed her head in a nod and reopened her eyes, “There’s a lot of bodies in there. This inn’s popular. Farmers mostly, I think. But
 if you’re right, and they’re disguised, it’ll be hard telling who’s who.”

“Probably best to draw the attention away from her." Khari figured that Asala could shield from outside if she could see her—according to Stel, she'd used barriers from behind a hedge before, so it'd be a similar principle. If everyone else was climbing in through windows other than those ones, any Venatori in the room would have to divide their attention. And the possibility of giving themselves away increased. “If Leon's going through the door and Asala's shielding from lakeside... then I guess we all go in a different way. I'll take the kitchen." She did best when making a fuss, not trying to avoid one. Might as well give the Venatori something else to worry about so they didn't all gang up on Leon for too long.

"I'll go in from the lakeside," Rom offered. With Asala shielding from the other window there, that side was covered. "That leaves the north window for Zee. Should give you a better view of what's happening, and you'll be the first to meet anyone coming down the stairs. I'm willing to guess most civilians will stay in their rooms if they hear this kind of noise, so be wary of anyone you see." He took a deep breath, cracking his knuckles. "Ready?"

Khari glanced at the others; everyone seemed to be in agreement. “Ready."

They split up, then, everyone taking up their positions. Khari kept low and moved to the window Zee had picked out as belonging to the kitchen. It did smell really nice. She'd have to do her best not to mess anything up on her way into the main room, but she did still intend to cause a commotion, since she'd probably reach the fight quicker than anyone but Leon did. Assuming he managed to start one. But Leon knew what he was doing—if anyone could force the Venatori to reveal themselves, it was him.

Loosening her sword a bit in the sheath at her back, Khari placed both palms on the windowsill, counting her breaths as the cooks moved about busily inside. Elves, most of them, all intent on bubbling pots or kitchen knives and vegetables. She kept to the side a bit to avoid spoiling things too early; the knight wasn't getting in on this assault until the bishop had initiated.

And he certainly initiated; it didn't take too long for her to hear a bang, followed by a splintering crack right on its heels, then another bang, probably as the broken door slammed back against the wall or maybe the floor. Several shouts followed, many pitched high with urgency and surprise, and the hissing sizzle of magic fire being conjured.

There was no better cue than that—Khari swung herself up and over the window-ledge and into the kitchen. It took a few seconds for anyone to even notice; all the cooks' eyes had swung to the door leading into the main part of the inn. "What's going—gah!" The speaker, an elven woman probably about Khari's own age, noticed her only partway through the sentence, and suddenly the room's attention had whiplashed back to her.

“I'd stay here if I were you. Better yet, go out that window. This could get ugly." Grinning, she reached back over her shoulder to unsheathe her blade, heading for the door as she did. The kitchen staff scurried to get out of her way, a few of them already heading for the window to take her advice, no doubt.

Pushing open the door, Khari emerged almost directly behind a man with sparks of lightning shifting between his fingers. From the fact that he was neither ducked nor covered, and looked to be aiming at Leon, she decided he was one of the Venatori. Her sword found his ribcage accordingly, erupting from his chest. Khari whistled sharply, drawing more hostile attention, and planted her boot in the mage's back, pushing him off her sword and fixing a bright green glare on the next, flourishing her sword and falling into a crouch, grin firmly in place. “Wanna dance?"

He did not want to dance, unless throwing a wide cone of flames in her direction could be considered as such. It was a delaying tactic, and one meant to cause more chaos than anything. The entire room had fallen into almost instant anarchy, as the patrons were temporarily at a loss as to what to do, and where to go. The main door was still mostly blocked by the towering figure of Leon, and other strange figures had come through all the windows, making it unclear if they were being attacked by the Inquisition or not, since by all appearances the mages in the room were defending themselves, and not obviously of Tevinter descent.

The fire caught quickly, igniting several tables and licking at the ceiling. One or two people were partially caught in the blast; a young woman screamed as she fell, trying to put out the flames that had stuck to her sleeve. The barrier in the room was already around Chryseis, who had gotten to her feet at her table, knife in hand. She was dressed like a traveler, and a poor one at that, her cloak torn and fraying at the edges. A thick spike of ice speared the barrier just after it came up, leaving a crack but no more.

Chryseis eyed the woman that had let loose the spell, sparking lightning at her own fingertips. She threw it at the barrier in front of her, the spell shocking it heavily, something it seemed she expected. "Get this thing away from me!" she shouted, lighting another spell.

Rom attacked the ice-slinging Venatori from behind, but her senses and reactions were quick, and she managed to turn and avoid both his grab and the first slice that came for her. They tangled, and soon fell, with Rom trying to end the fight quickly and failing. An older man tripped over them and fell. He'd still been carrying a mug of ale, but that went flying as he went down. Everywhere there were people cowering, hiding, looking for a safe escape route. These couldn't be all of the Venatori, so they had to assume some among the civilians were better at keeping their cool than these first few.

Leon stepped away from the door, throwing his Venatori opponent hard enough into an empty table that it split and collapsed. She did not rise. He diverted his attention momentarily to the panicked civilians, whether any of the Tevinter agents were among their number or not. "Get out!" he bellowed, the gentle rationality with which he would probably have normally approached this replaced by the urgency of trying to keep as many of them safe as possible in a very dangerous situation.

A few of those nearest the door were startled into compliance, making a break for the door and nearly tripping over themselves on the way out. One of those, however, unexpectedly veered off course. With a flash of steel, a short knife buried itself into the meat of Leon's shoulder, kept from anything more vital by the fact that he moved on reflex. His hand closed around his assailant's neck, lifting him off the ground and driving the heel of his free hand into the man's face. Under the blow, the fine cartilage of the Venatori's nose cracked, and he howled, managing to kick free of Leon and land more or less solidly, driving forward again with the knife, this time with a coat of magical frost on the blade.

Khari took a hard step forward and hewed him down from behind, but they punished her for it, an ice spike impaling her thigh, still held in the hand of the Venatori who'd conjured it. He swept her legs out from underneath her, putting her on her back with a hard whoosh as the air left her lungs. The pain, she could deal with—the larger problem was that she'd landed nearly against the wall, cutting off most of the obvious avenues for escape. Someone—presumably Marcus—had really taught these fuckers how to fight.

Growling, she lunged from her spot, hooking the crossguard of her sword around the back of his ankle and yanking, spilling him onto the floor. He grabbed the edge of a table to steady himself on the way down, spilling the food and liquid contents of it down on both of them. Unluckily, Khari found herself with ale in her eyes, and the Venatori used the opportunity to pin one of her arms, drawing a short blade with his free hand.

The Venatori’s face contorted as he leaned forward; dark eyes bulging and mouth gawping down at her. The sword he’d been holding clattered to the side. His fingers twitched. There was a croaking noise, a wet gurgle, before a froth of blood spilled from his lips and spattered onto Khari’s shoulder. The tip of a slender blade poked through his throat. Deliberately slow. It disappeared as soon as he slumped off to the side, the weight liberating the rapier.

Only then did Khari see Zee standing above them. Her expression unreadable. There were a few more spatters of blood on her face; a streak of it across her jawline. Whether it belonged to her or someone else was anyone’s guess. The tavern had turned chaotic. Tables flipped and streaks of lightning snapping above their heads. She was already offering to help her up, reaching down to grab onto her forearm, “You OK?”

Khari rolled her her feet with the assist. “All my parts are still working." Which meant she was fine to keep fighting.

At some point during the tilt, Asala had slipped in through the window stood next to Chryseis. "Stay close!" Asala asked of the woman. The barrier no longer surrounded her, but from the tone in Asala's voice, it seemed that she intended to protect her the best she could regardless. Instead of around Chryseis however, the barrier was alive in a different spot. Over near where Zee had entered, up the stairs that led into the second floor a barrier lived, cutting off access to and from the rooms upstairs. With the barrier in place, Asala split her attention between that and picking out spots to spring another in order to help them, just as she tried in her practice.

"Get out of the way!" Chryseis roared at the confused cluster of people in front of her. She thrust her hand out, a blast of arcane energy non-lethally throwing them onto their backs. All but one, anyway. One of the men in the group had instinctively shrouded himself with a magical shield of his own. Promptly realizing his exposure, he reared back with a fire spell, but Chryseis's stunning lightning struck him first, leaving him paralyzed momentarily. It was all she needed to rush forward and slice her blade across his throat. The blood fell unnaturally, drops of it hovering and circling around her hand, but the body collapsed normally enough.

Rom finished off the Venatori he'd been tangled with, getting back to his feet only for the first shock of a chain lightning spell to strike him in the back. From there the spell went wild, arcing in every direction and bouncing repeatedly on the bodies of Inquisition, civilians, and Venatori alike, leaving many who tried to escape momentarily pinned in place while they struggled to regain control of their bodies. It wasn't even clear where the spell had come from, but obviously they weren't out of the woods yet. Not to mention something was blasting Asala's barrier at the base of the stairs, steadily breaking it down.

Leon was among those hit by the lightning, but shook it off much more quickly than those surrounding him, returning to motion a moment after impact. He'd clearly taken note of the wear on the barrier, too, and hopped over a downed table to head towards the stairs. "Take it down, Asala, and do your best to get the civilians out. Push if you have to!" The sense of 'push' was obvious, if he was asking her specifically. He disappeared from sight as he passed into the short hallway beyond the barroom.

As ordered, Asala's barrier fizzled out soon after Leon left sight. With a new task at hand, she whipped toward the clusters of civilians and cupped her mouth to make herself be heard over the din. "If you are able, please leave!" she shouted in her firm, but gentle manner before she started to get more directly involved. She began to help individuals who needed her personally, her barriers flicking to life whenever necessary to protect them. As asked, some required more than that, and that was where her barrier encouraged them to move, while keeping them safe as well.

Someone had knocked Zee off her feet as the arcing lightning lit up the air, paralyzing those unfortunate enough to be in its path. The offending person was still grappled onto her shoulders, punching with his fists rather than with any noticeable weapon. She crashed into a table, splitting it in two with the weight of them both, spilling them onto the floor. Chairs were kicked away and whatever had been on the tables surface shattered on the floor, scattering across it. Mugs, glasses, plates; crunching underfoot.

The scuffle hadn’t lasted long. It took Zee a moment to reappear, shouldering her way from underneath the man’s immobile body. She heaved him off with a groan and tossed the shard of plate away; arm soaked to the elbow in red. Her face, however, had received the brunt of the damage. Her nose, and lip, bled freely. Swelling had begun to show just below her eye socket. From Khari’s vantage point, she was already pushing herself back to her feet, stooping to pick up her rapier, before bee-lining towards Rom.

Instead of offering her hand as she had with her, she hunkered down and slipped her arm around his back, shifting underneath his armpit, in an attempt to aid him back to his feet. Her words were inaudible, but a slip of a battered grin could be seen.

At this point, Khari was having more difficulty deciding who she needed to fight. The Venatori that had exposed themselves most obviously were dealt with, as were a few that had attempted stealthier maneuvers in the heat of the conflict. It was likely that those who remained knew the fight was lost, their numbers dwindled, and the smart thing for them to do would be to maintain their disguises and allow Asala to shepherd them out with the civilians. She wasn't sure there was any avoiding that—startling them into revealing themselves had probably exposed more than they would have noticed otherwise, and prevented anyone from being knifed in the back as of yet, but it wasn't a perfect solution to the issue.

Scanning the remains of the inn's front room, she tried to figure out if anyone else was obviously hostile. Maybe they'd managed to get them all; there was certainly no shortage of dead or incapacitated mages on the floor.

There was at least one left, though, and he came sliding in across the floor from where Leon had engaged him around the corner. He was dressed as a mercenary or adventurer perhaps, sword armed and leather armored over a long coat, with short brown hair and well groomed, curly beard. He might've been a decent-looking fellow under normal circumstances, but presently he was beaten and bruised, clearly scrambling and holding off panic.

He physically scrambled behind the nearby bar, grunting with the effort of it, and pulling a young woman to her feet with him, producing her from behind the counter where she'd been hiding like a sleight of hand trick. She looked to be a serving girl, perhaps even a child of the establishment's owner. Immediately the Venatori's sword was at her throat, his eyes rapidly shifting between the Inquisition members.

"Stay back!" he demanded, baring teeth. "I'll open her throat. I'm walking out, understand?" Chryseis exhaled an amused breath, droplets of blood still circling her bent fingers.

Leon emerged from the hallway then, the left half of his face a sheet of crimson where a blade had opened a long gash on his forehead. The eye on the same side was closed, though he reached up to wipe the blood off with his thumb and the side of his hand. The rest had a prominent burn, like he'd had to defend against a close-range fire spell with it. He spat a glob of blood to one side, split lip already swelling, but paused his motion as soon as he took proper stock of the situation.

"That's not the smart thing to do here," he rumbled, residual aggression or pain roughening the edges of his tone, though it was for the most part reasonable as he ever was. "Let the young lady go; it only gets worse for you if you don't." His eyes narrowed, like he was concentrating hard on something, or trying to make a particularly difficult decision, but the focus was entirely on the Venatori man with the hostage.

"Don't try anything, Seeker!" the Venatori demanded, putting his back to the wall and letting the blade's edge touch the girl's throat.

Chryseis rolled her eyes impatiently. "Enough of this." She hurled an arcane bolt at them, the magic missile striking the girl rather than the Venatori, but both of them were thrown back against the wall. The blade left a shallow cut across the throat during the collision, but the force was enough to separate them as they went down. The sword came up for a downwards stab that would end her, but before it could fall there was a low thrum of magic being called upon.

Blood magic, if the shifting of the blood around her hand, and the pools on the ground were anything to go by. For a moment it seemed like the firelight from the hearth and the braziers dimmed slightly, and then the Venatori shrieked in what could only be incredible pain, every muscle in his body seizing up. Chryseis twisted her hand, and the sword dropped to clatter against the ground, the man arching his back from his knees. A second shriek of pain followed when Chryseis pulled him onto his back with her magic, walking the necessary steps to be beside him.

"Decius, please," she said. "You must have known coming south would be the end of you. And with so few..." She clicked her tongue, then wrenched her hand sideways. Decius's next cry of pain was cut short as he was violently taken from consciousness, left sweating and breathing lightly on the ground.

A patron that had been cowering in one of the back corners, an elderly farmer by the looks of him, shakily got to his feet. "What... Maker's breath, what the hell was that? You—you're the Inquisition, aren't you?"

“Some of us are." Khari felt her lip curling, and not in any kind of smile, but she forced the expression down. She had to at least make their position clear here. “The disguised ones were Venatori. Tevinter cult. We're, uh... sorry about the intrusion." Shattered furniture, blood smeared all over the floors, and a pile of dead bodies were a bit more than an intrusion, but it was probably still the best word to use. Maybe.

"Can't breathe," came a weak voice from behind the counter. "I can't breathe."

It was Rom who nimbly climbed over the counter to hop down to her, carefully pulling her to a seated position with her back to the wall. "Slow down," he advised, his voice even and focused. "One breath at a time, it'll come back."

Chryseis noted the exchange with passing interest, but then turned her dark green eyes on Leon. "We'll want to bring this one with us, I think." She gestured to the unconscious Decius at her feet. "He's the leader." She looked around at the carnage and the destruction, some of the flames still trying to cling to wood here and there. "That was interesting."

Leon sighed heavily. "That's one word for it," he agreed. "Can someone tell me which of you is the innkeeper? I believe the Inquisition owes you for property damage."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
The walk back to Skyhold was not a pleasant one.

The few scouts that joined them along the way helped secure their prisoner. Decius Catus. Rom knew him, but didn't know he'd joined the Venatori. It had been a number of years since last they met, and when he'd lived in Minrathous they hadn't regularly spoken about anything. Chryseis's alliance with the man's father was the most common thing that brought them together. In any case, he was an enemy now, and one they needed to handle with care. If he had been dispatched to follow Chryseis by Marcus himself, there was a good chance he had information that could help them.

He wasn't subtle in his avoidance of Chryseis on the road back. There was more than enough space for them to remain out of speaking distance the whole way, which he did. Working out their differences while still cooling from the heat of a fight would be unwise. They had a job to take care of first, and it was more important than anything she'd done to him in their history.

By the time they passed through Skyhold's gates again it was morning, and the fortress was waking up. Their return had obviously been announced before they reached the walls, as guards were there to meet them, and several from the infirmary's staff to check for any wounded still in need of care. For now the wounds had been taken care of by Asala, leaving nothing that required more immediate attention.

"I don't suppose there's time for me to sleep?" Chryseis asked to no one in particular, as they started up the steps towards the keep.

"If you would care to, you certainly may, milady" Leon replied, tone polite but slightly dry. "But you'll understand if we prefer to conduct our pressing business as soon as possible. There are matters of considerable urgency at hand." The cut on his forehead had been repaired by a combination of Asala's magic and potions, but it was still faintly pink. He, like all of them, really needed a wash.

He gestured over a nearby pair of Templars, who approached swiftly. "Take Lord Catus to a holding cell, please, and have extra guards posted until I send for him." When custody of Decius was remanded, he let out a breath and returned his attention to them, smiling mildly. "There is time enough to refresh ourselves, at least. I'll have someone show Lady Viridius a room, if the rest of you would like to avail yourselves of the opportunity. We'll reconvene in the interrogation room in an hour."

As the words were basically permission for them all to leave, it wasn't all that surprising that Khari also took them as a cue to relax. She'd been watching him for most of the way back, though she'd made an effort not to be intrusive about it. It certainly hadn't escaped her how much distance he kept between himself and Chryseis, and more often than not, she'd situated herself in that space, much closer to his side of it. Now, though, she stretched her arms over her head and heaved a sigh. “I won't lie: I like this armor, but I'll be happy to be out of it." She dropped her hands, letting one of them land on his shoulder. “See you in an hour, then?"

"Yeah." His left hand still held his shield, so he reached across with his right to briefly grasp near her wrist. He was being more subdued than usual, but he trusted the contact would be enough to convey what he wanted. Khari didn't normally sit in on the discussions that took place in the war room among Inquisition leaders, but he knew no one would keep her out of this one, and Rom in particular probably wouldn't even do it unless she was there.

Her gear wasn't kept in the keep, so they split at the stairs, with Rom ducking his way towards the undercroft as soon as he was inside. One of the Skyhold staff had prepared a washcloth and a bucket of clean water for his return. It was cold, like anything around Skyhold was as they began to move out of the summer season. Washing it over his face helped rid him of the drowsiness that had begun to build behind his eyes, willing them shut if he allowed it. There was more work yet to be done.

He exited his quarters near an hour later without his armor, armed only with his regular blade at his hip. He didn't wear it normally, but today was not a normal day. He'd also chosen to put on boots instead of sandals he might've worn otherwise. Subtle things that he was kidding himself if he thought Chryseis wouldn't notice. The others surely would as well.

She met him on the walk from the keep, in the great hall, a bit of extremely unfortunate timing that allowed her to fall in step beside him. Chryseis was shorter than he was, but had no trouble keeping up with his swift pace of walking, which he certainly didn't try to slow for her. "I'm pleased you came for me," she said, as they made their way out of the front doors. "Not a moment too soon, either. Decius was starting to get impatient."

"We came because we need your help," he replied, not content to let her speak at him as she once might have.

"Which I have offered freely." She obviously took note of his tone, and replied in kind. "In fact, working against the Venatori has cost me no small amount. There had better be blood at the end of this trail. Marcus's. I trust you can get it."

"It is what I do best. You saw to that." He honestly hadn't meant it as a threat, but he wondered if she took it that way. Hunting powerful mages was what he was best at, what she'd trained him to do, what his purpose had been. Eventually even the threat of it was sometimes enough to get what Chryseis wanted.

The guards allowed them down into the dungeons. The stairs were just wide enough for them to walk side by side, but Rom allowed Chryseis to go ahead of him. They found the others outside of the interrogation room. It seemed they were the last to arrive. Alongside Leon and Khari were Estella, Rilien, and Cyrus, who had no doubt been made aware what had happened, and who their prisoner was.

"Cyrus," Chryseis greeted, placing a smile on her lips. "It's good to see you again. I trust my father is well? I heard the Inquisition chose to make use of his talents."

“Chryseis." Cyrus inclined his head slightly, his tone difficult to place. He did not wear the facade of ebullience quite so easily as he once had, the intervening years having done much to sober his demeanor. He did smile slightly though, and it seemed real enough. “Little changes Cassius, as I'm sure you know. In this, his extended stay with us has proven no different." The smile disappeared at that. “It seems that your end of things has been a sight more eventful than his, actually." The words invited elaboration without demanding it—though he know doubt knew the minimal details of what had occurred, there was much missing from such an accounting.

"Indeed." It seemed the pleasantries were over already. Chryseis never had cared for introductions where she didn't feel they were needed or wanted. Apparently that included walking into rooms with leaders of the Inquisition. "I was driven from my home in a brazen attack led by this rat in here." She gestured to the closed door of the interrogation room. "Decius Catus. Old acquaintance, never liked him much. Talented, but stupid. Only successful through following the orders of his master to the letter. His talents are not worthless, when directed properly." Rom knew that the two had also been matched together, or at least attempted to be, by their respective fathers, but it had happened in a period when Chryseis had no interest in anyone but herself, and to force the issue likely would've ended in disaster.

"Why did they attack you?" Rom asked. He'd put some space in between the two of them since entering the room, re-positioning to stand nearer to Khari.

Chryseis turned away from the door. "I slipped, as much as it pains me to admit. Pushed too hard. They caught wind of my investigation. One of my slaves went missing. Captured and tortured, I think, Marcus is supposed to be quite good at that. However it happened, I became a presence in Minrathous that couldn't be tolerated. There are elements in the city, in the Magisterium, that support them, and they are difficult to root out. The attack on my estate was not stopped. So long as they limit themselves, the Venatori do as they please. I was forced to flee, to carry my information to you. Your way into Minrathous."

"And that is?" A bit of impatience seeped into Rom's tone. He hadn't come to hear Chryseis's woes.

"By ship," she answered. "Two ships, actually, your pirate woman's vessel is too recognizable. You'll take it to Afsaana, little village on the Rialto in western Rivain, where you'll board a trade vessel by the name of Jezzabelle. Her crew has been paid for. She will take a small party back 'round the coast, and west to Minrathous. They'll guide you into a private dock, where a slave of my ally Bastian Catus will meet you, and take you into the city."

“Wait... Catus?" Khari glanced towards the interrogation room, which even now held a man of that same name, something which obviously hadn't escaped her. “You sure he wants to help the allies of an ally more than he'd want to help his own... what? Kid? Seems like things would go to shit real fast if you're wrong about that."

Chryseis narrowed her eyes for a moment, as though she hadn't at all expected the elf to speak, and didn't at all like what the elf had to say. "Yes, I'm sure. Their differences drove Decius to join the cult in the first place. And now we will be delivering him back home, provided he is useful to us. I expect Bastian will be thanking us. His manor in the city will be a safe place to rest and prepare. From there you can launch your attack on Marcus."

Leon nodded slowly, turning for a moment to Rilien. "Can you please ensure that some of the people we have in Rivain watch this trade vessel for a while? I'd at least like a bird if something looks off before we get there."

“Of course." Rilien nodded like it was obvious. Then again, considering his area of expertise, perhaps to him it was.

With a nod, Leon reverted his attention to the rest of the group. "As it is, this plan seems to hinge on securing Decius's cooperation. I suspect this will not be an easy thing to do. I've often found that stupid people can be more intractable than the smart ones, if only because they don't always see what is to their own benefit." He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight a bit.

"It could be done without him, in the worst case scenario," Chryseis said, crossing her arms. "I've learned a fair amount about Marcus's magical defenses. Can't say I could bypass all of them with ease, but I believe I could get us in. But yes, having his cooperation would be ideal. That leaves the issue of securing it." She chose to look at the Lady Inquisitor finally, tilting her head up ever so slightly. "How is it your Inquisition normally handles these sorts of things?"

Estella cleared her throat softly. "We do not torture," she began, perhaps anticipating that such a question was likely to arise eventually. "In the cases where the subject of interrogation is particularly reticent, it is usually left to Leon or Rilien. Even if the rule is hard and fast, I do not delude myself into believing the subjects of interrogation are always... aware of that." No doubt much of the effectiveness the other two were able to demonstrate came from careful and assiduous use of the threat of prolonged pain, even if it was not actually an option.

A glint appeared in Rilien's hand, a rich golden potion in a small vial finding and reflecting back the room's light. “My methods are primarily alchemical. I have designed several tinctures that create varying levels of suggestibility, and another that makes it difficult to resist the urge to speak. These can be administered willingly or otherwise." He had not even a trace of Estella's merciful disposition, but it was clear enough that he was willing to follow her rules. “The downside is that he may be somewhat useless for some time after taking them. The side effects take a while to fade."

"I've also had some minor successes just... speaking to people. I do not know if that is likely to work here. You'd know better than I."

Chryseis hmmed both thoughtfully and with an undeniable hint of disappointment. Her eyes found Rom for a moment, and he resisted the urge to hide. Not that there was anywhere to hide here, but he had long dreaded this line of conversation coming about. Yet more from his past he'd never spoken of, about to come rearing back up. "I suppose the tinctures could help us glean information about the defenses I may have missed, but if his assistance is required in the city itself, we can't rely on drugging him. Hard to work complex magic in that state."

She glanced between Estella, Leon, and Rilien. "You don't torture, then? Seems you aren't making full use of your Lord Inquisitor's talents. Killing swiftly's not all he can do with a blade, after all." She settled her gaze on him. He imagined he looked like he was pleading her not to, and she immediately picked up on that. "You haven't told them, have you? Not surprising." She wandered a step towards the interrogation room, letting her fingers run across the surface of the door. "Romulus is an expert at inflicting pain. It's so much more visceral to work with a physical object than something magical. He can leave injures barely noticeable afterwards, yet cause excruciating pain that could make a member of the beresaad howl for mercy." She actually smiled a little at the thought.

"You're sure you won't make an exception? For your one ally in Minrathous? The father knows what the son's risked by betraying him like this. He might even do this himself after we deliver him."

“So fucking what?" Khari was just about snarling; it was clear that something about what Chryseis had just said had set her off, and the look on her face wasn't so different from the one she'd worn when that chevalier had insulted Asala. Worse.

Cyrus on her opposite side seemed to realize the same thing—he reached forward and gripped her by the shoulder, pulling backwards just enough that she had to make a decision about whether to resist or acquiesce to the obvious direction. For a very long, very still moment, it wasn't completely clear which one it would be, but in the end, her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she took the half-step backwards. “We're not sinking to anyone else's level. No exceptions for you fucks."

The man holding her sighed. “Yes, well, in any case, even from a purely pragmatic standpoint, we have a reputation to uphold. The long game, as it were. And while I know better than most people how effective pain is at ensuring compliance, it's quite risky. On the chance it fails, it tends to fail rather spectacularly."

"They're Venatori," was Chryseis's response, as though the word itself indeed carried a significant penalty as to their worth. "You'll skewer them in the back in roadside inns, but you won't inflict pain when it can gain you an advantage?" The idea seemed to confuse her greatly. "I'm so glad the Inquisition is preoccupied with childish notions of honor. Perhaps we'll offer Marcus a chance to properly arm himself before we attack? Warn the surrounding estates to stay off the streets an hour before we move?"

"This is pointless." Rom's voice cut through the small room louder than he intended it to, but he was not about to see words thrown back and forth between them until cooperation with Chryseis was no longer possible, let alone Decius. "It doesn't matter. Even if they wanted me to, I'm not torturing Decius."

"Then indeed, we are wasting time." She stepped away from the door, holding out her hands in invitation. "Do as you wish with him, and then let us prepare to leave. There are Venatori in my home that need to be killed."

Initially wordlessly, Rilien stepped past her, also apparently having decided that further discussion was unnecessary. “I will ply from him what may be plied. That may be all, but we will make do." So having said, he opened the door and disappeared within, letting it close softly behind him.



The preparations took only a day, and then the party setting out for the north made for Jader, and the Riptide. As far as the Irregulars went, it was a large excursion, but that was because there were multiple objectives to take care of. Estella, Vesryn, Cyrus, Harellan, and Astraia were boarding, but would be disembarking a day or so early, when they reached the northern edge of Arlathan Forest. He didn't envy their task any, even compared to his own. With him were Khari, Zahra, Leon, Asala, Chryseis, Decius, and the two most personally invested in the death of Marcus Alesius, the Dalish elf Ithilian, and the former Qunari Amalia. Welcome additions to any team.

For his part he'd been avoiding mostly everyone for the day of preparations, but Chryseis most of all. He wondered if some part of him had been broken, to serve so mindlessly a woman such as that. So consumed by her hatred and whatever target she chose to aim it at. That he used to find fulfillment in bringing her some measure of happiness, or her own near-equivalent, made him feel sick to his stomach. But the past was the past. Once this was done, it would hopefully be the past forever.

They were in Jader by midday after they left, departing Skyhold well before the sun came up. Before they'd left they received a letter from the Emperor of Orlais, Lucien Drakon, regarding a gift he planned to make, one that they could be in Jader to receive. Ships was the obvious answer. It remained apparent that having a friend such as Lucien Drakon was a key factor to the Inquisition's success.

For the moment Rom found himself on a hillside overlooking the sea, the docks not far below him, where Riptide was being prepared for the journey, loaded with last minute provisions. Astraia stood at the dock's edge, gazing out at the expanse of water with a mix of wonder and trepidation. Rom was content to enjoy the moment of relative quiet before being trapped on a ship with Chryseis for weeks.

As it turned out, however, the quiet was broken by an approaching pair of footsteps. Though she did not stride so boldly as usual, he could recognize that they belonged to Khari nevertheless. She came to a stop beside him, and for a moment joined him in staring at the water in front of them. She was fidgeting a little, a restless energy that could only mean she had something to say. Khari was only rarely ever still, but her movement was generally purposive, unlike this.

“I'm sorry." When she finally spoke, she blurted the words, grimacing when they came out a little too loudly for the surroundings. She tried again, this time at a better volume. “Sorry. I said I was gonna follow your lead and I... well, I didn't." She scrubbed her hands down her face, expelling a heavy breath. “Still trying to get the hang of this restraint thing. Probably shouldn't be around anyone who has to like us, but..." She shrugged, dropping her arms back to her sides with the motions. The reasons this case was an exception were very obvious. Unfortunately, they were also likely making the goal of restraint that much more difficult to achieve.

"And we said we'd try to be honest with each other, and... then another secret comes out. I wish I knew how to tell you these things before someone like her does it for me." She hadn't given all the details, but more than enough for Khari to get the picture. That Rom had tortured a number of people for her, that he did it enough to become very proficient at it. That she clearly enjoyed watching him do it.

"Fuck her." He crossed his arms, his eyes watching the horizon towards the west. "Fuck Chryseis, fuck restraint. She doesn't deserve it." He hated that Khari had opposed her, and that now she was apologizing for it. For standing up to her, for doing what she always did, and calling out bullshit where she saw it.

"There's going to come a time very soon where we don't need her anymore. When that time comes... I'm going to be rid of her, for good." There was no question as to what he meant, not with the way he said it. He meant to kill her himself, as soon as their job in Minrathous was through. It was what she'd trained him for, after all.

“Hang on a second here." Khari wore a pained expression, like she was warring with something internally. “I was with you right until that last part." Her mouth pursed, tension pulling her vallaslin taut. She licked her lips, clearly searching for words. “You don't have to kill her to be rid of her. And I don't... I don't think you should. She's not a threat to us. And as much as she might deserve it, as much as I really want to just..." She exhaled violently, a growl on the edges of the breath.

“This is one of those 'now' things, you know? The things that are gonna... define you. Better or worse. She hasn't hurt anyone more than you. You know what she's done better than anyone, and you've suffered it more than anyone. But... that's exactly why it's so important to really think about what you're gonna do here." Khari scoffed softly under her breath. “Not that I'm one to talk about thinking shit through."

He wasn't surprised at what she said, to be honest. Nor at how much he wanted her to say something else. It was a selfish desire, to want her to be on board with this. To let him do the wrong thing here, just this once, in this case where the victim would be most deserving of it. But of course she didn't want him to do that. Something she'd said in one of her worst moments came back. About good winning, every battle it fought. And this was one of those battles, there was no doubt about that. Several of them would be fought by the time they returned to Skyhold. If they returned at all. Nothing was guaranteed.

He exhaled heavily, the anger he'd let show having dissipated as quickly as it came. "Guess I'll have a lot of time to think about it. Probably for the best." He fell silent, getting started. It wasn't long, however, before he pointed out to the west. "Ships on the horizon."

It seemed to be a full fleet of them, actually—and not a minor one, either. As they came into view, he could count twenty in total, each with neutral white sails bearing no identifying marks of the Orlesian navy, though there was no mistaking where they came from. At the fore were four caravels, low-slung, swift and quiet, with triangular sails large in proportion to their bodies—scout ships, on most occasions. To the flanks bobbed five balingers, equipped with both oars and sails, their relatively spacious, flattened design making them ideal for the transport of large numbers.

Ten more were split between medium sized cogs—the standard warship of most navies—and larger, more impressive double-masted caraques. Those were almost exclusively Orlesian, though similar designs had made it to the other seafaring nations, like Antiva and Rivain as well as the Imperium. But the boat at the very center of the formation was the obvious flagship, and also obviously an attempt to answer the power and structure of a Qunari dreadnought. There were no fewer than four masts on it, all lined up along the dorsal line of the vessel, the second from the front being the largest. A prominent, beaklike prow helped the ship slice through the water, compensating for its obvious size with thoughtful engineering. The masts in the fore anchored pristine white square sails in place, the lateen rigs in the aft section were triangular, designed as auxiliaries for those in front, no doubt, to make the ship faster and more controllable. The design had to be relatively new, as he'd never seen anything like it.

Khari had clearly never seen boats this impressive, either; a small grin touched her mouth. “I almost regret being the worst sailor in the history of sailors." She turned slightly to aim the smile at him. “I bet Zee's gonna be over the moon. Think you can promote her to Admiral now?"

"I'll have a talk with the others about it." He couldn't help but grin back. "See if we can get her a new hat or something."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari sighed heavily, pressing her forehead to the vertical bar in front of her. As she tended to end up doing whenever she was on a boat, she was dangling her feet over the side, braced on the rails, and trying not to lose what little was left in her stomach.

The first part hadn't been so bad. In fact, she'd been well enough that she'd thought she might finally be getting used to sea travel. But apparently she'd only acclimated herself enough to make it out into open ocean after they'd crossed the Waking Sea in the Riptide, at which point she'd promptly become ill and miserable again all the way to Afsaana. She'd have appreciated a few more hours landbound to recover, but there hadn't been time for it, and so she'd reluctantly boarded the Jezabelle, which didn't even have the benefit of being Zee's ship and steered by Zee's navigator Nixium, which made it about a hundred times worse in Khari's expert opinion.

Stel had sat with her for large portions of the trip, others rotating their company too, because they were good like that, and the distraction of conversation had almost made the hot sun and salt breeze nice instead of terrible. She'd even managed to laugh pretty heartily at Leon's inescapable sunburn before she regretted it, the vigor of the merriment churning her lunch right out of her guts. She couldn't spend more than a few hours below at a time without it getting worse, so she napped sporadically and then dozed here on the deck.

And then they'd stopped right between Antiva and Tevinter, to drop off Stel, Cy, the equally ill-looking Ves, Harellan, and Astraia. Not that Ves's illness had much of anything to do with the water. She really hoped they found what they were looking for in that forest. It'd sure spooked the captain and crew enough to have to drop anchor nearby. Arlathan ran basically all the way up to the coast, and there were some pretty intense superstitions about its danger, apparently. Days more after that had passed in kind of a blur, but she figured they had to be getting close to Minrathous now. If she squinted, she swore she could make out a city on the horizon, but at this point it might just as well have been wishful thinking on her part.

But as the minutes passed, the shape of it turned out not to be an illusion. Rom joined her, looking out at it with a strange mix of emotions. Apprehension, certainly, but also a kind of excitement. Perhaps just the weight of expectation he'd piled onto this place after so long away, and so long at sea.

"Home," he said. "Once."

Minrathous was built on a massive, rocky island not far from the shore of the mainland, accessible by land only by crossing a single, wide bridge. By sea there were many more ways in; the city boasted the largest array of ports and shipyards in the world, a harbor which was not as well used for trade as it could be. The journey was both far, and perilous, with the constant threat of conflict lingering in northern waters.

The city rose in the center and shrank as it approached the water, with the impressive towers of the Minrathous Circle of Magi dominating everything else below. The buildings near the water, and in the lower parts of the city, were ramshackle and quite obviously falling apart. Even from a distance Minrathous had an aura of decay to it, a city slowly losing a battle against time. Despite that, its life and activity were obvious, with smoke rising from the buildings, lights in every corner, the undeniable taste of magic on the air. The city was rife with it.

They blended well into the masses of ships coming and going, pulling up their sails and rowing the rest of the way into the docks. The crew seemed to know how to navigate it somehow, even though after a short time every dock, every shipyard started to look the same. When they finally pulled into one, it was in a lightly used section, a shipyard sparsely occupied only by those who appeared to be the poorest and most meager of traders.

As the boat was tied to the dock, they passed into the shadow of one of the Circle towers. It seemed obvious that much of the city was cast in shadow by the structures towering over it. This seemed to be one of those places. It was quiet, but not too quiet. If there was an ambush waiting for them here, it was a damn good one.

The elf impatiently waiting for them to disembark didn't look capable of pulling off any kind of ambush. He was short, maybe an inch or two taller than Khari, with shaggy light brown hair and hazel green eyes. Very boyish in his appearance, though if this was the elf Rom had briefly described, he was in his mid twenties by now. Dressed in drab and worn linens of muted colors, he looked every bit the slave, right down to the flapping sandals that barely clung to his feet.

They didn't stop him from jogging out to greet the Inquisition, who were led forward by Rom onto the dock, their supplies for the operation gathered in their packs. The boat had been instructed to wait for them to complete their task before ferrying them back to Afsaana, but that didn't mean they needed to trust them to hang on to any of their things.

"Look at you!" the elf grinned broadly as he stopped in front of them, having eyes only for the Inquisitor. "I didn't believe the stories. My best friend, leading an Inquisition in the south of Thedas. I'm gonna be honest, I don't even know what that is." He looked up at Leon, seemingly undaunted by the man's size. "What are you? Some kind of special army?"

Leon shrugged, in the process of smearing some kind of ointment on his nose, which had seen the worst of the sunburn, as though he were any other sailor disembarking a ship for no special reason. "In a manner of speaking. An army with a very specific aim." He glanced about, then up at one of the spires. "I suppose information about us would be scarcer here than elsewhere—little of our business has yet reached so far north." Not none of it, though—that was why they were here in the first place.

He offered the elf a small smile then. "Forgive me. We were told you'd be meeting us here, but not your name. I'm Leonhardt—Leon, if you don't mind."

"I'm Brand. Slave to Magister Bastian Catus. More importantly, old friend of Rom's."

"Partner," Rom corrected, narrowing his eyes at the elf. "Friend is debatable."

"You forget how many doors I opened for you? Not all of them with lockpicks, either." He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Guess you are still Rom, aren't you? So who are your new friends?"

He started on his right, working around behind him. "This is Zee, Asala, Ithilian, Amalia, and Khari." The elf's eyes lingered on the last to be introduced, widening slightly. He was certainly impressed with something.

"I like your sword."

Khari grinned. She was wearing a heavy zweihĂ€nder for the trip, the blade in total almost as tall as she was. It was no Intercessor, but she'd gotten used to it over time. “Thanks." She had a feeling they'd get along just fine, especially if he was an old partner-maybe-friend of Rom's. “Used to have a bigger one, but then I broke it on a demon."

Zahra inclined her head when her introduction came, grinning wide. It appeared she found something funny the way she was elbowing Leon’s side, waggling her eyebrows. All shades of inappropriate. She glanced over to Khari before swinging her gaze back to the small elf. “You wouldn’t believe me, but we’ve already met,” she allowed a theatrical pause to stretch between them and leaned slightly forward, “in my dreams.”

Her smile hadn’t tempered herself at all. If anything she seemed delighted by the acquaintance, though it was clear she wouldn’t have ever met him before. “You mentioned the sword bit too. And wrestling. And tender, sexy times. It was a riot.” As always, she didn’t seem the slightest bothered by any possible misunderstandings her words may have caused. Knowing Zee, she would have jumped at any opportunity to rattle and tease. This appeared to be one of those times; even if she hadn’t properly explained herself. The effect was probably intentional. “It’s nice to actually meet you.”

"Zee... for fuck's sake..."

Rom's hand had found his face partway through Zee's mentioning of whatever the hell that was. Something else Rom had never told her about, though from the contents it sounded a lot stranger, and probably a lot less important than other things.

A stifled giggle slipped between the fingers covering Asala's mouth. Of course, she then quickly averted her glance and pretended that it had belonged to anyone else.

Brand was a mix of lost, amused, and still slightly in awe of Khari, but he managed a laugh, albeit an awkward one. "Here I thought I was going to be the strange one in this meeting. You'll, uh... you'll have to explain that one to me."

"Later, please, or preferably not at all. We have Chryseis and Decius with us, they should be..." He turned, to see Chryseis leading the captive Decius from the boat, his hands still bound behind his back. His shoulders were sure to be incredibly sore by now, but they weren't especially concerned with his comfort, given his allegiances.

"Ah." Brand offered an awkward wave in between the taller Inquisition members. "Hey C. Hey D." Chryseis did not stop at the gathering, leading Decius around the others and past Brand.

"If you're all done socializing, there's work to do." She made eye contact with Brand only when she needed to speak with him. "I'm assuming we're getting our feet wet?"

"Unless you wanna walk the streets with a Qunari and a Venatori prisoner." She took that as answer enough, and walked onward. Brand turned back to the others. "She hasn't changed a bit, has she? Come on, we can talk on the way." He glanced down at their feet, looking for something. "Hope none of you are wearing nice boots."

Khari wrinkled her nose. “We're going into the sewers, aren't we?" It had to be what the 'feet wet' thing meant, plus it would be way less obvious than traveling at street level. Cloak and dagger wasn't really her thing, but she could see the need for it here. “And... to the Catus place?" That, she asked as they started walking, falling in just half a step behind Brand. She remembered Chryseis mentioning something like that maybe, even if she hadn't exactly been in a thoughtful state of mind at the time. She thought it was kind of odd that Rom's friend got away with calling that same woman by her initial alone when she'd always been domina to Rom back then, but maybe it was a difference Khari didn't understand, something to do with who supposedly owned whom. In any case she didn't know exactly how to ask about it, and she didn't want to do what she usually did and risk eating her own foot as a result.

"It's not sewers all the way, at least," Brand offered, as though that was indeed valuable consolation. "In some places it'll pass into the catacombs. Long dead things smell better than recently shat things. And B will make sure you all get a chance to bathe if you want. Before doing your thing."

"How considerate." The words came from near the rear of the group, where the other Dalish in their party, Ithilian, lingered with his partner Amalia. He was about as quiet as Rom had been back when Khari first met him, but maybe that was because he was in mostly unfamiliar company, having not been with the Inquisition nearly as long. When he did open his scarred mouth, it tended to be grouchy, like that.

Brand paid it no mind, undoubtedly used to comments like it from working with Rom and Chryseis in the past, if indeed he always spoke to her as he had on the docks. They soon left them behind, but hadn't quite reached the city proper before they found Chryseis paused at the nearest entrance into the subterranean section of the city, a thin doorway Leon would be lucky to make it through without turning, leading to a stairwell that ran down into the sewers. Brand found a torch at the bottom of the stairs, almost picking it up, but then he thought better of it, turning back to Chryseis.

"Magic light fends off the rats better." It was an effective argument, and Chryseis had soon cast a magelight spell that hovered out in front of the group as they walked, casting long tendrils of shadow out behind them. The sewer walkways were narrow and damp at all times, and the smell was about as putrid as expected for such a large city. Still, all the natives of the city seemed to know just where they were going, and they made good time underneath the city, which could often be heard humming with activity above their heads.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Amalia spoke up from the rear of the procession, apparently entirely unbothered by the stench of their surroundings. She seemed like the kind of woman who'd been through much worse, for whom minor inconveniences such as these were downright trivial. "I do not know how this city is organized. I assume the nobles are clustered together?"

"Yep." Brand took a left, leading them up a short flight of stairs and finally to an area not damp from near constant running fluids. "No room to build out on an island, so the city mostly goes up. Circle of Magi's the tallest place, that's the towers you probably saw sailing in. Ivory District isn't far, that's where the nobles are, and where we're headed. To the estate of my dominus, Bastian Catus."

They began to pass several rows of what could only be sarcophagi, but by their lack of ornament they carried bodies of lesser importance. No great mages of Tevinter buried down here, next to the sewers. Brand didn't seem concerned that they would run into anyone. "The poor are kept literally beneath the rest here. Better a slave than a refugee, I say. I don't have to steal for my meals." He pointed in a direction, though it wasn't really clear how he still knew which direction he was going down here. "West is the Proving Arena, jewel of the city. There's games tomorrow, I hear, might be a good idea to time whatever you're doing with those."

"You don't know why we're here?" Rom asked.

Brand shrugged. "Don't need to. B said to meet you at the docks, bring you all to him. If I need to get you somewhere else, I'll do that too. Way you're all dressed I'd guess you're expecting to kill some people here. That's not really my thing."

"The people are Venatori, I'll tell you that much," Rom offered. It seemed they were steadily leaving the sewers behind, as the smell faded to just what they now carried with them. More stairs followed, too narrow to take more than one at a time.

"That much I'd figured out." Brand scratched behind his pointed right ear. "Can't go a day anymore without hearing something about the Venatori."

They came to the base of a very long ladder, running up the wall almost far enough to pass into darkness before it reached a closed hatch. Brand turned and paused. "Wait here a second, I'll get it open. Probably best to go one at a time after that, this ladder's used to just holding little me up." Indeed, it didn't look like the sturdiest construction, nor the youngest. The elf ascended it swiftly, pausing to twist the dials of some kind of combination lock at the top. A few moments later it clicked, and he pushed the hatch open, climbing up inside. "Okay, come on up!" he called down to them.

One by one they made their way up the ladder, and when Khari's turn came she found herself climbing into what appeared to be a pantry. They were surrounded by shelves of wrapped and preserved foods, and the only door led out into a kitchen. Brand walked by a rotund elven woman in an apron, busy chopping slices of meat on a table. "Sorry about the smell, Fee," Brand apologized. "Few more guests than usual."

"And they had to come through the trap door?" she glanced suspiciously at them, but then turned with a start upon seeing Chryseis and Decius. "Magister Chryseis, Master Decius, forgive me, I didn't know you were coming."

"Would seem I'm no one's master anymore," the Venatori among them said in a low voice. Chryseis shoved him forward, ignoring the flustered elven woman.

"B's still upstairs?" Brand asked over his shoulder. Fee whipped her head back around.

"Your dominus is, yes." She turned back to her work, grumbling. "Boy never learned respect."

Rom seemed to have seen this type of exchange a time or two, as he didn't make anything in particular of it, instead gesturing for the others to follow him after Brand, Decius, and Chryseis. They left the kitchen behind as the cook wished them a pleasant stay, and promised a hot meal after they'd been given an opportunity to clean up.

Another staircase leading up deposited them in what appeared to be the living area of the magister's household, an expansive area that looked capable of seating half the Magisterium with the sheer numbers of couches, chairs, stools, rugs, and tables. It seemed they'd ascended a decent distance, as out the window they could see a view that managed to pierce through taller buildings around them and out to the sea beyond. Not the highest place in the city, but far from the underbelly, that was for sure.

By the time Khari had reached where the front of the group stood, she found their host already in conversation with the front of the pack. Bastian Catus was a well-groomed man, his hair kept short cut, a shade darker than his son's and accented by a touch of gray indicative of his age. His beard wasn't full as Decius's was, but rather shaved to leave an immaculately trimmed mustache and pointed goatee.

"You're a fool, and lucky to be alive," he was saying, to his son. Decius seemed resolved to keep his head lowered, and endure it, as there wasn't any denying it. "If you live through the coming days, perhaps you'll thank the Inquisition someday for their mercy." He nodded to Chryseis, and turned to look upon his guests. "I, at least, will thank you right now. You are free to use my house as your own for the day. Brand will show you to your rooms when you are ready, and baths have been prepared. I would not recommend setting foot outside until you are ready. The city has eyes, and they will find the sight of any of you most intriguing."

Leon nodded, glancing over the group as if he'd thought something similar himself. "You have our thanks for the use of your home, Magister Catus. We will do our best not to bring you trouble for it." It wasn't a hard guess that if their association became too widely-known, there would be repercussions. Maybe if they could topple the Venatori, people would say Bastian had been astute in seizing an unconventional opportunity. But they certainly wouldn't say that now.

"That would be most beneficial," Bastian agreed.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Having the opportunity to bathe after their little trek in the sewers had done wonders on Zahra’s mood. She’d even pulled Brand aside to regale him of the tale she’d brought up earlier. The Fade dream she’d promised she would never forget. Fine wine had loosened her tongue. Of course, all of this was out of Rom’s earshot—it would do her no good to keep up with that particular gibe. She was sure that he’d find some way to get back at her. She liked the wee elf. He was every bit as charming as his Fade-counterpart. She supposed she shouldn’t have been so surprised if that’s what had been conjured from Rom’s dream.

It was strange, being there. Minrathous.

Even though she’d wanted to, she hadn’t asked Bastian if he knew the Contee family. Seeing how close they were to where her family might be, where her brother was being kept, Zahra struggled to keep herself focused on the task at hand. She hadn’t asked him. Not while they ate, nor when she lingered in the lounge; the perfect opportunity rearing its head. She could have. Easily. There were too many questions, and little to no answers. She wasn’t even sure why she hadn’t. A small part of her wondered if Decius knew anything about it. Minrathous was a big place. Bigger than anything she’d seen before.

He was with them. Maybe...

Her thoughts wandered as they were instructed to wade back through the smelly depths of the catacombs. Stinking sewers, more like. While she’d never been averse to getting her hands dirty
 this was a new level altogether. A necessary one. She made no complaints; but noted that she’d have to properly wash her boots when they returned to Skyhold. Leather had the nasty habit of retaining smell. She wrinkled her nose, and sidled beside the ladder, waiting for the others to climb down as well.

"You get used to it, if you give it a bit," Brand said, noticing Zahra's scrunched nose on his way down. He was the last to descend, and after a brief check that everyone was ready to move forward, he led them out, using another magelight from Chryseis. Decius had his hands bound in front of him this time rather than behind, as today he would need to actually cast and aim magic, in order to get them inside. Didn't mean they wanted to risk him running or trying to fight in the event that things turned sour. They had a way of doing that.

According to Brand, they were making for the north side of the city, though it was difficult to tell after a time. Direction was a difficult thing to keep track of underground, especially in any place as labyrinthine as these catacombs and sewers. Brand seemed to always know where he was going. No doubt he'd practically grown up in these darkest places of the city. It was remarkable he hadn't ended up a more morose person as a result. Perhaps his humor was the way he coped with it. Regardless, the key was apparently the direction of the sewer water flow, in the places where it could be heard or seen or felt. Following the flow would lead them down, towards the sea, whatever direction that happened to be.

When they left one section of the sewers, the water flowed against them. The south side. They passed through a section of the catacombs, without changing direction, and found it flowing with them. North side. They didn't spend very long there before Brand began to lead them back up. Decius was made to walk in the lead; if there were any magic defenses, there was no better way to ensure he defused them than to make him walk in the front.

When Decius stopped, so did the rest of the group. They were on a path leading up, almost out of the sewers by now. "Trap, D?" Brand asked.

The mage nodded. "Near here, and concealed. I can locate and remove them, but..." He grimaced, understanding that he was about to ask something he hadn't earned. He aimed it at Leon, possibly finding him to be the best target. "I'd really prefer to have my hands free for this. Tie my legs if you need to."

Zahra could see Leon consider the request, clearly debating it internally for several seconds before he nodded slightly. "Very well. Please be aware that if we trigger anything or you turn a spell on us, it will be very painful for you, regardless of whether any of us is in reach." He said it slowly, like the threat tasted sour on his tone, and in truth his tone wasn't all that threatening. Perhaps he thought the words were enough themselves, without any sort of show of intimidation otherwise.

Stepping forward, he bound Decius's feet first, clamping an iron manacle around each ankle. The chain between them was long enough for shuffling motion, or to do well enough if they had to climb another ladder, but there was no way he'd be running like that. Only once those were in place did the Seeker remove the bonds at the prisoner's arms, hooking those ones over his belt, presumably in case they once more became necessary.

"Thank you," Decius said, uneasily. "Now, where were they..." Being careful with his steps to not risk falling over accidentally, he shuffled forward and lit some kind of spell in his hands, glowing a light blue color. The stone all around them turned a slightly different color in its presence, more yellow instead of dull brown. All except for several bright red spots, where something could be seen worked into the very walls, and one spot on the floor.

"What's that one do?" Brand asked, curious, and probably not as concerned as he should have been.

"This one," Decius slowly approached the one on the wall to their left, "would incinerate you to ash before you could blink." Brand hmmed like it was just interesting information. Once he was close enough, Decius weaved a spell between his hands, and let it loose at the trap. The bright blue light coiled into the wall, and the red inscriptions faded. "Two more."

He repeated the process with the other two, and while it wasn't particularly exciting to wait, his warning about the traps was more than enough to keep them still. When they were gone, Brand cleared his throat.

"And I think this is where I leave you." He glanced up ahead, where the sun's light of day was clearly visible. "You're about out of here, and I'm no use against mages and magisters. Good luck, though. You guys seem alright." He winked at Zahra as he said it.

“We're not totally awful." Khari shrugged, then grinned slightly. “Thanks for the help, Brandywine. See you when we get back." Her tone indicated no doubt that they'd be back, either.

Being incinerated wasn’t on Zahra’s list of things she wanted to do in Minrathous. Bringing Decius was a good idea after all. They wouldn’t have made it nearly this far without his help, however forced it had been. Helpful. Even if he was dead weight with those manacles of his.

She stepped around Brand and grinned wide, thumping him softly in the chest with the back of her hand, “I’d say we’re pretty likable.” He was too. This friend of Rom’s—it was a shame, really. Having to serve someone in Minrathous. Coming back to Skyhold sounded much better. She thought he would’ve liked it there. Who wouldn’t? He would be free of shackles, however loose they appeared to be. “We’ll bring back some interesting stories. Promise. Make sure there’s plenty of wine left.”

"I'll steal some on the way back," he promised, before meeting eyes with his old friend. "Do your thing, Rom."

He grinned, ever so slightly, and clasped arms with the elf. "Don't step in shit on your way back."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever wished for me."

Chryseis sighed audibly. "If you're all quite finished, there's only so much time left in the day." Brand took the hint, and scampered off into the darkness of the sewers. There were torches they'd passed on the way. Hopefully he'd be able to find and light one of them.

"Not sure why anyone's in a hurry," Decius said, though he was the first to make his way forward, shuffling his little steps to get a head start. "Considering what you're up against." He turned so he could shuffle backwards, and searched out the quiet human woman among them, Amalia. "I heard about you. Is it true what they say? That Marcus killed you once? Suppose it can't be, if you're here now."

Honestly, she'd said maybe a handful of words on the entire way here, all the way from Skyhold, and most of those were to the equally-quiet Dalish man she was always with. A few for Khari now and then, Zahra had noticed, but very little otherwise. Just enough to confirm that she wasn't actually mute. She regarded Decius flatly, her eyes unusually mismatched, but both sharp. "He tried," she said, her voice quiet. It lacked no steadiness or surety, however. "It didn't take."

It seemed either he hadn't known what answer to expect, or he didn't expect that, as Decius was left without anything to say for a moment, before he turned back around. Perhaps it was just the manner in which she said it. Either way, they continued in silence, and stopped several more time to disarm similarly lethal traps blocking their path. Decius had a sharp memory to locate them all, and avoid the ones that didn't need disarming.

Eventually the way forward led them onto a low, quiet street on the surface. It was the first time they'd actually been outside with their faces showing since leaving the docks, and it was hard to shake the immediate feeling of being watched. It was clearly a poorer area, with buildings of multiple stories surrounding them on all sides, some with rooftops within reasonable climbing distance, others serving as the base of impressively tall towers that continued up and up into the sky, only held together still by magic at certain points in their height.

"It's up ahead," Chryseis warned them. She went without any staff, preferring instead a short, curved knife, and a free hand left for casting, or cutting in the event that there was a shortage of blood. "That door, there."

The street split into a Y-shape, but the building they wanted had an entrance right at the divergence, on a landing at the end of a short flight of stairs. It was another tower, and if the other magisters' locations were anything to go by, they would need to go up once they were inside. The street was more than a little exposed, with the buildings on both sides looking down on a pathway devoid of any useful cover.

Decius carefully made his way up one step at a time, still working with chained feet, and stopped before the door. It was metal, slightly rusted by time, with a single handle and no visible lock. "There's a field on the doorway," he explained, lighting a different spell in his hand and lifting it to the portal. "Unpleasant results if you pass through it while it's activated." It was hard for Zahra to tell what the exact magic workings were, but it seemed like a more complex thing for Decius to pick apart. He had to focus a great deal, like he was remembering very specific instructions. Likely the magic was beyond him, and only something he could perform by following Marcus's specifications.

Soon though, there was a sound like water running down the rock face of a cliff, and Decius grabbed the door handle, swinging it open. The field was present in the doorway, but it was a soft yellow color, and didn't look dangerous. "Quietly now. Inside."

Ithilian stepped forward, his hand lingering on the hilts of his blades. Two of them, anyway. Apparently he wanted to be the first inside, or felt it was his place to test the effectiveness of Decius's spell. He lifted his hand slowly to the magic barrier, touched his fingers to it, and nothing happened, save for a slight rippling of the magic effect where his fingers broke the surface. He stepped inside, and waited for the others to follow.

Amalia followed him, no weapons yet drawn, but she was bristling with them in general: knives of several shapes and sizes, potion flasks, and a few pouches distributed in easy-to-reach places about her person. Whatever was in there, it seemed clear that she'd prepared for it. The barrier rippled behind her as she passed through, the color steadying once she'd disappeared to the other side.

Easy peasy. They hadn’t run into any Venatori yet, their cover hadn’t been blown and they had two frightening warriors at their sides. If Decius hadn’t felt a shudder trickling down his spine at Amalia’s deadpan retort, she certainly had. Or else, he was lying. It was a good thing they were on the same side, because she wouldn’t have ever wanted to cross blades with her. Nor him. She wasn’t surprised when they were the first to step through the barrier.

All the more reason for her to go next. Zahra rolled her shoulders, and feathered her fingers across the pommel of her rapiers. Her ironbark bow was well within reach if she needed it. She hadn’t had the opportunity to actually put it to use. What better time then this? Trouble would find them soon enough. It always did. Especially when complex magic was involved and this place was rife with it. It almost made her uncomfortable with how little she understood it.

Almost. Not nearly enough to question the rippling thing covering the entirety of the doorway. She squeezed past Decius and stepped up to the barrier, brazen in her gait. Seeing how easily Amalia and Ithilian had walked past, she opted out of running a tentative hand across it. A hissing sound sang out as soon as her forearm and hand touched the barrier, “FUCK!”

There were no languid ripples; no effortless admittance. Her sleeve sizzled and burnt as if she’d stuck her arm over an open fire. Only then did she bodily recoil, hugging her arm to her chest, stumbling away from the accursed doorway. Her eyes flew wide, eyebrows drawing in. “What the bloody—” She rounded on Decius, “You said it was fine.”

"It was, it was, I deactivated it, as instructed!" Decius appeared to be panicking slightly at what he just saw. "It has to be—ah!" He had touched his own hand to it, as though Zahra had somehow done it wrong, only to find that it burned him just the same.

A small gasp escaped from someone, and after the soft rush of footsteps a gentle hand descended on her shoulder. A glance behind her would reveal a worried gaze from Asala. "Can I see?" she asked kindly, gesturing with the other hand for her to see the afflicted limb. In between fussing over Zahra, she did manage to spare a wary glare in Decius's direction-- though her eyes did linger on his own hand for a moment, before she returned to Zahra.

Zahra relented easily enough. It was difficult not to with how worried Asala looked. She unfurled her arm from her chest, holding it out to be inspected. Much of the fabric had burned clear away, reaching the flesh underneath. The burn itself was somewhat blistered and remarkably red. If she hadn’t known better, she might’ve thought that she had actually caught on fire. It had taken seconds. The barrier. Magic. She huffed softly and leaned out, looking at Decius from the side of Asala’s shoulder, “Well, clearly, it’s not. What do we do now?”

On the other side of the barrier, Ithilian had his blades drawn now, one a slightly curved and slender Dalish sword, the other a bone-carved knife with angry-looking enchantments worked into it. He touched the sword to the barrier's inside, finding that it hissed and left the tip of the sword glowing red hot. Not worth trying to pass back through, no doubt. It seemed they were stuck for the moment on the other side.

Meanwhile, Rom had started watching their surroundings as soon as something appeared wrong, and for good reason. An arrow came whistling in towards Decius's throat, but was intercepted by Rom's shield. "Venatori," he informed them calmly. The arrow had come from a rooftop to their left, but there were signs of movement on either side of them. More arrows soon to be on the way.

"No, no, no, no," Decius repeated, backing himself into a corner, as though he expected the Inquisition to execute him on the spot as well.

"An ambush," Chryseis declared. "Wonderful."

"Asala, we need this barrier down, as soon as possible." No doubt it wouldn't be a simple matter of dispelling it, if Decius didn't even understand it, and if it was as complex as someone like Marcus Alesius was capable of. And there were still the Venatori at their backs to deal with. "Zee, we need your bow on a roof." The Venatori were the ones with superior sight lines right now, but that didn't mean they couldn't take those positions for themselves. "Khari, help her get there?" It wouldn't be wise for them to split up too much, but sending Zahra off alone wasn't the best plan either.

"Make it fast, we've got our own on this side," Ithilian said from beyond the barrier. He was looking down as he said it; apparently the Venatori were coming up from below. The scarred elf grimaced, then got to work.

“You got it, Rom." Khari glanced around for no more than a few seconds, eyes alighting on a rundown house not too far away, at a nice angle from the entrance that stymied them. “That one. Let's get inside and get on the roof!" She took point herself, drawing the heavy sword from over her back and making a break for it, shouldering past a few more Venatori that were approaching on ground level. There wasn't time to stop for every one of them.

The home was surrounded by a little wooden fence, rickety and rotting at the posts. Khari cleared it in a leap, shifting her grip on the sword and taking hold of the doorknob with a hand. From the fact that it didn't open when she twisted, it was locked, but it was in such poor condition that it yielded under several insistent applications of her shoulder, falling open and allowing them inside.

A frightened squeak alerted them to the presence of a young woman, two small children clutching at her skirts. She was huddled in a corner, about as far away from the windows as she could possibly get them, wide, terrified blue eyes fixing on the intruders.

There was little time to reassure her that they weren't there to do any harm, though, because there was already a threat in the room: a Venatori operative. He hurled an ice spike at the doorway, forcing Khari to dodge to the side. The little house was so cramped that she nearly hit the wall in the process, and had to maneuver awkwardly to get her big sword around in time to knock down the next one, stepping in and striking him in the gut with her pommel. It gave her enough time to retrieve a shorter knife and find his throat with it.

Zahra, too, dashed to the side, opposite of Khari. She nearly tangled herself in a chair, before catching herself on the wall. The children were being scooted beneath a small table, out of sight. For the best. The house was too damn small to linger in any longer. They’d be at a disadvantage if they let anymore Venatori pool into the room. Besides, how the hell was Khari going to swing that monstrous blade? A wet gurgle signaled the operative’s last breath.

There. Once her eyes locked onto the staircase, she wasted no time vaulting towards it and only halted when she climbed the first few steps, nearly bumbling into another Venatori descending. Whether he hadn’t expected to bump into someone at such close proximity, it would be his undoing. He hadn’t had time to raise his hands or level his pike. She grabbed onto the front of his collar, braced herself against the stairs and leaned backwards, sending him tumbling past her down the stairs for Khari to finish off.

From the thunk of steel biting into the floorboards, she certainly had.

She bounded up the stairs two at a time, only slowing when she reached an old, shabby door. The upstairs was just as unremarkable as the rest. Quaint. This door, however, led out onto a flattened expanse. A rooftop. Perfect place to pincushion Venatori. Presumably, most of their archers had already taken position in prime locations. They’d need to go first to give the others some wiggle room.

Only when Khari joined her side did Zahra reach for her bow, slipping it off her back. Her heartbeat thumped quicker. She fought against the smile twitching at her lips; her blood sang in her temples. Not wholly unpleasant. This nameless bow of hers. It felt comfortable in her hands, like it belonged there. She gave her enough room to push the door clear, letting her take point once more, “Let’s get ‘em.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
The Venatori bodies were already starting to collect in the streets, including one or two that had unceremoniously smacked against the ground at the end of their two-story fall, left in bloody heaps after Zee and Khari were through with them. Rom kept near the doorway at first, working with shield and handheld crossbow as best he could, and covering Asala's back. He was the only one with an actual shield in the group, though Leon's six and a half feet of heavy armor were good for it, too. Chryseis wasn't much for protection, choosing instead to sling powerful spells down the street, often with lingering effects of ice or fire that made forward progress difficult for the Venatori.

The arrows from one side of the street had stopped altogether, and the ones coming from the other had targets in two directions to deal with now. Zee had both good sight lines and good cover to work with using the rooftop's railing. There was a long and mostly unstable wooden plank connecting the rooftops on either side. Rom didn't have to wonder whether or not Khari was going to use that to get across and into the buildings on the other side.

Leon shored up the left side street for the moment, while Chryseis delayed advancing Venatori from the right. Rom shot down those that advanced up the way they'd come from, preferring to remain at Asala's back when he could, but descending the steps into the street when necessary. Ithilian and Amalia had been forced from the doorway by now, as there were more Venatori inside.

"Any luck, Asala?" Powerful blood magic wasn't her specialty, but she'd need to figure something out sooner or later.

"Uh, not yet," she replied, the yellow field still glowing in front of her. It did, however, look agitated, which meant whatever she was doing was having some sort of an effect. Suddenly, it popped and sizzled, causing her to recoil her hand back from the force and trying to shake some sort of pain out of it. The field on the other hand, remained strong "Not that," she spoke to herself, a twitch to the corner of her mouth. She gave her hand one more shake and then leaned forward, working on the spell once more.

Still on the left, Leon was serving as a one-man road block, something at which his size no doubt helped him succeed. That said... he wasn't moving at nearly his usual alacrity, nor were his blows landing either as hard or as precisely as Rom was accustomed to seeing them. The street was wide enough for more than a few of the cultists to confront him at once, and in the time that took him to down the first few, several more had swarmed into their places, the melee combatants backed up by mages.

The commander swept one woman's feet out from underneath her, stepping onto her throat with his left boot and raising an arm to deflect an incoming sword. It skidded off his gauntlet, but he missed the follow-up grab, too slow to seize hold of the swordsman before he skittered away on lighter feet. In the time it took him to recover from the miss, one of the mages in the rear had shot a fireball, clearly overzealous at what seemed an opportunity to get a good hit in on someone they'd no doubt heard much about already.

As though it had been timed, a body fell from the roof above, the limp corpse taking the fireball dead-on, leaving only cinders to lick towards Leon. When it hit the ground with a thud, it was still burning, the dead Venatori's clothes smoldering and forcing the others to take a step back. Khari had, perhaps intentionally, created an obstacle to help defend one of Leon's sides, at least for a moment. Indeed, she leaned down for just a moment, offering up a facetious grin.

“How's that for tactics? Hop to, Leon, or I'll have you beat in no time." She vanished again, presumably to deal with anyone left on the roof, or maybe the next one over if she could get there—no paths as convenient as the fallen plank were available, unless she dragged it across herself.

For the moment, they were holding them off, and it even seemed like the Venatori were pulling back, being a little more cautious in their attack. Skirmishing, really, trying to poke at the established defense for a weakness. The barrier wasn't showing any of those, unfortunately. If anything it looked angrier, having shifted in color back to an alarming red more indicative of the effect it had on those trying to pass through.

It wasn't long before Rom heard an ominous sound coming from Chryseis's side street, somewhere out of sight due to the wall of ice she'd been constructing and fortifying between the tall buildings. It was a heavy, constant beat, regular intervals like drums vibrating the earth under their feet. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Chryseis preemptively took several paces backwards from her wall, arcane magic ready at her fingertips.

The beats became irregular just as they reached the other side of the ice wall. A low, gravelly grunt preceded an explosion of ice shards in their direction, and through the shattered remains of the wall charged a stone golem, eight feet tall, rotund and broad-shoulders, magic runes carved along the length of its arms and around its collar. Silver-grey eyes glowed in its head, and it wasted no time charging at the nearest member of the group.

Chryseis let loose a mind blast that only served to delay it. A personal shield of arcane magic went up in front of her before the golem struck, punching through it and throwing her back. She tumbled back down the street until her back hit a wall and brought her to a stop. Rom reached her first, grabbing the back of her shirt and helping haul her to her feet. She seemed only just capable of staying upright. He might've been disappointed by that, but for all he knew they'd need her to win this now.

With the golem's charge came renewed attack from the Venatori behind it, preferring to use ranged weapons and magic in order to stay out of the way of its rather large swinging fists.

Leon felled another Venatori with a swift jab, turning back over his shoulder just long enough to assess what the problem was before his eyes flew back to the roof. "Khari! We need you back down here. Zahra, take the right side—arrows won't do much to that!" He didn't say it aloud, but the grimace on his face conveyed well enough that he doubted his bare hands would have much effect either, in his current condition. The conclusion was obvious: the burden of keeping the cultists at bay would fall to his fists and Zee's arrows, leaving the rest of them to protect Asala and deal with the golem itself.

The split in his attention cost him, brief as it was. A Venatori knife found a weak spot in his armor. Leon grunted and doubled over, grabbing the responsible party by the collar of his leathers and slamming his face into a knee. The knife, he left where is was, between two of his ribs in the place where his chestplate joined the armor on his back. It seemed to take him great effort to straighten again and block the next incoming blow, but he managed it, the axe clanging off his crossed arms.

“You got it!" From the sound of Khari's voice, she was on the move again, backtracking across the roofs to move from the left side of the alley where Leon was to the right, where the golem had entered. She came into view shortly after, her sword sheathed across her back, arms and legs pumping furiously as she sprinted across the reddish tiled slope, some of her treads actually pulling the shoddy work free of the roof's underlying surface.

She changed her angle, and then it became obvious just what she was planning to do about her exit from altitude. “Here we go!" With an excited ha! she gathered her legs under her and launched herself. For a moment, she seemed almost about to fly, to be propelled from beneath by some lucky wind and take to the sky for truth, but then gravity caught up with her and her arc came back down, pulling her towards the ground like any other wingless creature, wild hair streaming like a tattered pennant.

But she'd aimed herself well, and both hands gripped the golem's shoulder on the way down. She pulled herself in, a loud, echoing clang signaling the heavy impact of the rest of her body with the construct's stone back. She scrabbled a moment, her feet searching for purchase, but in the end it was by the strength of her arms alone that she began to pull herself upwards.

“Hey!" The shout was breathless, exhilarated and urgent all at once. “Where's the weak point on these things, anyhow?"

"Back of the head!" Chryseis called, still a bit breathless from the hit she took. She looked a bit like she didn't believe what she just saw. Rom, however, wasn't surprised at all, just concerned. "Where the head meets the neck!"

Khari didn't stop to second-guess the advice, drawing the short knife that served as her sidearm once she felt she was secure enough to spare the hand. Setting it between her teeth, she shuffled her way closer to the spot, pausing once when the golem's movement got a little too aggressive, and holding on mostly, it seemed, by sheer strength and willpower. The motion slowed just enough, though, and she jumped the final distance, catching herself so that one arm wrapped as far around its neck from behind as she could make it go. Her other hand took up the dagger, and she plunged it into the spot, perhaps spotting some crack in the stone not visible from any further away.

If she'd been an annoyance before, it was now the construct's obvious first priority to be rid of her, and it thrashed heavily, heaving itself around and nearly crushing a Venatori unlucky enough to have ventured too close. Khari held on for a few seconds, but then a momentous heave sent her flying again, and this time not half so gracefully as before.

She slammed front-first into the wall of Marcus's hideout, throwing her arms out to protect herself on instinct. The dull crack of one of them giving out underneath her was unmistakable, as was the thud when her head hit the siding right after. She fell, landing in a heap on the ground and rolling to her back, clearly fighting to pull in a breath, expression dazed. At least she was conscious.

Rom was in motion before she hit the ground, closing the distance quickly. "Asala!" he called, arriving at Khari's head. "Get Decius out of there, I have an idea." Healing would have to wait for all of them, but he needed to get Khari out of the way first.

"Come on," he said, more quietly, slipping his arms underneath her and pulling her away, trying to be careful while also using the speed necessary to get out of the way of the angry golem. "Chryseis! Give us a moment."

"This had better be good," she growled, moving to engage the golem before it could crush him and Khari. It seemed to ignore most of her spells, at least the damaging effects of them, but Chryseis was more prepared to dodge this time, and didn't immediately take a hit.

By the barrier, Decius held up his hands in a sort of surrender to Asala from where he was crouched against the wall. "I swear I didn't know this was going to happen." She might need to carry him, with the way his feet were chained together. He certainly wasn't going to be making good time away from the door on his own.

One last sizzling pop from the magic field and Asala stepped back. It appeared she attempted one last burst of magic in an effort to break through, but that failed as well as the barrier remained. She instead huffed loudly and shook her head and turned her focus instead toward Decius. "Sorry," she frowned apologetically before she leaned down and gripped him by the legs. She flipped him over her shoulder bodily and then turned away from the door, making her way anywhere else but there. Though not as strong as her size would suggest, it was enough to carry Decius away-- had he been a bigger man, it would perhaps had been a different story.

As they made their escape, Asala summoned a barrier over both herself and Decius, just in time as it turned out as a lightning bolt struck the surface soon after. She huffed again, but the shield held fast and settled soon after.

Rom regrouped with her in the safest area they could find down the street, letting go of Khari there and grabbing Asala's shoulder briefly. "I'm going after it," he said, sheathing his blade and discarding the shield. Wouldn't be useful against the front of the golem anyway. "I need you to make sure it stays on me. Don't let it turn on anyone else. We need to lead it to that barrier, and force it in." He figured either the golem would be destroyed by it, or it would destroy the barrier. Either way it was progress. Unless he died.

There wasn't any time to discuss the plan more, as Chryseis took an untimely arrow to her left side while engaged with the golem, from an archer soon picked off by Zee. The disruption to her focus caused the next swing from the golem to connect, tossing her back into the wall behind her. She hit it hard, and crumpled to the ground at its base. Rom took off, his mark already crackling with energy.

He jumped at the nearest hand, trying to make contact before he let loose the energy he was building up. The blast was enough to knock him on his back the other direction, and enough to remove a pair of fingers from the golem. It turned on Rom and charged, forcing him to dive out of the way. He relocated towards the steps leading up to the barrier, but the golem charged on until it hit a wall, and then turned towards Leon, approaching his backside. It seemed more agitated than it had to begin with, targeting whatever happened to be in front of it.

Fortunately, it was neither quiet nor subtle, and Leon was evidently able to sense its approach, because he strafed to the side, clearly unaware of the plan to keep it from ranging too far with barriers. One of the Venatori seized the opportunity and hurled a bolt of lightning at him, one that struck the knife still embedded in his side. The commander's knees buckled under the force of it, leaving him more or less at the mercy of the other cultists on his side.

It wasn't an advantage they had much opportunity to make use of, though, because Khari ran out from the side of a nearby building, having clearly decided she'd be of most use helping him out. Just in the nick of time, her good shoulder slammed into the closest Venatori, knocking him into two others and throwing off the follow-up spell aimed for Leon.

She stooped to pick up a discarded axe, no doubt unable to wield her sword with a broken arm, and bared her teeth, hacking forward into the nearest wayward limb with the stolen weapon. “Just a little more, Leon. Don't worry about the golem—Rom and Asala are gonna keep it away from us. Let's finish these fuckers."

As she said, one of Asala's barriers sprung to life, blocking off the access to their side of the street. It appeared to be thicker than usual, most likely created in order to better stand up to the golem. The woman herself kept well out of the way, having discarded Decius somewhere along a way. She kept a sight line with the golem just to be able to direct her barriers.

"Hey!" Rom yelled, standing in front of Marcus's barrier, unsure if the golem would respond to verbal cues. He pulled free his crossbow and fired a bolt at it for good measure, the projectile striking the golem in the brow and chipping off a small piece. That seemed to do the trick, and the golem thought twice about punching against the barrier from Asala it had run up against, turning on Rom instead. With a low roar it charged straight for him, pounding heavy steps that shook the street as it clambered up the stairs.

It made a leaping attempt at a smash that almost caught Rom off guard, but he had just enough space to roll out of the way to the side. That left the golem standing directly in front of the angry red barrier. His mark sparking to life, Rom pressed his hand against the construct's back and let loose a blast, taking small chunks out of it and making it stumble halfway forward. Not quite enough. He darted back a step. "Now, Asala!" he called. "Push it in!" No easy task, he was sure, but this seemed like their best chance.

A shield descended over the golem, bowed inward to try and trap it between the two barriers. It then began to constrict, soon brushing up against the back of the golem. Asala herself stepped out from where she was hiding, the magical glow of her barriers reaching up to her elbows. She strode forward, the clear effort of pushing such a solid creature written on her brow, as sweat began to bead and the look of exertion worked into her features. The magical glow on her arms only intensified as she walked, ramping up the strength of the barrier.

In the confined space it wasn't able to get much of a backswing on its punches, enabling the barrier to stay up longer, and within a few seconds it was pressed against the field preventing entry to Marcus's tower. There was a sizzling at first as the outer layer of stone on its back was scorched and burned away, but it soon built into a series of small explosions, the barrier violently fighting to keep the golem out, while Asala's barrier pushed it in. The runes on the surface of the golem's body lit up in a bright red hue, and flames soon covered the construct. It roared, rearing back with a fist that managed to punch and hold through the field, despite deafening cracks and small blasts.

The fist came back and punched Asala's barrier, shattering it, but it became obvious that little remained of the arm once it was done. The rest fell to pieces on the ground in front of it, and the golem staggered forward. Huge chunks had been burned away out of the back of it, too many for it to continue functioning, it seemed. It staggered forward heavily, wobbled, and then collapsed down the stairs in a heap of rubble, forcing Rom to backstep out of the way.

The street fell mostly to silence, the Venatori having given up the attack as well. Rom spared a glance for Khari and Leon, both injured pretty severely, but it seemed they'd managed to clean up their end of things. He looked back to Asala. "Nice work. Have another go at that barrier?" Indeed, it looked weakened, visibly flickering, and some of the doorway around it had been damaged by the golem's efforts to escape. Perhaps it had simply been forced to fend off too much with the golem's inhuman capability for endurance.

Asala exhaled deeply once and rolled her shoulders, wiping the sweat from her brow while she was at it. She took a glance at the wavering barrier and nodded. "Okay. I will try to hurry," she added with a look toward Leon and Khari.

"Thank you." Rom, meanwhile, made his way quickly over to Chryseis, who appeared to be unconscious, sitting slumped against the wall at the side of the street. She always came prepared he knew, and when he crouched at her side he rummaged first through the small bags on her belt, finding a few healing potions. He took them all, four in total, and carried them quickly back to the street on the other side of Marcus's entrance, offering them out to Khari and Leon.

"Drink these," he said, setting them down to empty his hands and let them decide how to split them. "Asala's working on the barrier. We need to be ready for more once we're inside." They had no idea what had happened to Ithilian and Amalia, but knowing the history they had with the magister, it could be even worse than what they'd encountered out here.

Still... there was an opportunity here. Leaving Khari and Leon to the potions and their healing, Rom made his way back over to Chryseis, who still had an arrow lodged in her side. She wasn't in great shape, but it didn't seem like she'd die if she was just left here, either. He returned to her side, crouching again and taking hold of the arrow. What to do with it was what he hesitated on.

She coughed, and stirred, and still he didn't let go of the arrow. Opening her eyes, she didn't seem surprised to find him there, but winced all the same as little motions of the arrowhead caused painful twinges in her abdomen.

"If you're going to do it, best do it now," she advised him. As ever, his intentions were plain as day to her, and likely had been from the time they met. "Before your friends come over here." He locked eyes with her, finding them almost uncaring, disinterested.

"I need you to be gone," he said quietly, unsure of why the words left him. Why he felt the need.

"If it needs to be done, why are you hesitating?" She coughed, her lips slightly painted with blood. "Why am I still alive? I've played my part. I have nothing left to offer you." Still he hesitated, and her lip curled into a snarl. "Do it. Or are you still a slave?"

“Gone's not dead." A metallic scrape accompanied the flat pronouncement; Khari's sword dragged slightly against the road until she planted it point down in the dirt, leaning heavily on it. The same hand gripped an empty potion bottle between her last two fingers. The other arm still hung at her side in a way that suggested serious injury, but her eyes were clear when they found Rom's. “And dead's not the same as gone. This isn't about her, or what she deserves. It's about you. What you deserve. The only one who can make you a slave anymore is you." She exhaled, the breath shaky, and her grip tightened on the handle of the sword. Her face was as easy to read as it had ever been: past the pain she was in, Khari was quite at ease.

She believed what she said. And more than that, she had faith in him. Trust. Enough of it that she didn't feel the need to say any more than she already had. Instead, she simply regarded him with open expectation, her head tilted slightly to the side, loose curls stuck to her neck with sweat and frizzing up from her crown, a half-formed smile curling her mouth.

"All of you talk about things too much, you know that?" Chryseis winced again, trying not to move while Rom still had the hand on the arrow in her. "If you're not going to do it, then could you please—gah!"

He pulled the arrow out of her, tossing it aside and backing away a step. She hissed out a breath in pain, pressing her hand to the wound, opening her potions pouch with the other and finding it empty. "Wonderful. Rob me, and then spare me."

Not a moment later, a loud pop punctuated Chryseis's sentence. It sounded as if it came from the barrier barring their way, and a look in that direction would reveal Asala scampering back away from the door--the popping perhaps startling her more than anyone else. After she'd scurried some distance from the now open door, a shield rose up in front of her to shield her from some blow back that fortunately never came. After a moment or two of nothing, she finally felt comfortable to let the shield fall, before tossing glances to all of her friends around her.

She took one last deep breath before a gentle pinkish light wrapped around her hands and she began to make her way toward Leon.

The removal of the barrier was enough to immediately draw Rom's attention away from Chryseis, and his blade and shield were soon in his hands again. "Anyone who still can, we need to get there."

There was no way of telling what had happened inside the tower.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
Cyrus knew the way around the mausoleums under Minrathous's main level perhaps better than someone of his former status really ought to, but it was serving them well at the moment. Fortunately, today's trip didn't involve a trip into the sewers proper, which he heard had been as unpleasant as usual the last time the others had to make their way somewhere discreetly. Sidestepping a pile of crumbled stone, he paused at a fork in the passage, clicking his tongue and trying to decide how soon they were best served to return to daylight. Three years wasn't so much time that he'd lost his sense of where things were, but he certainly didn't have perfect knowledge of how populated different areas would be at exactly this moment.

Deciding to play it safe, he turned them to the left, taking them down another passage full of the ashes of the dead, and the bones of those too poor to be properly burned. In times of strife, the catacombs were useable for food storage, but many of the spells that kept them sanitary enough for that were long decayed, and at the moment they sat empty of anything but those who had long expired, open and echoing with each scuffed footstep or loose stone's descent to ground.

A series of rungs set into the stone wall took them up, and Cyrus moved aside the metal grate above them before pulling himself back up onto street level. Gripping the hood of his drab grey cloak, he pulled it over his head, obscuring his features. The chance he'd be recognized was small, but not completely negligible. Better not to risk it.

The narrow street they now stood on was grimy, slicked by old rain that hadn't quite drained away or dried yet, lingering in stagnant pools in cracked stone that once would have funneled it perfectly well into the grate. Most of the city was like that: once-glorious design ruined by the uncorrected ravages of time. Some of the older buildings were held together by magic alone, but none of those here were important enough for that, and one of those to the side of this laneway sagged into the one next to it, forming a lean-to currently occupied by huddled forms that barely spared the emerging party a glance. Refugees; no doubt the city had swelled further with them since he'd been gone. The Qunari wars only ever got worse, not better.

“Mind your step." No doubt Romulus knew well enough already, but the others were still unfamiliar to Minrathous, and it to them. “We're heading north from here." The Provings was at the center of the city, more or less.

It was impossible to totally avoid nicer areas as they made their path there; aside from the Ivory Quarter and the Tower District, Central Minrathous was the most affluent part, filled with the homes of wealthy merchants and Laetan houses with money but without peerage. The grime and dirt of the outer city receded somewhat, broken buildings gradually giving way to those that had been preserved with more effort. In the distance, the Argent Spire loomed; the cathedral where two among their number had been raised in early childhood was not far from it, but they were headed a different way for now.

Eventually, the laneways widened into more capacious roads designed for commerce, the mood of their surroundings lifting until it was lively, the fetid water stink replaced by the scent of grilling meats, heady spices, and perfumes. A slave auction looked to be impending, various people in chains being led up to a platform on one side of the street, where a small crowd had gathered, speaking amongst themselves until proceedings began. Cyrus bypassed all of it, slipping smoothly through the press of bodies and heading for the very heart of the city, where the market throngs thinned out and a civic garden emerged around them, trimmed in black and white stone.

Just beyond it lay their destination: the Provings was a massive triangular prism shape, tiered hanging gardens on the exterior giving it a lush, rich coating of color and texture, the tropical climate allowing bright color and thick foliage to flourish with minimal magical interference. The green jewel in the stone city, or so it was called by the fanciful. Cyrus thought Corveus was most likely to be somewhere in the garden; of all the surrounding public locations, it was the one that allowed for the greatest degree of discretion.

“Anyone see him? Nondescript fellow; probably looks like a smug evil bastard." If his previous wardrobe preferences were anything to go by, he was most likely wearing monochromatic black, even.

"I don't see him," Romulus said, the first words he'd spoken in a while. Changed man though he was, he was still quiet, especially on the streets of Minrathous. His hood was drawn up as well, leather armor more indicative of a mercenary than anything else, and though the armor lacked sleeves, his hands were tightly wrapped and gloved, to conceal the glow coming from the left one. In other cities it might've been conspicuous to go around in hoods, but it wasn't especially strange in Minrathous.

"No threats of any kind. Yet." He didn't seem to think they were walking into an ambush here of all places, but he hadn't come unarmed, either.

Zahra, too, wore a gray cloak cinched at her collarbone, though she’d foregone wearing her hood. She had no past to speak of in Minrathous, aside from her unfortunate affair with Faraji. The chances of bumping into him now were slim to none. The marketplace itself thrummed with diverse faces; dark as her own. Coming from all stretches of Thedas for commerce, business or shadier inclinations. For all its disreputable histories, the city bore its belly like any other. Men hawked their wares, wagons trudged down the busy streets and the sweet, familiar scent of primrose and plumeria wafted down from the gardens ahead.

She rounded up beside Cyrus and raked her fingers through her unruly curls, pushing them away from her face. Her lips pursed, eyes drawing into squints as she peered across the many stippled rows of flowers, looming trees and shrubbery. Concise, in its own way. Qunari influence was obvious in the way everything had been meticulously arranged. Forcefully molded to be aesthetically pleasing as possible. Not at all like Skyhold’s wild garden, allowed to grow in whichever way it wanted to, tended softly. “Whenever I picture a smug evil bastard, I imagine Corypheus. Don’t suppose he’s a ridiculously, ugly giant, do you?”

There was, however, a man in the distance, dressed in clothes Cyrus had rightfully assumed he might have been wearing—a nobleman’s fare, from the looks of it. A hip-length jacket with several buckles riding up the front; high-collared. Black pants, calf-length boots. Crisply cut, in varying shades of monochrome. Trimmed to fit smartly. What stood out the most was a wink of a pin snapped where a lapel might have been, above his heart: a dragon with coiled serpents. Without the mask
 he looked awfully less cryptic; cropped hair that mirrored his monochrome palette, striking a noticeable contrast between the pallor of his pale skin. He was sharp-featured, as many Tevene were, with eyes that looked like two pieces of flint. Apathetic, if not curious.

His gaze was trained on them, mouth set into a line. A moment passed, before he inclined his chin beside the large grove he was seated in, beneath a tree, gloved hands folded in his lap. It didn’t appear as if anyone else was in the vicinity. Only him.

"Don't look now," Leon said dryly, "but I think that's him." He nodded in the man's direction, as if to make sure they had all indeed spotted the obvious target, but he didn't move, clearly expecting that Zahra would want to take the lead.

Zahra was standing straighter and straighter, a hitch of her breath catching as she inhaled through her nose. She exhaled out softer, this time. When it appeared as if she’d composed herself well enough, she rounded her shoulders and took the first tentative steps forward, following Leon’s field of vision towards the man lounging beneath the tree, “Best not keep him waiting then.”

She took a moment to make sure that they were following along with her, glancing over her shoulder. It was clear by the expression on her face that it was for her benefit more than theirs, making sure they fell into step so that she wouldn’t have to face him alone. Even if it was only a few paces ahead. She smoothed her hands across the front of her pants before climbing up the small, grassy embankment leading up to the spindly tree; branches laden with heavy purple flowers, swaying in long streams, its roots rippled through the ground like surfacing vipers; easy enough to step over.

Corveus. Upon closer inspection, he looked somewhat ill. Gaunt, at least. Bags hung beneath his dark eyes, and his cheekbones seemed too sharp, too tired. Hollow-eyed, but still alert, aware. There was a stillness there, as he turned his head to regard them, making no movement to rise from the shade of the tree. His lips pulled into a half-smile, though it seemed bereft of any humor. “There’s no need for introductions on your part, I already know your names.” A pause, before he pushed himself to his feet, gaze swinging over each of them, “Mine is Corveus Contee. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

He patted the grass and petals from the back of his trousers, leveling them once more with a stare, “I’m sure you’ve questions, but it would be prudent to keep moving. You can ask them on the way.”

It was all quite rude, but efficient enough. Cyrus was inclined not to care much about the former if it guaranteed the latter, and he fell in step with Corveus as they walked, just a half-step behind so as to let the other man do the leading. “I'm assuming you already have some plan for us to follow?" He didn't seem the type to leave anything to chance if he could avoid it—nor the type to willingly cede control of a situation to someone else. Which meant they probably weren't expected to do much more than go where he said when he said and do what he said. For now, that honestly suited Cyrus just fine. But if there were clues to be had about when that would change, he wanted to decipher them as soon as possible.

“I do,” Corveus inclined his head in Cyrus’s direction and seemed to consider him for a moment before he arched a thin eyebrow, the creases of his eyes crinkling enough to show some indication of amusement, “Though truthfully, I’m only the key. What happens once we enter is anyone’s guess.” The way he said it sounded as if there were things inside that went beyond his reach and control. A troubling thought, given the spidery web he’d established over Skyhold, vicariously operating through Zahra’s crew-mate. He did not, however, seem especially worried. His expression smoothed over just as quickly; a drop of water rippling across a veneer of indifference.

Corveus led them down a series of winding alleyways, buildings crushed together only to allow single-file, while others opened into several spaces with archways and shuttered windows. They passed by hunched beggars in tattered clothes, holding up trembling hands, murmuring for change. Coin, please. He only pressed forward, sparing them no attention. Tevinter was rife with all sorts of rabble, and the poor and rich were startlingly disembodied. The poor were strewn about Minrathous like rats in a gutter, and the rich segregated to their own little kingdoms. So it was.

It was Zahra’s jawline that was bunching up as they walked. Lips pursed, as if she were chewing on words unspoken. Her hands opened and snapped back into fists, murky eyes burning a hole through their backs. “So, what’s this price you so cryptically alluded to?” By the sound of her voice, she’d been thinking on it for awhile, releasing the question out in one hoisted, cloying breath. Impatient as ever, even if Cyrus had said that it wouldn’t matter. That they would navigate those waters once they reached them.

If there was any hesitation on Corveus’s part, it was imperceptible enough to go beyond anyone’s notice, as he hadn’t slowed in his steps or turned to look at her. There was a subtle, unperceived flicker of his gaze, before he unlatched the following door and stepped through. “It would only make sense to make my demands once I’ve followed through on my end, don’t you think?”

Zahra only huffed, clearly not satisfied with the answer. She dogged their heels just the same, swinging her gaze towards the upper windows, keeping her hand feathered across the pommel of her blades.

“Any more questions? We’re nearly there.”

"Who exactly are we dealing with here? What's the layout inside the location?" Leon, as always, thought strategically and questioned accordingly. It was easy enough to tell that he was hardly pleased with the underwhelming amount of freely-volunteered information, particularly in a situation that could easily become life-threatening.

He looked rather like he might be a bit more vulnerable to such threats than usual, at the moment, a somewhat gaunt sunkenness to his cheeks that hadn't always been there. Cyrus knew of his sickness, of course, but it seemed to have progressed even in the few days it had been since they last saw one another.

Corveus did turn to look at Leon, pausing in his tracks to scrutinize him. Perhaps, he’d only noticed the noticeable difference in their statures then, staring up at him. Aside from the occasional anomaly, those in Tevinter were generally of average stature. Elves and humans, not casting particularly daunting figures. His gaze flicked up to his face, before he met his gaze, eyes rolling skyward to recall the information he was being asked for, “Faraji. My mother’s Thorns, her loyal hounds. Enchanted traps for those who don’t share the Contee bloodline. Vindictive bunch, as you can see.” He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug and glanced in Rom’s direction, lips forming another candid line, “Like any other estate; too large for comfort. Fortunately, we’ll be bypassing most of it in favor of the oubliette. She should be there.”

With that said, he turned back on his heels and continued leading from the front. It didn’t take them long to twine through several blocks, ducking into alleyways, stalling only a couple times whenever Corveus raised his hand, ushering them to wait until approaching footfalls passed them by. Although some parts of Minrathous were in disrepair, flooded with refugees, somehow still swathed in powerful magic
 there seemed to be a presence there, guards in slate-colored clothes, speaking in Tevene’s trade tongue. Mercenaries, perhaps. Difficult to tell from the back and Corveus had not waited long enough to get a better look. He hardly paused at all, tracing his steps back as if he’d taken them many times before; a disreputable place for someone who was of noble birth.

The further they walked, the more decrepit their surroundings appeared. Brightly colored banners were replaced with tatters, flailing in the wayward breeze. Buildings seemed to crackle, tipping in on themselves, but still somehow managing to keep upright. Bits of brick littered the side of the pathways, and the cobblestones beneath their feet gave way to uneven ground. The frequency of serfs, hooded figures and homeless increased, though they paid them little mind as they passed. The divergence of wealth seemed to startle Zahra, as she gawped at her surroundings, wide-eyed and distracted. Corveus only slowed in his pace when he was leading them down a series of stairs, running beside a wide-mouthed drain with mucky water several lengths long. The water itself looked questionable, a greenish brown shade.

Something of a latched cover had been arranged beside the furthest wall. A dead end. Covered in moss, decay, and brine. He stopped in front of it and pulled at the iron knob, hoisting it up with effort. He pushed it up against the wall, and smoothed out the crinkles of his jacket, “Catacombs. This one leads precariously close to the estate.” Not home, not his estate. He seemed to be making it clear that there was a distinction there. He glanced at the others, and hunkered down first, boots clanging against the iron-wrought ladder. He disappeared into the darkness, and there was silence, a beat passed, before he called up after them, “Close it behind you, if you will.”

Leon was the last through, and hardly seemed to need telling; little would make their passage more obvious than leaving the door open for any passers-by to find. The door closed softly and then it was back down into the sewers. Thy seemed to be going back roughly the way they'd come, except via a more disgusting route. It wasn't clear why Corveus had forced them out of the Ivory Quarter only to lead them back to it, but perhaps he feared that a rendezvous too close to the estate would draw the attention of spies or some such. Their boots sloshed through a fair amount of muck, though fortunately not enough to leak in anywhere; the stench would be remaining external to their persons, at least.

Corveus, at least, didn’t seem to mind the stench. Perhaps, he was used to it. Seeing how easily he’d found the passageway, it was a safe assumption he’d traversed through them several times, for whatever reason a nobleman might want to. The darkness, however, hung over them like a heavy blanket, with the skittering of tiny feet echoing off the walls surrounding them. There was movement off to Cyrus’s right side, before light exploded from the end of a torch Corveus seemed to have taken off the wall nearest the ladder. He shook his hand, waggling his fingers, before taking the first step off to the side, through the inch of mucky water.

Warm, orange shadows played across their faces, and danced across the rounded ceiling. It made Corveus’s face look even more grim, the bones in his face jutting out at acute angles. He stared ahead, tracing his steps with little care for his boots, kicking up water with every step. The probability of rats was verified when one scurried through their feet, screeching down the way they’d come. Zahra made a noise in the back of her throat and bumped into Leon’s shoulder, stepping back just as quickly, mumbling a hoarse apology. She hadn’t done that well in the other catacombs, and this was no different. Though the other had been minutely better, perhaps, with a larger number of people.

“Dead, stinking place, couldn’t we just walk over?” Zahra was mumbling under her breath, eyebrows knitting together, “I hope Bastian has more wine.” There were a few heavier plopping noises as she rounded to Cyrus’s side, stepping much more carefully now that she had matched his pace. She only spared Corveus a glance, before looking back up at him. “I didn’t know Minrathous was so
 like this. What’re these even used for, besides crawling through, all secretive like?”

Cyrus blinked. “The sewers or the catacombs? The sewers are used to channel waste and runoff from the streets; as I'm sure you've noticed, large parts of the system have fallen into disrepair, particularly in the poorer areas. When they work, however, disease is much less prevalent for the obvious reasons. The catacombs house the dead who lacked either the money or the family for a place in one of the aboveground mausoleums. Minrathous is the largest city in Thedas, and there is only so much room, so we tend to build up and down here. In a pinch, there are spell systems in place that make the dry catacombs safe for food storage." He shrugged. “The city has withstood several prolonged sieges by making use of them."

Glancing once at Corveus, he let his eyes fall back to Zahra. “But primarily these days, they're used for crawling through, all secretive-like, as you say. A lot of business happens in this city that is better kept from prying eyes. It's like any other urban center in that way."

“Not at all like Pressa,” Zahra countered, pushing errant curls back behind her ear. She hm’d and straightened her shoulders, focusing her attention on her boots. She seemed to want to talk just for the sake of talking, even if the answers were obvious. Discomfort was easily read in her posture; too rigid, too wooden. Their words echoing off the walls, accompanied by wet sloshing and the flicker of the torch's flames. More than a few times, she’d wiped her hands across the front of her trousers.

Before Zahra could say anything else, Corveus interrupted. “Here we are.” They’d reached the end of the little stretch of sewers by now, small beams of light could be seen peeping through the wooden slats of another battered door, casting speckles on the cobblestones beneath their feet. He waved a hand upwards, and smile grimly, shadows making his eyes seem ever so sunken. “After you.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon was last out of the sewer, just as he'd been last in. His arms ached as he pulled himself back onto ground level, replacing the grate they'd climbed out from beneath as quietly as he could. They stood now on a small pathway, a line of thorny shrubs to the left, which appeared to be part of the manor house they were heading for.

A quick glance at it gave the impression of age and angularity. A closer one revealed that the same dwarven influence as pervaded a great deal of Tevinter's older structures prevailed here, at least in the most basic lines of it. Too old for the Qunari to have had impact on its design even without the architect's awareness, but there was a certain precision to it even so, space maximized within its parameters. Only after the marble blocks had been cut and fit exactingly had the more needless flourishes been added; wrought-iron flanges at the triangular peaks of the roofline, carried through into the gating set into the grey stone border wall. The shingles were gilded, late-evening light reflecting from them with a bright sort of flare that Leon diverted his eyes from.

The garden, or what he could see of it, seemed to be more sculpture than plant life, elaborate fountains shaped into shapes both draconic and humanoid, many of them locked in the posture of battle. The garden wall had several brackets set into it for torches, which burned with blue light, leaving the ivy and thorns around them undisturbed but illuminated in the same lapis hue.

When Corveus confirmed that it was the one they were looking for, Leon took point. Out of the group of them, he was still probably the best suited to weather any initial magical assaults, though he would unfortunately be reliant on their untrustworthy ally as far as knowing where the traps were. The gate proved to be unlocked, and they slipped in quietly, straying from the obvious path up to the house and skirting the garden's outer edges instead.

As they drew close enough to see the entrance in more detail, Leon stopped, looking back over his shoulder with a frown. "I take it the door requires some form of magic to open?" There didn't appear to be any handles, knobs, or depressions in it— nothing but a solid slab of wood.

“An accurate assumption.” Corveus’s expression remained thin, lips twitching into a tired half-smile, before he stepped around him and quickly ascended stairs two at a time. Gnarled, ebony statues depicting wyverns lounged at the sides of the stairs, mouth eternally gawped open in a soundless roar. He took a moment to look around the premises, hollow eyes scanning the front yard, presumably making sure that they were truly alone on the terrace. The streets themselves were empty, save for the occasional bird flapping overhead.

Once he seemed satisfied by their lack of an audience, he turned his back towards them, facing the large, gilded doors. A large insignia had been engraved in a circular piece of stone, a swirling opal hue. The draconic head, cosseted by serpents. He drew his right hand up to his mouth, set a finger to his lips and pulled the leather glove from it, tucking it neatly into his jacket. The lamplight overhead played against the thin, and thick, scars riddling the top of his hand and exposed wrist, as he held it towards the stone plate. Ugly, marring things; puckered white, while some remained pink. Fresh wounds.

As soon as his palm touched the surface of the plate, it rippled around his fingertips as if he’d pressed it to milky water. Swirls, turning into themselves, until a line of red ribboned out from Corveus’s index finger, separating into sanguine beads. It disappeared soon after, stilled itself until only a bloody fingerprint remained. He retracted his hand and set it back to his side, glancing in their direction, “I ask for no subtleties here. Do what you must. As soon as you step foot inside, subterfuge will no longer be an option. There are servants here, as well, however. They are harmless, but may still whisper of my arrival. I’ll do my best to navigate us through without too much trouble.” He seemed to be implying that he would no longer be safeguarded simply because he was family, and if they needed to utilize force, he had no qualms on the matter. “I’d suggest having your weapons at the ready. We aren’t a welcoming bunch.”

The sound of whirring gears and hidden mechanisms came from inside, soon after, the doors shifted and cracked themselves open enough to be pushed aside. Corveus cleared his throat and removed his other glove, pushing it into his jacket as well. Zahra had already bounded up the stairs, standing off to Leon’s side, trying to sneak a peek around him into the sliver of the entranceway. Even though she seemed as wary of his words as the others were, she had already shouldered her bow into her hands; the tension in her shoulders easing with the comfort of having weapon in hand.

With the soft rasp of metal, Cyrus slid both swords from their places at either side of his waist, taking a steady, but relaxed grip upon the hilts and lowering them so they pointed at the ground. “Ah, so you're a Tevinter family after all. What's a little blood between blood, after all?" His tone was dry, but it was easy to read the cynicism in it, as well as something else. Slightly uncomfortable, like this situation reminded him of another one in particular. Unpleasant, without a doubt.

Rom already had his shield in hand, but he left his weapon hand empty for the moment, for whatever reason. Leon had seen him fight more than enough times to know that he was quick enough to have the blade and shield ready in almost any circumstance. Perhaps the mention of servants inside stayed his hands for now. He also dropped his hood, clearing up his peripheral vision. Identity concealment wouldn't be worth the trade-off once they were inside.

Leon didn't need to do anything in particular to have his weapons at the ready, so while the others prepared themselves, he reached down towards his belt, unhooking the second of the two flasks he commonly kept there. Not the one with the alcohol, sadly. He wasn't sure exactly how much resistance to expect here, but it was bound to be magical, and that was enough to incline him to caution. Most things did, especially since Kasos had reminded him so potently of its benefits.

The draught tasted terrible on his tongue as always; he stopped himself after a few swallows, though his body cried out for more. Cried out for the warmth and strength that adrenaline and need alone could not deliver. But every day it cost him more, and he had to balance strength with time. Had to hope he was doing so as well as possible. Replacing the cork, he licked the last dark red drops from his lips and swallowed, clearing his throat and tucking the flask back into its place at his belt.

"Let's get this over with, then."

Zahra seemed intent on his face for a moment, watching as he drank from his draught. There was a good chance she’d never seen him drink it before, or had never noticed. She, too, extracted a much smaller vial from the belt at her hip. Finger-length, thin as a flute. The liquid it contained was a soft blue, cloudy. She set it to her lips and tossed her head back, flicking the empty vial into a nearby bush with a careless grin. Aside from the bounce, she only appeared more energized by whatever she’d taken. Her expression shifted and she stepped off to the side, probably intending to bring up the rear. She gave her bow an absent pluck, and reaching over her shoulder, extracting an arrow from her quiver.

Corveus nodded once, pushing the doors wide enough for them to enter. Once they were all inside, he shut it behind them. The same whir of concealed instruments sounded behind them as the doors shut themselves, smothering the last breeze at their backs, presumably sealing them inside. His countenance appeared less assured now that they’d passed the threshold, though he was doing a well enough job keeping it from his face, flicking his gaze to the spiraling staircases set nearby, running up both sides of the large entryway; forming a horse-shoe.

The estate itself was as gaudy as any other, though it felt colder than Bastian’s. As if the warmth had all been snuffed out. Luminous chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, crystals hanging down like stalagmites, abstract in design, and magically enchanted to cast a soft, pale glow across the chamber. The motif was clearly a mix of Tevene, and dwarven architecture, as if it had been rebuilt around each other; a hybrid of inspirations borrowing from one another. The staircases corralled a large lounging area, with a fireplace pushed up against the furthest wall, just beneath the overhanging balcony.

It was Corveus who took the first step forward, striding to the right side of the chamber, not quite waiting to see if they would follow. Once he reached the door pinioned between two twisted plants, he turned the handle, and toed the door open, sweeping a hand in front of him. “In here, through the kitchen.” Zahra’s jawline was working as she looked around the room, sidestepping a table and stuffed chair, stopping short of the door’s frame, allowing the others to move ahead of her.

There was a startled racket through the doorway. A clatter of pans, and a softly uttered kaffas.

Leon stepped in first, blinking rapidly. His pupils had already dilated, allowing him to take in his surroundings in far sharper detail, but the downside was a certain light sensitivity that made focusing on anything too bright difficult. He kept his eyes away from the cook-fire, settling them almost automatically on the only moving object in the room. A person, in this case; a small girl, perhaps about twelve or so. Elven, from the ears. The clattering of dishware had been her doing, and she regarded them now with wary eyes, already edging towards the exit, but refusing to put her back to them. Not unwise, in her situation.

Unfortunately, talking in the sort of soothing, modulated tones that would suit this situation was something Leon knew was currently beyond him. already, his muscles were warming, the heat thrumming through them waiting for the opportunity—any opportunity—to flare to life and propel him forward into violence. He probably didn't look in any way reassuring. Glancing behind him, he made eye contact with Romulus first, asking the question without so much as a growly word escaping him.

Romulus understood the question clearly enough, and put a hand on Leon's shoulder as he passed, perhaps to reassure him. This sort of thing wasn't the Lord Inquisitor's usual task either, but considering the person they needed to keep calm, he could see that he was probably the best choice for it. His weapon was still sheathed in a scabbard on his belt, and Romulus made sure the girl could see that, advancing slowly forward with his open hand extending slightly, in plain view.

"Easy now," his voice taking on an unusual accent. "We're not here to cause trouble if we can avoid it. Doubt it would be your job to do something about if we were, anyhow." It was a rough accent, far less sophisticated in tone than what the magisters seemed to employ. In fact, it sounded a fair bit like Bastian's talkative slave, Brand. Well, a slave until recently, as Romulus had arranged for his purchase and then subsequently freed him. Not that he'd gone anywhere after.

Nevertheless, it seemed Romulus hoped the accent, which he seemed comfortable in, would help identify that he understood the position the girl was in. Perhaps even that he had occupied such a place once himself. He stopped a fair distance from her, not close enough to grab her without taking a few steps first. "You're probably supposed to tell your dominus about us now, right?" He didn't pause, the question rhetorical. "We won't stop you if you need to do that, but... it would really help us out if you wait a bit. Maybe finish up your work in here first."

The small elven girl seemed to be shrinking back further into the counter, though the rigid tension in her shoulders eased as Romulus spoke to her. She blinked owlishly at him, her freckled face crinkling with something that appeared apprehensive of their intentions, for good reason. A handful of strangers filtering in with a lordling that didn’t seem so well-received was peculiar enough. She glanced towards the door to the right of the wood stove, flicking back to Romulus’s extended, empty hand.

The fact that he wasn’t approaching with any weapon in hand seemed to calm her, though she was quick to notice Corveus over his shoulder. He, himself, made no movement or effort to calm the girl. Perhaps he’d thought it best Romulus deal with it as well, as Leon had. There was a good chance that his words bore no weight in the estate, anyway. She swallowed thickly, and bobbed her head in a wooden nod, “I, I just carry the water, sers.” Her own accent was just as rough around the edges, most likely she’d been spared any education.

A lowly serf, only useful as a tool. Certainly not worth teaching anything.

Her hands, however, were wrapped in bandages all the way to her elbows. Stark white, threaded between her fingers. The black and red outfit she wore mirrored the Contee’s colors; emblazoned with the roaring dragon and coiled serpents. The only finery slaves were allowed, if any at all. It was a symbol of ownership. A reminder. Despite the racket in the kitchen, it appeared as if she hadn’t been cleaning at all. There were crumbs at her feet and a discarded knuckle of bread that had rolled between them. She was a skinny, gangly thing. No doubt she’d grown hungry and snuck down for something to eat.

The girl took another trembling breath through her mouth and swung her gaze towards the ground. She twined her hands together, rubbing at her palms, before meeting Romulus’s gaze once more. She, at least, seemed more at ease now that she knew she wasn’t in any trouble and perhaps, punishment would not be on the horizon. She seemed to be making internal considerations, keeping her focus on Romulus rather than the others. “My dominus said to tell when L-Lord Corveus was back
 but not if anyone else was here.”

Her eyes seemed to brighten, beaming. It was a question, a clever omission; an assurance that her logic was sound.

Romulus didn't seem too confident in how that would go, either for the slave girl or for them, but at this point the decision seemed to be letting her go and do as she pleased, or doing something aggressive to prevent that, and he obviously wasn't considering the latter to be a real option. "Fair enough," he relented. "Maybe walk slow on your way to him?"

The elven girl blinked at him and bobbed her head in another nod, quicker this time. She seemed pleased by the outcome, as she stooped low to snatch up the piece of bread, stuffing it inside her tunic. Once she straightened up, swiping the last bits of crumbs from the front of her tunic, and pants, her mouth pulled into a gap-toothed grin, “I’ll take the long way, sers. You best hurry.”

She walked around them, glancing only at Corveus’s feet as she passed. The sound of the door they’d come in from shut softly behind them. A moment passed, before Corveus broke the silence, “Well. That worked well enough.” There was a sense that he might’ve done things differently by the way he stared after the girl. He strode towards the door nearest the stove, and unlatched it, shouldering it open in small increments, enough to peek into the long hallway it led into.

“We’ll have company soon, and they won’t be harmless little girls,” he pursed his lips and pushed the door open wider, stepping into the hallway, “at least they won’t be expecting us. Borus and his ilk patrol these halls; ever vigilant. My family’s paranoia matches their cruelty.” A pause, and he swung his gaze in Leon’s direction, “If you would so kindly bring up the rear, Commander. I’d rather not have any surprises of our own.”

"Very well." Leon's tone didn't sound completely unlike two heavy stones grinding against each other, but as there were no children around to scare without meaning to, it was fine. Allowing the others to proceed in front of him, he dropped back to the rear guard position, closing the door quietly behind them.

Corveus took the lead once more, allowing Cyrus, Zahra, and Romulus to form a loose band in the middle. The hallway itself had no other offshoots, but many doors littered on each side. Long portraits hung above oaken side tables; depicting familiar, shallow-faced individuals wearing a variety of Tevene finery. Robes, mostly. Each expression grimmer than the next. Not a lively bunch. A family line, most likely. Also, they were notably female. Aside from the occasional vase, filled to the brim with purple, drooping flowers that smelt eerily like blood, there was nothing of note.

The quiet was interrupted by the sound of metal scraping against metal, clanking footsteps approaching from one of the doors behind them. Corveus halted in his tracks, eyes flicking over his shoulder. His jawline bunched up, and the veneer of calm started to sift away. From what Leon could tell, he seemed to want to go in two different directions at once, but hadn’t had enough time to decide which was best, because the door swung open and rowdy conversation filtered into the hallway. Certainly more than one voice, chiding each other in Tevene.

A large man in a full suit of plate stepped into the hallway, facing slightly away. Broad-shouldered, tall. Not quite so tall as Leon, but an impressive figure nonetheless. The dragon sigil had been cut into his plate, and the colors he bore matched the Contee’s standard. Red and black. He carried a greatsword on his back, as large as Khari’s, though far less remarkable. He had tossed his head back in a laugh, dark eyes raking across the hallway until they landed squarely on their group. His laugh died shortly after. To his benefit, it only took him a moment to grasp the situation, heavy brows knitting over them. His gaze lingered on Corveus, and his expression darkened considerably.

Reaching into the room, he pulled out a much smaller man by the cuff of his collar, grumbling something in Tevene, before pushing him stumbling towards the kitchen. Sending him with orders, no doubt, to raise an alarm. “Fasta vass—get your asses out here. Our little snake finally bore its teeth.” Four more figures, garbed in a similar array of armor, chain and plate, filtered into the hallway, “You know what to do. Settle this before she finds out, dammit. And keep him alive.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
There wasn't any time here to politely convince slaves not to do their jobs and raise an alarm against them.

To be honest, Rom was starting to wish he'd dealt with the little girl more intelligently. It was hard to make himself harm children that occupied a place he'd once been in himself, but all he'd needed to do was put her to sleep, leave her unconscious on the floor there. That was the fate he intended for this particular scrambling messenger, assuming he could reach him before he got away. The others could hopefully cover him as he worked, and these five would be the only ones they'd need to deal with here.

Taking off at a sprint, Rom still didn't draw his weapon, knowing he'd need both hands relatively free to properly grapple onto the running servant. He was quicker than the slave by a fair bit, catching him in only a few seconds in the hallway, where Rom performed a sliding tackle, taking out his legs and bringing him to the ground. His hands were on him immediately after, swiping away attempts to escape, kicking his legs out as he tried to get his feet again, trying to wrap arms around the smaller man's neck. It would take a moment, but it needed to be done.

Leon moved to protect their formation's flank. It meant he didn't engage directly with the leader, rather moving to cut off one of those that emerged from the back of the hallway instead. In a manner that had become familiar to Rom with time, he let a hit glance off his armor, using the opportunity to close to within arm's reach. For now, at least, he appeared to be moving at just about full steam, lowering his shoulder and tackling the other man to the floor.

The Contee guard's helmet clanged against the ground hard. Leon gripped the faceplate of it in one large hand and slammed it back against the stone. Even with the protection, there was no way the force involved didn't do something, and the guard dropped his blade beside him, likely from insensate fingers. He was slack and still, perhaps just unconscious rather than dead. Leon climbed off him when it became obvious he'd be putting up no further fight, casting about the room for the next opponent.

In the time that took, Cyrus had moved up to engage the leader, grimly fending off the greatsword with a well-timed deflection from his left-hand blade. The right-hand one sought a weak point in the man's plate, but skidded away instead when he shifted, letting his armor absorb the hit. Cyrus wasn't a small man, but he was smaller than this fellow, and he didn't try to force a contest of strength, instead sliding away from the engagement and trying again from another angle. His strikes were much faster, and for now at least he didn't seem to be in any danger of getting hit, but one misstep could change that. His own armor wasn't nearly so thick, after all.

An arrow hissed overheard moments before Rom tackled the servant to the ground. It twanged into the kitchen door, down to the shaft, vibrating with the propelled force. A sorry, sorry was heard over the din of metal clattering together. She hadn’t seemed to notice that the man was a servant, or had simply reacted before thinking. A by-product of the concoction she’d taken, perhaps. She pressed herself up against the wall, slightly behind a coffee table, already reaching over her shoulder to produce another arrow from her quiver.

This time, she loosed her arrow a little closer, straight over Leon’s bunched shoulders. Another man had stepped into view, face obscured by the plated helm he wore. The arrow bit into one of the guard’s exposed forearm just as he was readying to rear back, attempting to strike out at Leon’s torso with an unusually curved blade. It clattered to his feet, bouncing off to the side. He screamed and reeled backwards, before he snatched at the arrow, pulling it out in one swift tug. He turned back to face his much larger opponent. Blood welled and lifted into beads, pooling from his wound. It looked as if he were gesturing towards it with his other hand.

Corveus didn’t appear to have any weapons to speak of. At least, none that were noticeable on his person. The question as to whether he would simply watch, rather than intervene, was soon put to rest when he flicked his wrists off to the side, producing two small, curved blades. Instead of elbowing his way to the forefront, he had rolled up his sleeves, dagger poised against his palms.

The bloodied guard had used the opportunity to use blood magic, forming a lash made of it and striking for Leon. The commander moved out of the way, but not quite fast enough to avoid the strike entirely; it wound around his arm several times, holding him with supernatural strength. Leon flexed his free hand, then used it to take hold of the whip at a slightly lower spot, turning his other arm so that he had it in a doublehanded grip. Wrenching his whole body, he pulled the guard off his feet and to the floor, where the man skidded for some distance before the whip disintegrated.

Leon didn't waste time letting him get to his feet, charging to where he lay and bringing an armored boot down on the exposed back of his neck. With a crack, the mage went still.

Cyrus ducked under another swing from the leader, transitioning into what would have been a smooth riposte, had the guard not taken one hand from his weapon's hilt and blasted point-blank with ice. The force of the spell was enough to throw Cyrus back several feet; only extraordinary balance kept him from losing his footing. Instead, he sidestepped the follow-up, ice crystals cracking away from the joints of his armor with a sound like glass crunching underfoot.

He recovered quickly, however, not slowed long enough to take the full brunt of the crude bolt of lightning that followed. It crashed into the tile floor behind him, blackening the marble and blasting away several small chunks of it. This time, when he ducked in, Cyrus found a proper weakness, one of his falcata piercing the underside of the arm raised to launch the spell. Taking a half-step forward, he redoubled the force, the blade sinking in several more inches with a hard wrench. When he yanked it free, his other blocked the guard's one-handed attempt at a last-ditch defense. The greatsword clattered to the floor with a clang, and Cyrus strafed away from the guard as he fell, the artery in his armpit cleaved in twain and rapidly draining him of his blood.

The blood from the guard’s armpit seemed to quickly coagulate, trembling into a more malleable form—rising higher still, until it coiled into serpents similar to the Contee sigil. They danced in the air, beads of red flicking off like discarded scales, specking the carpeted floor and Cyrus’s shoulders and head. The aesthetics of the blood magic crumbled away as soon as the sanguine ribbons formed hardened spikes, and with the flick of Corveus’s extended hands, they lurched through the air and slipped into the neck of another guardsmen, who seemed intent on trying to scramble free of the chaos, tripping over collapsed corpses on his way towards the door.

More than likely, if he hadn’t been struck down there, Rom would have finished him off before he even reached the door. The lordling hadn’t given him the chance however, skewering him to the floor with the two hemoglobin lances. They fell apart a second later, hailing down like water sifting through someone’s hands. A mess to clean up. Though no one here seemed particularly worried, including the one person whose home it was. Not anymore. Zee's eyes swiveled toward the last guard who had fallen beneath another body, wriggling from beneath the gore, closest to Rom. Wide-eyed, face bloodied. Doubtfully any was his own.

“Straggler!” Even if Zee hadn’t said anything, it was hard to miss the only one not belonging to their assembled group. He was dragging himself to his feet, hands poised on a nearby table, utilizing it to lurch forward. Towards the kitchen door, no doubt unaware that one of his enemies was so close. Or, maybe, he didn’t care. Terror had a funny way of blinding any sensibilities.

The fight went quickly, as they tended to do, and by this point Rom had managed to ensnare the fleeing servant in a choke hold, his strong arms and legs refusing him any kind of leverage, and putting the necessary pressure on his neck and head to force him into unconsciousness as quickly as he could manage. Shoving him aside, he got back to his feet and starting running forward for the straggler, drawing his blade on the way. The servants and slaves did nothing to warrant death, but the trained guards, seemingly mages to the last, were too dangerous to be treated the same.

The fleeing guardsman made it to his feet, terror finally beaten by the desire to escape. Just before he was able to make it to the door Rom caught him, going in low from behind, targeting the weakly armored spot at the back of the knee with his pugio. It found the flesh and sank in deep, tearing muscle and striking bone, more than enough to force the man down. He responded aggressively, fighting now that flight was no longer an option by launching flames blindly over his shoulder where he thought Rom would be. His aim was off, but not by much, and just the proximity to the raging flames was almost enough to burn him.

Rom ducked low and drove his blade in again, this time in the gap of the plate near the underarm, the weight of the blow and Rom's forward force pushing the guard over onto his face and stifling the flames. He squirmed and still tried to free himself, but Rom made an end of it, pulling his blade free again and stabbing it in again at the side of his neck. He twitched once or twice more, and then stilled. Rom pulled his blade free, stepping back a few paces and wiping some of the blood that had spurted onto his face. There didn't seem to be any more imminent threats. For the moment.

“Might want to replace
 a lot in this area,” Zee tsked, lowering her bow back down to her side, her eyes roving down the hallway. Blood was streaked up the walls, flecking up towards the ceiling and the carpet was beyond repair. Large, dark pools had already begun absorbing into the fibers, blooming out across the shattered vases and upended tables. Scorch marks where the errant flames had licked across the wall opposite of Rom. An unavoidable mess, though clearly necessary. If any of them had successfully squirreled away, there was no doubt the estate would become much harder to navigate. With the sheer number of guards lounging in one room, there was a sense that the Contee’s paranoia went far beyond normal conventions. “Everyone good here?”

Corveus lowered his hands. He hadn’t cut his wrists after all. No need with all the fresh blood in the vicinity. Rom had seen this before, in Minrathous; blood magic was not ostracized here, certainly not as much as it was in all the other regions in Thedas. Not unless they crossed lines, by summoning demons, making contracts, or conducting unholy experiments, sullying their goodly noble names. A power like any other, in their eyes. He cleared his throat, and tucked the blades into the cloth belt wound his waistline, gesturing that they continue down the hallway.

“Apologies,” his smile was thinner this time, speculative in nature, “It’d be best not to linger here. We’ve got quite a bit of ground to cover.”

Zee’s mouth peeled back as she rounded to Cyrus’s side, looking over the others. Mildly concerned, if the uplift of her brow was anything to go by. She didn’t seem to be listening to much of what Corveus was saying or at least, wasn’t giving any indication of it. Instead, she turned her attention to Rom, and the servant lying unconscious nearby. Searching. She hopped over some of the bodies, and crossed over to him, hunching down by the man's’ head. Her fingers slipping beneath his chin, rolling his face towards them. An exhale sounded, somewhat relieved. Her hand retracted. She patted the servant on the head, turning back to face Rom. “Not him, after all. Thought maybe, it might’ve been Maleus.”

“He’s waiting for us. Up ahead. Which is why we need to go, before anyone questions why he is not where he should be.” Corveus’s impatience was clear, cut into the sharpness of his features. He had already turned his body in the direction he wished to go, eyeing them over his shoulder.

“Well then, let's go." Cyrus didn't bother to sheathe his swords; the one he'd gotten the guardsman with had a slick patina of dark red down the blade still, slowly dripping onto the floor as they went. Given how much of it was everywhere, it probably didn't matter. He paused to let the others go first, then brought up the rear of the formation himself.

With everything said and done, Corveus led them away from the carnage, straight down the hall into an oncoming flight of stairs that spiraled downwards, as gilded and gaudy as everything else in the estate. Familiar scenes had been painted alongside the walls, depicting The Black City as described in the Chant of Light. Off in the middle, were the aforementioned magisters standing vigilant in front of the gates, their likeness twisted, raven-haired and dark-eyed, swathed in robes bearing a draconic sigil. Golden streets spanned close to their elbows, widening out into a city. Their vision, perhaps, of what it looked like.

The lordling himself made no comment. Hardly paid it any mind, continuing his descent at the forefront. Zee brought up the middle, trailing her fingertips across the painted walls, eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and glanced down at the back of Corveus’s head, casting a shadow across her dusky features. Rom had seen that look before. Knew it well enough to know that she had many questions rattling off in her head, but refused to speak them aloud. She didn’t trust him, that much was clear.

The iron sconces built into the wall held lit torches, casting a flickering glow across the wide staircase, built for several people to walk side by side, with no windows or opening in sight. At the very end of the staircase held the epilogue of the painting
 the magisters pushing the gates aside, hands held wide, blood falling from their hands in long streams; in victory, in celebration. Their cowls, and capes, shed from their shoulders, with the Black City illustrated as a shining beacon. The sun shining down on them. Beautifully composed, but uneasy to behold.

Against the wall was another door, wrought handle in the semblance of a dragon’s open maw.

When Corveus didn't immediately move to open the door himself, Leon turned his head slightly towards the other man, brows knitting, then sighed. "This better not be trapped," he said, tone clipped, rumbling in the way indicative of his reaver tonic. He reached forward and grabbed the handle, pulling it open with minimal fanfare.

“Woah—”

A voice, certainly not belonging to anyone on their side. It had come from behind the door. As soon as it creaked inwards, a person stumbled through, hand still poised on the handle. Not quite a trap, as Leon had speculated. No, a young man. He clearly hadn’t expected someone to be pulling the door at the same time as he had been pushing because he stepped into Leon’s chest and immediately recoiled, tripping backwards over his feet, tumbling onto his arse. There was a jangle of metal grating against metal as he huffed out a breath, swinging his gaze towards them, eyes wide as baubles.

Dark, murky eyes. Familiar. Rom had looked into them before, every time Zee turned to face him, lips cracking open to needle embarrassing moments. Set into a different face, of course, but the resemblance was uncanny. Too similar to be coincidental. An iron-wrought collar had been soldered around his neck, resting on his collarbone. Large, heavy. The last remnants of boyishness clung to his frame, though he seemed to be still growing into it. Broad-shouldered, stocky framed. An exceptional slave, a good bodyguard. Had he been standing in Minrathous’s slave galley, he would have fetched a good price.

“I, uh, I’m guessing you’re the cavalry? I
 hope.” The young man scratched at his neckline, underneath the collar. It looked uncomfortable, if the red marks were anything to go by. Chafing. Heavy, sharp-ridged scars were riddled down his forearms, in concise stripes, though none seemed to go any farther. His garments were much different than the ones the other slaves wore. A reinforced cuisse, black dyed-leathers and loose, brown trousers. The Contee sigil had been engraved into the collar instead, earnestly painted. Perhaps, by the same hand that had portrayed the Black City. “Is Corv
?”

He leaned to the side, still seated, searching beyond Leon’s large frame. The Seeker stepped back and slightly aside, shifting so as to no longer be blocking anyone's view all that much.

The man seemed relieved that Leon’s reaction hadn’t be outright violent. His gaze lingered on his face, before they swiveled towards the rest of the group. Once his eyes locked onto Corveus’s, a grin crackled across his face, brightening considerably. A breath huffed out, as he brought up a hand to rest above his heart. He gave his head a shake. “Oh, good. I was worried. You were taking so long. Thought you might’ve hit trouble
 er, trouble you’ve dealt with already, I suppose.”

From the looks of it, he’d noticed Cyrus’s bloodied blade, still held in his hand.

There was a stirring at Rom’s side as Zee bristled. Shoulders tensing up. She’d taken a step forward, mouth set into a hard line. The expression on her face was unreadable until the torch’s flame lit across it. Recognition. Hope, fear. Her footsteps lacked the normal sauntering gait. They were clumsy. Too rushed, too hurried to reach her destination. Riddled with a desperate edge that propelled her forward, hand reaching for Leon’s arm, perhaps to steady herself. To keep herself from falling.

A hitched breath, expelling into one trembling word.

“Maleus?”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
Cyrus found himself in a rather delicate conundrum.

On the one hand, Zahra—his friend, he could acknowledge that now—was currently having what Stellulam might possibly have referred to as a moment. No doubt a perfectly-understandable one, considering that she now stood face-to-face, or close enough, with her brother. Someone she hadn't seen in years, who'd solicited her help due to his own imprisonment. And who, he noted, seemed quite friendly with their entirely untrustworthy guide.

He of all people understood the potential significance of a bond between siblings. Even if this wasn't quite that, it was something, and the moment deserved its due.

On the other hand, they were standing in the middle of the residence of what was obviously the kind of family that gave everyone in the Imperium their terrible reputations for outright despicability and evil so obvious it was practically gauche. While there was probably a servant on the way to inform someone that at least one unwelcome intruder was in the house. A house where there were who-knew-how-many guards, several possibly time-sensitive rescues to be conducted, and the still-looming matter of a price Zahra might not be willing to pay.

Well. He supposed he could play the insensitive arse with all that in mind. It was a role he'd had a lot of practice for. “Not that this isn't interesting." He drawled the words, inflecting them with a touch of sarcasm. “But if possible, it would be wiser to let the warm family reunions wait for later. We're on a bit of a mission here, and I think we really ought to keep moving." He let his eyes fall on Maleus. “Your mother and siblings: where are they, precisely?"

As if she were shaking off the last remnants of a dream, Zahra was jarred from her gawping stupor. “Yeah, you’re right
 of course, this can wait.” Her words sounded far too self-imposed to be for anyone else’s benefit. While she may have wanted to linger there, there was a sense that she wouldn’t know what to do with herself even if they had. A bad idea all around. She finally let go of Leon’s arm and stepped a little further in, sticking her hand out in order to pull Maleus back to his feet. He accepted it easily enough, his smile a shade softer this time. His composure read volumes; he had expected to see her, while she might have doubted he still lived.

A possibility given the Contee’s postulated cruelty.

Scratching at his neckline once more, Maleus turned to face Cyrus properly. He inclined his head towards the darkened hallway behind him, “This way. Further in. Mum’s in the furthest cell.” There was a pause, where his gaze flicked onto Corveus still standing at the rear, then traced its way to Zahra, “It’s only her and I here, though. The rest are spread out across Minrathous. Sev, he—” His words trailed off. A southern, barbaric lilt. An ugly baritone, born from the poor fishermen’s village he hailed from. No doubt a source of disappointment to his domina. He seemed to think better of it, whatever it was. From the knit of his brows, nothing good. “Ah, that’ll wait, too. Let’s go, before we have company, no?”

Corveus pushed past them into the hallway, clearly as interested in moving along as Cyrus was, flicking his wrist towards the empty sconces set against each wall, in ten foot intervals. Each one lit up, casting blue light, instead of regular, red flames. Unnatural. Enchanted, like every damn thing in the estate seemed to be. “The cell he speaks of is Yda’s chamber. Hedge-witches are far more useful when unchained, but left in the dark.” He leveled a stare in Zahra’s direction, though quickly looked away when she noticed. He tucked his hands into his sleeves, taking the first step forward, only lingering long enough to make sure that they were all moving as well.

The hallway itself was far longer than the one they’d previously walked down. The scenery, however, had changed drastically. It resembled Skyhold’s cobblestone dungeon, plain and undecorated, no longer holding any Tevinter finery. Several doors could be seen ahead, on either side. Some were merely cells, barred in iron. Zee seemed to be chewing on the inside of her mouth, mulling. Her own version of brooding. She had never been good at containing herself, though for their benefit, she was doing well not to bombard her brother with questions. Instead, she seemed intent on the flames flickering at their sides, glancing at the barred doors ahead. Focusing her efforts on the task at hand. She seemed to understand well enough how things could go if they weren’t vigilant.

Comparably, Maleus had no trouble pestering them with his own inquiries. He walked alongside Cyrus, eyes alight. His energy was palpable, and might have been contagious if it hadn’t been for unfortunate circumstances, “You’re Cyrus, aren’t you? The Lady Inquisitor’s brother? I heard from—
 well, from Corv.” He seemed somewhat abashed by the implications, casting his gaze downward, if only for a moment, “Is it true what they say? That she’s like wildfire, bravest warrior in all of Thedas, banishing demons with the flick of her wrist?”

Cyrus had the distinct feeling that Stellulam would be tripping over herself to deny basically all of that, but as it happened, she wasn't here. The temptation to allow the information to pass with a simple confirmation was almost too difficult to resist, but he could already imagine her frustration with him if he did. Besides, the truth hardly needed to be embellished. “It's not so easy as that to banish demons, for anyone." He shrugged. “But she is both extraordinarily brave and the hardest-working person I know."

He blinked, glancing at Romulus for a moment before moving his attention back to Maleus. “The Lord Inquisitor is similarly impressive, but you can ask him about that yourself."

Romulus spared Zahra's brother a glance, one that might've been annoyed, but after that his eyes remained fixed on their surroundings, clearly expecting trouble. "Or you could wait to ask until we're safely out of here."

Maleus’s countenance seemed to shift. Excited, giddy. Obviously, he’d heard a lot about them. No doubt, whispers had traveled through the grapevine, as well. Tevinter was a hub of knowledge, and information. It sifted through the marketplace, and all the spidery connections magisters possessed. The Inquisition’s deeds carried further than their mountains, most likely in their taverns, warbled from the mouths of singers and bards. Grandiose, exaggerated tales, if Maleus was anything to go by. He turned towards Romulus and seemed stifled into silence, bobbing his head in an obedient nod. If anyone understood the gravity of their situation, it was he. Perhaps most of all, given the fact that he’d lived in the estate for this long.

“I’d advise not touching the walls,” Corveus glanced at Zahra’s brother in particular, swinging his gaze back towards the lengthy hall, “and steer clear of the other cells and doors. We aren’t alone here, but they are beyond our reach.” He seemed to be cutting a clear boundary. There would be no heroics, especially if they intended to spirit Yda, and Maleus, away from this place. The likelihood of saving everyone in this place was futile, hopeless, even if they’d wanted to. The slaves did not seem as if they were treated particularly well, and from what little Cyrus knew about the Contee family, there was a good chance that they were being used for nefarious purposes, other than their subjugated duties. He did not elaborate.

Something in Cyrus rebelled against that. Both the stricture and the very idea of any efforts they should make being hopeless. He hadn't believed in hopeless, once. He wondered if he did now—his first instinct didn't seem to allow it, but perhaps, for now, he'd keep a lid on himself. The strategic thing to do was wait to act until he had all the information, knew all the whys and hows and wherefores. Even the what sort of eluded him at the moment; Corveus was hardly forthcoming about any of this.

The hallway’s grim interior did not improve at they walked. If it was at all possible, it deteriorated. Resembling closely to the catacombs they’d initially traversed, though without the repugnant smell. There was a scent, however. Coppery, stale. A mixture of plight and venerable fossils, relics long buried, and transformed to suit another purpose. The cobblestone walls gave way to old, archaic Dwarven architecture, which was unsurprising given the fact that most of Tevinter’s quarters had been built onto Dwarvish backbones, utilizing their foundation rather than starting anew. They were great innovators, in that respect.

Further in, other noises could be heard. The trickling of water, and feeble moans; hoarse, coming from a throat that may have been worn from screaming. Corveus was intent on ignoring them, leading at the front of their group, face obscured from view. Zahra’s footsteps were less assured, and she nearly walked into Leon’s back a few times. She peered through the bars of the cells as they walked passed, lips peeling from her teeth. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. There were people here, set into each of the crypts; remodeled into holding cells. Bereft of the glamour they’d left behind. Or any natural rights. From what Cyrus could see, they’d been left with a chamber pot, a bowl, and little else in the means of comfort.

Each one donned the same collar that Maleus wore, welded around their necks. Their state of health varied. It was clear, however, that they had been treated much worse. Ribs stuck out, skin stretched over like ghastly, waxen canvases. Knobby knees, grated elbows. Wrists held tight to their chests. There were elves, humans, as well as some Qunari. Some were heavily bandaged, while others were simply scarred from head to toe. They wore little more than rags, stained brown and red. The feeble torchlight made them look like specters, cradling themselves in the darkness. Their dirty faces swung to face them as they passed, watching in silence. If hope still existed in this place, it was a small, paltry thing. Easily toppled over. Those who had been moaning or quietly weeping called after them, begging for an end. To be killed. To be saved. To flee, to leave. A motley of appeals, none particularly pleasant.

For all his years in the heart of the Imperium, he had never seen anything like this. This wasn't the strategic exploitation of people as a resource, despicable but measured, considered, weighed out for maximum effect. It wasn't even garden-variety cruelty, like working one's slaves too long or being meager with their necessities when they displeased a dominus or domina. The cruelty was neither savvy nor purposeful nor on the level of ordinary malice. It was just... gratuitous. Cruelty without point or reason or even the shadow of a justification. Necessary for nothing, useful in no way. Just pain, visited upon people who had done nothing to deserve it. No one could deserve something like this.

He'd seen all kinds of cruelty in his life. Been on the receiving end of more than a bit of it. Visited more than a bit upon others, too. But this... nothing like this. This wasn't the sickness at the heart of Tevinter. His homeland, for all its faults, was not this. Cyrus swallowed back his bile, almost choking on it. Something hot and uncomfortable settled in the middle of his chest, like a little ember trying to burn its way out of him, or into his blood, or something.

The sound of someone begging for death. How many years had it been, now? The heat pricked behind his eyes. Even that was the cruelty of a moment shorter than this, one impossible choice, an abrupt end to a life that had been better than one of these. Had at least deserved to be called a life. His hands curled into fists, shaking.

Apparently, Zahra had seen enough. Perhaps, this was a breed of cruelty she hadn’t seen. Raiders weren’t known for being cordial, nor considerate, in their exploits, but no doubt this was new to her as well. Her expression darkened. She took quicker steps to catch up to Corveus, snatching onto his arm, tugging him back a few paces. “You knew about this? You allowed this?” A snarl, a tone all too familiar, one she’d taken up with Garland. It bore dangerous inflections, the type of anger that usually ended with fists.

Corveus shook her hand off, sighing harshly through his nose, “Nothing is forbidden. No one is inviolable. Not even I.” He turned once more, stalking off down the hallway.

Zahra stared after him, falling back into place. She did not chase after him, as Cyrus may have expected. Her attention focused on Maleus for a moment before she joined Cyrus at his side, mouth forming a hard line. No doubt imagining what he had gone through at their hands, with Corveus fully aware. “I want them dead. This damn family.”

Cyrus barely heard her. If there was a limit to be hit, a sort of maximal amount of horror one could take before one was simply compelled to do something about it, then he'd hit his with Corveus's easy dismissal of what was taking place here. Never mind cruel, never mind evil. That kind of coldness didn't even seem to be human. How anyone with a soul or even a working mind could just walk right past this kind of thing and simply say that it wasn't forbidden—could outright deter them from helping—was something he simply couldn't understand.

In half a dozen swift, quiet strides, Cyrus overtook Corveus, seizing him by the back of his collar and using his not-inconsiderable strength to throw him into the nearest section of solid wall. Pulling one of his swords free of its sheath, he followed, bunching the fabric at the other man's neck in his free hand and angling the end of the blade for his face. “Nothing is forbidden?" His voice cracked over his incredulity and derision, too much feeling forced into three words. “Do you have any idea what you're saying? You think we need you so badly that we'll bypass something like this without a word? Cast back through that precious information of yours, and tell me you really believe we couldn't do this without you. If you actually understand who we are, you know we'd find a way. You're looking less and less necessary by the moment, Corveus." A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth painfully tight, the edge of the sword just shy of drawing the other man's blood.

“Seems to me Maleus could lead us around just fine. And if we need your blood so badly, I think I can figure out how to make it happen." His lip curled, but the sword laying against Corveus's neck was strangely steadier than he'd expected it to be.

Those were people. People. Just like Zahra's family. Just like Milo or Leta. Just like anyone else here. Cyrus would not pass them by because some sniveling, presumptuous would-be Magister said so. Whatever else Tevinter had made him, it had not made him capable of that.

Romulus stopped a few steps behind him, barely in Cyrus's peripherals, his hand tightening around his blade's hilt. He checked behind them, keeping watch, but his eyes were just as wary of Corveus as any other threat they might encounter. If he disagreed with anything Cyrus was saying, he didn't speak up about it. Judging by how tense he was, he was bottling his own reaction and emotions to what they were seeing and hearing, and doing a better job of it than Cyrus. Still, it was obvious he was disturbed, as anyone would be.

A strangled hiss of breath exhaled from Corveus’s mouth as he was pushed up against the cobblestone wall, bricks biting into his shoulder-blades. If he had expected Cyrus’s wrath, his bubbling anger, voracious and stifling as it was, he certainly did not show it. The veneer of calm remained, as immutable as one stricken Tranquil. He even leaned forward, against the pricking end of his blade, allowing it to cut into his hollowed cheekbone. A line of sanguine slipped down his neckline, staining the white collar of his shirt. His mouth formed a line, features twisting in the flickering torchlight. He didn’t weigh much, considering how easy it was to push him to the side, held by the collar of his jacket. From this close, it was evident that he was not in the best of health either. Hollowed, nearly black eyes stared at him, “Nothing and no one.” He drew up a scar-riddled hand, criss-crossed like white and pink, puckered roots, setting it onto Cyrus’s wrist, “What do you know, Cyrus? You think this stops with them? That there have ever been boundaries here. Our cages are different, but our prisons are the same.”

Death did not frighten him. That much was painfully clear. Perhaps he yearned for it, the way he was looking at him. A silent plea, unspoken. At least they were brave enough to ask, desperate enough. He made no attempt to squirrel out of his grip. He hadn’t even tried to push the blade away. “You’re running out of time here. This place will swallow you whole if we don’t hurry. I know who you are, and what you ask is impossible. You’re good people, unsullied. But you know nothing about this place. Of my family, and the lengths they will go.” Unsullied, undefiled by things like this. His Adam's apple bobbed, inches away from the blades tip. There was no advocacy for mercy there, no exoneration for his behavior, rigid and cold as he appeared to be. Logic, however, in spades. “Do what you must.”

It was Maleus who elbowed his way to the side, collar jangling. Eyes wide as saucers, clearly having not expected this outburst. “No, no, please, ser. Stay your blade,” he was tripping over his words, hands held out, head bent, eyes averted, “We need him. Had he not
 you wouldn’t have been able to
” A plea, desperate. Jumbled as it was. He seemed to be fighting an internal struggle, wanting to pull Cyrus off, and wanting to sink to his knees like an obedient servant. “Let him go.”

Zahra had stopped beside Romulus, chewing on the situation in silence. By her mild-mannered reaction, she didn’t seem all that concerned about Corveus’s welfare. She’d said as much, though it hadn’t been clear if the lordling was included in those she wished to see dead. She cleared her throat, however reluctantly. “We’d be no better, wouldn’t we? Killing someone when they’re no longer of any use.” Inflected, without a lick of chiding or judgment. She might have done the same. She might have been seconds away from it. But she hadn’t. “We’ll figure it out on the way back. Like we always do, with or without anyone’s permission.”

Had that been how he looked?

Like he was just about to carve up this man's face, without an ounce of hesitation?

Abruptly, Cyrus exhaled, pushing away from Corveus and returning the blade to his side. “I wasn't—" His teeth clicked as he forced his mouth shut, shaking his head. “We're getting these people out. If not now, then after. I don't care what your family's like." His free hand clenched, confusion and shame and something else welling in him. Frustration. The sense that he wasn't understood. Maybe because he didn't understand himself.

“If you'd just bloody well tell us what the hell we're even doing, this might be easier." It came out as more of a grumbled complaint than anything, and he backed off, trying not to feel like a scolded dog when he slunk back to the end of the group.

This was why he'd gone so long without trying to be a better person than he was. Clearly he didn't have the first fucking idea what he was doing. Now complete strangers probably thought he was—he closed his eyes, waving a hand noncommittally, as if to gesture everyone forward again.

Leon caught his eyes as he moved back, laying a large hand on Cyrus's shoulder. Even reddened by the alchemy still in his system, his own seemed to convey... sympathy maybe. Or at least a lack of fault with or blame for his reaction. He looked almost like he wanted to say something, but obviously rethought it, speaking to the group instead. "Let's hurry. Time is supposedly of the essence, yes?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Rom had years of experience in concealing the way he felt about things. Tricking himself, almost, into feeling nothing at all.

He wasn't sure whether it was wise or not to call on that experience now, but he was doing it. Shutting himself down as best he could, refusing to let emotions like anger or even compassion compel him into doing anything that would jeopardize what they came here to do: rescue Zee's family. He didn't know who he was rescuing any more than these others, though, and it made it difficult for him to see why they were worth it while the unknowns were not. He didn't know Maleus any more than he knew Corveus.

This had to be done one thing at a time, or they would be overwhelmed by difficulties. That meant for the moment, they just had to keep walking. At the end of the hallway, this dungeon, they found a large set of double doors, dwarven made by their appearance, with that sort of geometrical style that wasn't uncommon to see in Minrathous. They were unlocked, for once. Possibly no one was expected to be walking around down here that didn't already belong.

On the other side they entered a fairly large antechamber, the ceiling lifting high over their heads, almost giving the sense they were entering a cave rather than another room of the Contee estate. There were even stalagmites coming up from the floor here, intermixed with the impressive stonework, like they'd entered the outskirts of a dwarven thaig in the Deep Roads or something. A staircase led down into it, old dwarven statues flanking it on either side. They passed between them, coming to stand on a circular platform at the center, like this was some sort of old town square (or circle, as it was). Other passageways nearby were blocked off by stone, and there were several sarcophagi littering the room, unopened and seemingly left there, having been brought from elsewhere. The air was cool, drafty, something that was not unwelcome.

Further in, the cavernous chamber showed signs that someone had actually been inhabiting this space. Quite some time, by the looks of it. Crooked pans and iron pots were set off to the side of a smoldering fire, burnt down to orange embers, glistening in the low light. A lean-to had been fabricated from a variety of materials. Old dresses, skirts, canvas and furs. Leftovers, cast-offs. Presumably thrown down here, instead of being tossed to the street-rats. Several lanterns had been lit here, as well. Cut into the walls, at varying intervals, casting a warm, orange glow across the stonework.

There was a familiar sound. Chains grating against each other, pulling along the furthest wall. It was clear that there was some sort of device in place to keep the prisoner here, in one place, rather than allowing them to wander around freely. The torchlight’s flame shone down on the sliver of silver worn away on the chains, eroded from being pulled back and forth. The trickle of water accompanied it, dribbling down into a small pool beside the makeshift tent. From Rom’s vantage point, a figure could be seen hunched over a large, drum-shaped mortar. Pestle in hand, rhythmically grinding. It, too, echoed.

Scratching.

A woman, clearly. Aged. Her features lit up as soon as the lantern-light danced across her. Zee, and her brother, had taken after her. The similarities were there; from her shape of her nose to the angle of her cheekbones. Wild, unmanageable black curls had been pulled into a loose tail, set around her slender shoulders. She was thinner than Zee, possibly due to her living conditions. There was a set to her jawline, as she worked her pestle, drawing thin, bony hands into the concoction, before dipping it into a separate bowl.

For now, she didn’t seem to even notice they’d entered.

Zee tensed at his side, steps no longer careful, no longer cautious. She took a step forward, eyes squinting down into slits, as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. From the looks of it, neither Maleus nor Corveus had been here before. Her brother seemed to be just holding himself back from bouncing down the stairs, and Corveus’s eyes were raking across the chamber, searching. Lips curled, attentive to his surroundings. If he didn’t think this place safe, it probably wasn’t. “Be on guard. I’m not sure what to expect here,” his blades had already found themselves in his hands, clutched tight, “This place was out of bounds for me for a reason.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, we can hardly achieve anything if we do not continue ahead." Cyrus's patience seemed to be fraying, whatever tolerance he had for the enforced mystery being fed to them here quickly slipping from his grasp. Perhaps it was already gone, given the way he'd reacted earlier. He was certainly a much more volatile personality than Rom was; it made some sense he'd reach the end of his rope faster, without the same ability to compartmentalize and suppress his reactions to things.

He kept his eyes sharp as he stepped further into the cavern; they lingered on the woman for only a moment before sweeping across the rest. His brows knit when his attention landed on the out-of-place sarcophagi, but he didn't say anything. “Besides, if that's who I think it is, we don't really have any choice but to—"

A soft sound, almost too difficult to hear over his words, halted his speech. It was a slight grating, like slate tiles scraping against one another, followed by a soft click. Cyrus grimaced. “—move. I suggest arming yourselves if you haven't already. Something will happen just about as soon as I take my foot off this panel, I think. Let me know when you're all ready." He took his own advice, redrawing his swords, clearly trying to decide where the threat was most likely to come from.

Wordlessly Rom drew his blade again, stepping away from the group slightly to improve their spacing somewhat. It was difficult to prepare for all possibilities, but somehow he didn't think bunching up would be the correct move.

Leon moved to the other side; from the direction of his eyes, he was at least somewhat concerned that something might happen to the oblivious woman, and was shifting so as to put himself between her and whatever it turned out to be. When he reached the position he wanted, he glanced back at Cyrus and nodded, just once.

A concussive wave rattled the cavern as soon Cyrus’s foot lifted way from the impressed floor-plate. Stalagmites shook overhead, rocks hailing down and skittering into the void of darkness at their sides, crashing far below. An addition, no doubt. One designed to keep prying eyes away from Contee business, should anyone be foolish enough to skulk this far. A dangerous countermeasure, if the tremor was anything to go by. Only then did the woman’s head snap up, eyes wide. Surprised. Her bowls clattered, spilling their contents onto the cobblestones, rolling away from her. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t be heard over the sound of rattling stones, as if the ground was shifting in an angry swell.

The wild, shaking had broken up into intervals. It seemed as if it was coming from one of the archways, blockaded by more stone. Perhaps, intentionally so. It sounded like fists beating against a door. Erratic, wild. An anvil being smashed with a hammer, and each time it struck, the cavern seemed to tremble. Suddenly, one of the walled in tunnels burst outward, as if the pressure had been too much for the wall to bear. Boulders and rocks bounced away, stirring up plumes of dust. It hadn’t even settled before a much larger form pushed through the opening, kicking aside the wreckage.

Golem.

A twisted version of one, seeing how differently it looked from the one Rom had recently faced. Nine feet tall, and just as angry. Luminescent blue pooled from its lips, dribbling down its stony chest and onto the cobblestones below. Lyrium. It’s arms seemed too big for its frame, hanging down, knuckles grating against the floor. Several knobs of raw lyrium had grown out from its broad shoulders, ridged down where its spine would have been. Rather than walking erect, it was perpetually hunched, like an animal. A beast. Its mouth gawped open, and it wailed; hoarse, strained, furious. There were runes on its face, extending all the way down its forearms and legs. They pulsed, spreading between the cracks of stone, like veins.

An abomination, crafted for a specific purpose. To break, to ruin. Like much of the things that resided here, a pathetic, pitiful experiment. It roared, smashed its fists into the ground, once, twice, and vaulted forward, towards the stairwell.

"Zahra! Get her out of sight, then try to find vantage!" Leon's thought process was clear: her thin little swords would do nothing to a hide made of stone, and while the her arrows wouldn't do much more, they might provide enough distraction to cover one of the others at an opportune moment. "Corveus—magic from range. Romulus, Cyrus, I need you to keep it distracted. I think I can slow it down, but not if I'm fighting it off." Zee immediately tore off towards the right, bow in hand. She’d be of little use in this fight, but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t have arrows pelting down overhead, in an attempt to distract the beast squalling below. Maleus dogged at her heels. Empty-handed as he was, even he seemed to understand how much danger they would be in if the golem rampaged in their direction.

Cyrus didn't seem to need any more instruction than that, either. It was a daunting creature, and no doubt their only real option was to avoid being hit by it, rather than hope they could weather such a blow. Perhaps between the two of them, they could. “I'll go first, I suppose." He grimaced when the golem landed, close enough to the stairwell that those still upon it were shaken hard, the ground quaking and splitting beneath them.

Pursing his lips, he produced a piercing whistle, loud enough to be heard even over the falling and settling of stone. At the same time, he strafed away from where Zee's mother was, and from the stairs where the less physically-hardy members of their party were located. If he could kite it back in his direction, Rom would have an opportunity to strike at its less-protected back half.

If the whistle wasn't enough to get its attention, the moderately-sized rock Cyrus hurled at it was—the stone broke over the golem's head, more annoyance than anything, but enough annoyance that it broke away from its former trajectory and reversed direction, lunging into a charge for him instead. Grim-faced, Cyrus held steady at his position, balance shifted onto his toes, as it hurtled towards him.

At the last possible moment, he dove away, rolling sideways and regaining his feet quickly. One of the simian stone fists crashed into the ground not a foot from him, but though the ground beneath him cracked, he kept his balance, not even trying to lash out at it with his weapons. They weren't likely to do much good until he could find a weak spot of some sort anyway. But his maneuver had forced the golem to stop, and it now struck out at him with just its arms, which it was taking his full attention merely to avoid.

Corveus had stationed himself behind one of the craggy walls, back pressed up against it. His daggers had been pushed back into his sleeves. Like Zee and the others, he’d fallen behind Leon’s commands easily, utilizing his magic when the opportunity struck. A lithic stonefist slammed into the side of the golem’s face, shattering pebbles, but doing little more than staggering it long enough for Cyrus to dive away from another of its beating fists.

Rom had sheathed his blade again as soon as the golem made its presence known, knowing that once again it would be quite useless. No more use than his mark would be, certainly. The last one hadn't gone down easy, and to be honest they were probably lucky to get away from it as well as they had. This one looked worse.

He rushed it from behind, jumping and trying to get a handhold that wouldn't bring him into contact with any lyrium, while also giving him an angle to strike. The spot he ended up in was lower than he would've liked, but there was no time to reorient. His fist glowed a bright green as he drew it back, and he lunged up to plant his hand somewhere he expected might hurt the thing. The burst of energy that came from his hand blew off slightly larger pieces of the construct, but ultimately did little more than aggravate it further. It lashed backwards with a stony elbow, catching him in the ribs and throwing him off, skidding across the floor on his back.

That might not have even been the worst thing, because a moment later, tongues of flame blossomed over the creature, the lyrium trickling down its frame burning with blue-white fire. A quick glance back confirmed the source—Leon's face was splotched red with whatever exactly it took from him to scorch the stuff, something Rom had only ever seen him do to mages. And their lyrium was all internal, in the blood.

Presumably he must be doing the same thing to its innards, because the creature recoiled away from where it was still trying to pulverize Cyrus, its step hitching before its movement halted entirely. No doubt the effect wouldn't last long; this was no mere human-sized mage. But it was still an opportunity.

“Romulus!" Cyrus, at least, seemed to have some idea of how to use it. “Let's bring it down!" They weren't simply going to be able to muscle it to the floor, but as Rom well knew, a takedown had more to do with positioning and leverage than outright strength. Between the two of them, they might just be able to manage it—and doing so would make its vulnerable areas much easier to reach with his mark.

Rom wasn't sure how realistic that was with just their manpower, but if they could apply it in the right way... he grimaced, and then started forward. "One of the legs," he suggested. "Hold it back with me." He rushed over to it, kneeling and wrapping his arm around it, bracing it against his shoulder and preparing to receive whatever force it applied against him once it regained its senses. He wasn't even sure if it was aware of what they were doing or not. If it was, they'd probably need to make a quick escape.

Cyrus did the same on the other side, close enough that Rom could hear him tsk under his breath. “Corveus! As soon as this thing snaps out of its stasis, we need you to strike it in the back with something concussive. Stonefist should do—aim high!" He expelled a breath, continuing in a softer mutter. “And hope we don't break our spines."

The golem’s agitation seemed to reach a crescendo, bugling another throaty roar, cragged limbs tensing against the force pinning it in place. There was a shiver, a convulsion, before it seemed to recover. As soon as it straightened its lyrium-riddled spine, monstrous arms raising high in the air, another stonefist smashed into its back. Hadn’t it been for Cyrus and Romulus immobilizing its legs, heavy as they were, it might have been able to compensate against its own forward momentum. But, it couldn’t. Its movements were manic, thoughtless. There was no expectation on its part, only a relentless need to crush.

One foot lifted, and it stumbled forward, falling heavily onto its chest. The ground shook, and the golem’s ragged howl echoed through the antechamber. It had landed awkwardly, with one of its arms pinioned beneath its girth. It did, however, reach forward with its free hand, trying to push itself back to its feet. Lopsided, clumsy. Drooling blue liquid from its mouth. Once grounded, its size only proved a detriment to itself.

Rom and Cyrus had to clear themselves out of the way as it fell to avoid having their arms or chests crushed. Rom rolled to the side, but Cyrus had to slip between its legs to get free, not an easy maneuver. The ground shaking made it difficult to immediately get back up, but Rom was on the golem as soon as it fell, jumping into its back and now having free rein to climb all over it. His first blast of the mark hadn't done much actual damage, but it had opened up the golem to a deeper strike.

"Get clear!" he warned, lighting up the mark and thrusting his hand as deep near the back of the golem's neck as he could. Rather than let the rift collapse and explode, he let it grow until it was momentarily stable, at which point he threw himself from the golem's back. The golem let out a low groan, the sound of it seemingly warped by the rift at the back of its neck, and pieces of it started to crack off and fly in. The others felt the pull of it, clearly, but with the warning they were able to get clear of the worst of it. The golem was not so lucky.

Stone hands and feet scrabbled along the floor, trying to gain enough purchase to tug itself away, but the rift had it clutched tightly, and with each piece of it the green glow consumed, the golem grew weaker. Larger and larger chunks flew into the void, until it broke apart entirely, swallowed by the rift, which exploded a few seconds later, letting the room fall back into silence.

The silence was broken by a laugh, bereft of all humor. Annoyed. It came from the furthest wall, near the tent, where Zee’s mother had been hiding. It belonged to a man, dressed in Tevinter finery. Familiar, if his black hair and sharp features were anything to go by. His chin was tilted towards them, sleeves pulled to his elbows. He had a hand resting on the back of Yda’s neck, keeping her from rising off her knees.

“I hate bad investments.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
For all about the situation that was still unknown to him, this could only be one person.

“You must be Faraji, then." Either instinct, habit, or some inexorable entrenched other thing had Cyrus falling back on the neutral, almost-bored tone he'd long ago learned to use with the most unpalatable of Cassius's acquaintances. The ones who came to see the dreamer-boy do his tricks, to congratulate his master on his foresight while shooting each other knowing looks. Portending his fall long before it had ever happened, for he was not altus, and rumors would occasionally whisper about what else he was not. “How kind of you, to grace us with your presence at last."

He was the closest to where the man stood, where he had Yda held, silent as she still was. He wasn't sure that was for the best. He wasn't armed any longer; he'd had to discard his blades to the floor to position himself in front of the golem in time. Even with them, he was useless at range, now, useless to act in any way but those his wit and the edge of his tongue left him. Maybe if he kept Faraji talking, he'd gain the information necessary to come up with another plan. Or enable someone else to do something properly clever and cunning. They were certainly capable.

Perhaps Zahra could simply shoot him quickly enough to end this before it began. A thin hope, but weren't they all?

Silence graced him, in return. The lordling’s eyes trailed across them, before he jerked forward, pushing Yda closer to the ground. She yelped, hands catching herself from falling on her face, pushing herself against the force. Trembling. His smirk bared his teeth, thin eyebrows drawing together, speculatively. Beckoning a response. There was a cruelty there that spoke volumes; it made sense seeing how the Contee family operated here, certainly so if he was orchestrating things from the shadows, with a smile on his face.

“Good guess,” he reflected sourly. His tone lacked the same nonchalant resonance Cyrus was capable of mustering. His timbre belonged to someone who was on the edge, teetering dangerously close. An animal backed into the corner, showing its teeth in order to frighten, to subjugate into compliance. A man who had nothing to lose. A muscle jumped along his jawline, bunching there. Molars grinding against one another, as his gaze flicked from Corveus, to Maleus, and finally: Zahra. There, it rested. Lingered, uncomfortably.

He licked his lips, and tightened his grip, causing Yda to shrink beneath him. “You shouldn’t have come here.” Unblinking, Faraji hunched down, slipping one of his hands across the older woman’s face, smearing a line of blood along her cheekbones. Rough, uncaring. Her frailty meant nothing to him, that much was clear. He jerked her to her feet and pressed her against him, slithering a hand over her mouth. She hacked and coughed, spitting red, tugging fruitlessly. He angled her in front of him, so that firing an arrow would prove too dangerous a feat. The expression on Faraji’s face darkened. Desperate. Cyrus had seen that look before. Many times. A permeating fear, oozing from the pores. One that would allow no logical thought, no quarry and certainly no mercy.

Zahra’s movements seemed wooden as she dropped her hand away from her bow’s string, arrow still poised between her fingers, mouth set into a grim line. Her breath came out in a strangled hiss, frustrated. It was clear that she wasn’t sure if loosing an arrow was such a good idea. If he moved, only a little, it would mean the difference between skewering him, or both.

“Let her go,” Corveus rounded to Leon’s side, daggers gripped tightly, “this won’t end well for you.”

Another laugh. Bitter, angry—this time, perhaps, feeling a tickle of betrayal. They were brothers, after all. It did not seem to surprise him, however, to see him here with people he did not recognize. The Game existed in Tevinter, as well. Though it was a bloodier affair. He exhaled sharply and gave his head a shake, breath puffing against the woman’s neck, “I’m afraid it won’t end well for you, either.” In one, swift motion, he hugged Yda tighter, opening his palms wide, blood pooling into small beads, small enough to sift to the side, and disappear onto the sarcophagi at their sides.

Maleus’s breath hitched, dark eyes fixed ahead of him.

The stone shifted, and crashed to the ground at their sides. Unnatural creatures. Four, in total. Skeletal hands, gripping onto the lip of the stone coffins. Their moans accompanied the cackling of their jaws, growing louder as they emerged. Corpses, in worn plates, carrying a variety of weapons. Axes, swords, a flail. Coming from their sides, in an attempt to flank.

Cyrus had never particularly needed blood magic.

It was, to his mind, a tool like any other. It, like so many things, derived its nature not from anything inherent, but from the hands of its wielder. In his rather astounding arrogance, he'd learned to regard it the same way he regarded lyrium: as the compensatory measure of a lesser mage, one who could not quite manage the outright power necessary without it. That was, in some sense, the use it was put to in the Imperium: a dark, illegal supplement, the sort of thing meant to give one Magister just enough of an edge over the other. Both blood and lyrium were external sources of power, as a Magister's use of it was rarely ever limited to their own blood.

But he'd learned it as faithfully as he'd learned the rest of what Cassius had taught him. And so he knew what Faraji's actions meant. The way he smeared blood across Yda's mouth like that—he was readying a hemorrhage spell. It would surely kill her, her blood a sacrifice to fuel further magic.

He shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, pushing off the cracked stone ground and launching himself into a sprint.

Romulus intercepted one of the skeletal figures, blocking its axe on his shield and thrusting up with his pugio, the blade connecting solidly with the undead's jaw. The bone splintered and fell away, leaving only the top portion of the face behind, though the creature didn't seem slowed by this at all. Several more blows came in, forcing him to dodge to get around to its side. Rather than swing again with his blade Romulus grappled and forced the skeleton down to the ground, spearing his blade down into the ground between ulna and radius of the axe-wielding arm. The skeleton struggled to free itself and keep striking at him, but Romulus was already lighting his marked hand, and lifting towards the back of the undead's skull.

On the other side, Leon had taken one of the skeletons to ground as well, slamming the skull against the jagged stone, uneven where the golem had landed earlier. It wasn't long before the cranial bone was shattered, just as much the work of his grip as the broken tile beneath. No doubt age had made the bones brittle.

Zahra lifted her bow in time for a flail to come smashing down, locking her in place. She took a step backwards, back bowing against the force, only long enough to snarl. Ironbark cutting against steel. It hardly rounded—a fact she quickly took advantage of. She pushed against the cackling creature, and managed to shove it closer to one of the rocky crevices, though her attention lay solely on Maleus, who seemed to be leaning forward, gravitating towards Yda and Faraji. She pushed harder, driving her shoulder into it, until the wailing skeleton’s foot found air, scrambling for purchase.

It fell into darkness, cracking against the side of the stony walls, until only the clattering of broken bones ended its inhuman howls. She had turned, hands clawing at the air, towards her brother, eyes drawn wide.

“Maleus! Maleus, no—” a strangled cry, a plea calling out from behind Cyrus’s shoulder.

Maleus’s daze had ended in a frantic, scrambling sprint towards Faraji, feet slapping hard against the cobblestones. He’d bounded down the stairs, and hardly seemed to notice that Faraji had, indeed, seen him. He was coming off from the side at an angle, but there appeared to be no way to stop his advance. No way to stop himself from hurtling forward. His momentum carried him. Wild, desperate motions, tumbling him onto the ground, before he clawed his way back to his feet and heaved himself closer, words inaudible. He, too, seemed to notice the implications, the bloody hand smearing across his mother’s lips. So long spent with those who abused those sanguine powers, how could he not?

The older woman tripped and fell, rattling the chain behind her. Thin hands began to claw at the collar of her frayed dress, scrambling at an unknown assailant. As if it were too tight, too constricting. Her eyes bulged, and something wept from the corners of her eyes. Blood. Her own. She seemed unable to draw herself back to her feet. Too weak to stand. Another line of red dribbled from the corner of her lips, and dripped off her chin. Flecks stained her knees. A violent, hacking cough seemed to take hold of her, forcing her onto her hands. Her fingers raked against the stone floor. There was a splattering noise, as blood spilled from her mouth.

With another peculiar gesture, Faraji turned towards Maleus, hands held out wide, as if to encompass them both. A laugh bubbled out. Crazed. He had not noticed Cyrus, however. Or perhaps, he did not care. He flicked his wrist once more. A ribbon of crimson pooled, congealed into something that resembled a stalagmite; though it did not remain so, the form swelled and constricted, settling into a rigid blade. An ugly tool, meant for cleaving. For raking through flesh. An ironic, destructive weapon. It tore through the air, towards Maleus.

Which one of them is to die, Cyrus?

It wasn't the same, this choice. Not the same as that one. He knew this, in the intellectual way he knew many things. But in his heart—if he had one—he felt it as a version of the same. An iteration. An echo. That moment would echo and reverberate throughout the rest of his life; he knew that now.

Him? Or her? You must decide, lest both lives be extinguished.

The last time, the moment was deliberate, and his choice was meant to be the same. He was supposed to experience every single second of indecision for the agony it was. Become keenly acquainted with the heft of holding lives in his grasp, with the terrifying weight and exhilarating power of it. This time, it was instantaneous. There was no time to deliberate, between the merits of his life and her life and Cyrus's own life, which may well hang in the balance, too. All there was time for was instinct and reaction.

Choose.

If anyone had asked him, he would have said his instincts were attuned to self-preservation before all else. He wasn't sure if it would have been a lie or not. Certainly it had been true once.

But when he chose, it was to veer into the path of the blood-spear headed for Maleus. Without weapons or a chance to block, he was helpless to do anything but throw his body between weapon and target. It hit him square on, lancing right for the center of his chestplate and colliding with a heavy impact. At first he thought that would be it—the breath was knocked from him and he skidded backwards, yet the enchanted steel protecting him held. But then the spell surged, fueled no doubt by the sick energy of Yda's death, and with a splitting screech, the armor cracked, the lash piercing it like a shell, finding yielding flesh beneath with enough force to burst out the other side.

There was a scream coming from the opposite direction. A howl. Zahra. For her. For him. Maybe. It sounded far away to his ears, as if it were echoing in a tunnel and crumbling away to nothing. Dust and ash. Further away, still.

Pain registered on a delay, whiting out his vision for what felt like long minutes. Cyrus didn't quite feel the impact of hitting the ground when his knees buckled; all he knew was that when he could see again, indistinct though it was, he did so from the floor, his head lolled to the side and Yda's slumped corpse right in the center of his field of vision. Faraji was there, too, but with no more death to fuel his spells, Cyrus knew distantly that the Magister would be little match for the others.

Unless, of course, his own death served to empower the man's magic as well.

Was he going to die?

Did he still want to?

He wondered. And then the world went dark, and he wondered no longer.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
That absolute motherfucker.. That son of a bitch. That—

The blade, sanguine, and so, so sharp, pierced through Cyrus’s chest. Ripping. Cleaving. His armor had not held as she had thought it would. It had only taken a moment, before it slid in like butter, its quarry changed. Tossing him to the ground like a doll. Lifeless. No, no. Not here, no now. Impossible.

He was simply standing. Running. And then, he was not.

The sound that ripped from Zahra’s throat sounded alien to her. Not hers. It couldn't be. Begging, pleading, frenzied. Stop, no. It changed into a savage, blood-curdling howl. Vowing destruction. A monster, a creature, sordid and twisting and so far away. Her hands could not find Faraji’s throat quick enough. The arrow fumbled from her fingers, clattering somewhere, forgotten. She didn’t remember shouldering her bow either. But she had. Her hands were empty now. Fingers clawing uselessly in the air, as she stumbled forward, cursing her clumsy legs. Jellied, weak. She could taste bile in her throat, rising up her gorge, threatening to spill as the blood had from Yda’s mouth.

Her mother lay on her side, motionless. A corpse, hunkered forward onto her face, cheek pressed against the cobblestone. Sightless eyes staring up, smeared with gore. A husk. A nothing, emptied of whatever she was. A life force feeding that fucker’s hands, his consumptive power, bleeding out from her. It was easy to put her at the back of her mind, shoving the thoughts under the rampant frenzy. Under a rug for another time, a better time. She couldn't ignore the desperation cloying its claws into her shoulders, riddling up her spine; cold, heavy. An anchor, drawing her to Cyrus’s side, where she fell to her knees, hands pushing at the weeping wound. As if she could close it with her hands, like Rom with his verdigris palm, luminescent, binding the sky free of its unholy breach.

This, this could not be.

“Kill him, dammit,” an order, unneeded. Far away. Corveus’s voice, the veneer of calm long lost. It almost sounded frantic; an edge, despairing, but everything sounded that way now. There was a blast of energy that soared past her shoulders, sweeping up her wild curls with the force. Magic. More damn magic. A manic laugh echoed off the walls, all brittle, high-pitched. Inhuman. Like those reanimated corpses. That’s what he was, what he would be. She looked up only long enough to see Faraji pinned in place, leaning heavily against the stone wall at his back, mouth bubbling, frothing. Eyes bulging in his skull, lips peeled back from crimson-stained teeth. A mixture of drool and blood, though his hand was already raising to the air, pointed at an approaching figure.

A flash of movement, hurtling in his direction.

Rom didn't intend on letting Faraji transform into anything other than the man that he was, and was on the mage as the possession began to truly take hold. In this time Faraji was vulnerable to all but the horror stricken, and very little if anything seemed to have that effect on the Lord Inquisitor. With blade and marked hand he stabbed and blasted at him, plunging the pugio into flesh as it twisted and reformed underneath the steel. His mark blew open Faraji's belly, sending a flood of innards spilling down at their feet. Again and again the blade came down, striking high, aiming for the moving target of the head and neck, cutting apart whatever the demon inside him was trying to reform and strengthen. Within seconds he was covered in blood, but showed no signs of relenting until the task was done.

Zahra’s eyes blurred, hot. She could look no longer, because her hands were slick with Cyrus’s blood, and she could do nothing to push it back in. His chest still rose and fell, but his eyes had shuttered themselves closed. The pressure, yes, important. Asala had told her so. But there was so much of it. Pooling between her fingers, onto her knuckles, onto the cobblestones, blooming outward, not in. She clamped her hands there, seeking to prove with touch, what she did not want to believe with sight. Dammit, dammit—

Her mouth worked, words babbling out. Promises, curses, appeals. To who, to what? Wake up, wake up, wake up.

Someone hunkered down on the opposing side, pushing her hands away from the wound. Adamant. Hands she did not recognize, a stranger. An enemy.

“Don’t you fucking touch him—” it came out all wrong. A weak, breathless whimper. Angry, furious, with no direction, no target to pinion. A beast hunched over, hackles raised. It was all she could do, couldn’t she?

“Let me help him,” Corveus, again. He repeated himself. This time, she relented. His hands trembled, she felt it, as she took his place, pushing his palms down across the center of his sternum, dragging down along his stomach. This was not Asala’s magic, glowing cerulean, cobalt, viridian. Blood drew up in the air, into beads, threading themselves into thin lines, before finally pulling back into the wound. It congealed to a sluggish pace, rather than the chute it had been moments before. But there was so much. On his hands, on hers. His voice was louder this time, for he no longer spoke only to her, “He won’t die, but he will if we don’t get him out now.”

The antechamber shuddered in response.

Leon appeared then, grimacing down at Cyrus. His eyes were still reddened from whatever alchemy fueled his fights, but clearly nevertheless aware of what was going on. Hastily, he pulled his cloak off, tucking it firmly against the entry wound, one more measure against the sluggish bleeding. "Keep it like this as long as you can," he said, glancing just once at Corveus. Either he assumed he'd be obeyed or he realized he had no choice but to put his faith in it.

Whichever it was, he wasted no more time with it, lifting Cyrus from the ground and settling him as carefully as he possibly could over a shoulder. Leon was an exceptionally-tall man, it was true, but Cyrus was not short or small by any means, and he had to take a half-step backwards to stabilize himself with the other man's weight distributed so unevenly. "We need the quickest way out of here, and now. Go."

As soon as Leon swept Cyrus up on his shoulder, Zahra found her legs once more, steeling herself for the next step. The muscles worked along her jawline, eyes narrowed. She felt the last dredges of her potion wearing off. Fatigue nipped at her heels, a warning that urgency was needed, if Leon would be tied up by the weight he bore. If there were more enemies just around the bend to face, they would tear them apart, in order to crawl their way through. She would.

They would. Gladly.

Corveus took the lead, back through the door they’d come in from. This time, however, he stopped at the first cell, hands frantically patting down the cobblestones. Raking over the cracks, palms pressing down ineffectively. He was mumbling to himself, “Where the hell is it? How did he—” Zahra wanted to scream at him for stopping so abruptly. For making things harder. They didn’t have time for this, whatever this was.

Only then did one of the stones press inward, giving away under his touch. Much like the weighted plate Cyrus had stepped on, though this time no golem bugled out. The wall to the side shifted, scraped sideways, and revealed a hidden passageway that permitted two people to walk side by side. Certainly not large enough to defend themselves in. In the distance, back down the hallway they’d previously come from, a faint echo of metal grated against metal, steel joints and gruff voices; the angry howl of wolves snuffling out intruders. “Hurry, in.”

Once they entered, Corveus elbowed his way to the back and struck his hand out once more, into the darkness. He pulled something backwards—an iron lever, well-worn and in the shape of a striking serpents mouth. The wall shifted back in place, undisturbed, as if it had never been there in the first place. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and squeezed back past Leon, pausing momentarily to inspect Cyrus’s wound. When he seemed satisfied, he strode back to the forefront. Lanterns had already been lit, most likely by Faraji himself.

It made sense, how he’d managed to find them so quickly. Perhaps, he’d always known.

The fucking monster, finally dead. Just another corpse alone in the darkness. It’s what he deserved.

Zahra dogged Corveus's heels, another arrow clutched in her palm. She held her bow held at her side, once more. Just in case. Only three arrows left. She’d wasted so many against the golem in a futile attempt to distract. A lot of good that did. She wished she’d just
 if she had, if she had. But, she hadn’t. Maleus had his shoulders hunched, head lowered. He brought up the rear, watching Leon’s back intently. She had no words for him. Not yet, not now. She’d have words for Cyrus when they got out of there, alive. He’d wake up, say something smarmy and she’d make him promise never to do something so stupid, so selfless.

The passageway wound, with no discernible direction. It stretched into a flight of stairs, and deposited them back into the estate, into another long hallway. Decorated, gaudy, carpeted. Seeing how there were no corpses here, they’d appeared in another portion of the household. Fortunately, this one appeared remote, empty. No matter how hard she strained her ears, she couldn’t hear any voices coming through any of the doorways. No servants, no thorns in their arses. Corveus gestured towards the other end of the hall, and started down it. “We’re close, now. Keep down this way, and we’ll come to the lounge. Slip out the way we came.”

Zahra had long given up thinking that things would go smoothly. That they would simply walk out of here, free from danger. It never happened that way. Not when people like this were involved. She almost laughed when she heard footsteps stomping down towards them, at the opposite end of the hall. Three men, armed much the same as the guards they’d already faced. Swords and plate, youthful faces eager, pining for blood. She couldn’t understand their words; a babble of rolling syllables. But she understood their laughter, and hated them for it. They advanced, whooping.

In one smooth movement, she drew back the string of her bow against her cheekbone, loosing the arrow. It whistled through the air, and found its mark, biting into the nearest man’s throat, sending him tumbling in a gurgling mess on the floor, hands clawing at the feathered bit that stuck out in front of him.

Leon made a discontent sound; it was clear enough that he wasn't going to aggressively strike at the soldiers, given that he was carrying Cyrus. It would perhaps be a mistake to assume he was completely incapable of it, though, even burdened down by the weight of another person.

Rom took the initiative instead, racing forward to outpace the others and reach them first. The guards had stopped laughing after one of them had been swiftly killed, and charged back. His marked hand began to glow under his shield as he reached them, and he drew back for a punch. He flowed around the first sword to swing his way, his shield rising and cutting across the jaw of the attacker, the mark bursting with energy as he did so. Violently the man's head was wrenched sideways, throwing him against the wall, dazing the other as well. Rom stepped forward at him, finding a gap in the plate with his blade, withdrawing it covered in red.

Rom caught the second guard's wrist while the dazed first tried to make a strike on his back. Twisting around, he pulled the guard in front of him, letting the blade fall down into the base of his neck and sink deep, the wound spurting backwards. Rom threw the body aside, taking the lodged sword with it, and he stepped forward into the opening of the disarmed man, jabbing with his shield into his temple. His head was thrown back, exposing the neck, and Rom slashed cleanly across it, dropping him. Youthful faces were now bloodied, laughter turned to choked gurgles and then silence.

It felt good to see them that way—corpses, tangled in a heap. Discarded. Finished. Deserving every bit of Rom’s brutality and more, if time allowed. It did not. These thoughts no longer frightened her. They were age-old recollections, revisited when circumstances turned sour. When there were hurts beating painfully in her chest. She wasn’t sure what to do with it. Zahra’s lips peeled back into something that felt less and less like a grin, and more like scowl.

“Out through that door,” Corveus’s instruction bleated through her thoughts, forcing her legs back into movement. She brought up the rear with Maleus, tight-lipped, silent as the last gurgling breaths of the lads they left in the hallway. Dead, gone. A smear on the Contee household. She gripped her bow tight in her hand, and exhaled sharply through her nose, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that they weren’t being followed. Her free hand closed into a tight fist, fingernails cutting into her palm. It felt good, a distraction.

It seemed as if Maleus wanted to break the silence between them, the way his jawline bunched, but the sound of their footsteps were loud enough.

They needed to be free of this place.

The lordling led from the front with Rom at his side, whispering directions of where they had to go next. He occasionally held a hand up, indicating that they should halt, while he strained his ears, leaning slightly into the next hallway. Urgent as they were, he never waited too long before beckoning them forward. He hadn’t been wrong. A few minutes stride, and they reached the lounging area, the same as it had always been. Cold, and empty. Fortunately, entirely vacant. There were no guards here, nor any unwelcome surprises. He pressed his bare hand up against the interior plate, and the magical inner workings shifted the doors wide, allowing them to slip back through the shrubbery leading to the hidden passageway.

Only when they were considerably safer, splashing through water, into the catacombs, did Zahra break the silence, “He’s going to be fine, isn’t he?” She didn’t like the sound of her voice, how weak it was, pleading for a lie. For what she wanted to hear.

A pause, grim, “I hope you have a damn good healer.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Image

Maker, my enemies are abundant.
Many are those who rise up against me.
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me.

In the long hours of the night
When hope has abandoned me,
I will see the stars and know
Your Light remains.
-Canticle of Trials 1:1-1:2
Image

Leon flexed his hands where they gripped the fencepost, little localized aches flaring to life in his joints until he eased them again. Today, the largest practice area was filled with a constantly-rotating stream of both templars and regulars, as they pooled their knowledge of shieldwork and other defensive techniques for a joint drill. He didn't want mages throwing live bolts at anyone—not yet—but it couldn't hurt for the ordinary soldiers to be a little more prepared for it.

No doubt they'd already been taught most of this; the Lions knew it, and the Lions did the drilling. But it was one thing to hear it from a mercenary, however well-practiced, and another to hear it from someone whose job it was to fend off the magical with the mundane. Likewise, though, most of the templars had never sat in a trench or had to hack their way through all that many armored and well-armed targets, unless they had the dubious distinction of being among those who got most up-close and personal with the Reds. It would be nice if they could all take away something new, but even if all they got was a few more hours at something they already understood, well—practice made perfect.

"They've improved again," he noted, speaking to the young elf on his left. Corvin stood almost against the fence, arms crossed, observing as Donnelly, Hissrad, and the templar Leanna moved among the formation, occasionally pausing to correct an angle or the placement of someone's foot. Much as with the Templars, Leon found the continued steady improvement of the regulars to be impressive, and a sign that he'd chosen the correct officers. And certainly, not all the regulars could boast any martial training prior to the Breach, so in that sense it was quite something.

Corvin nodded, fighting down a grin that made it halfway onto his face regardless. "Of course. Can't let the templars and the scouts do everything. Encouraging a little rivalry is a good motivator, I've found."

“I know the feeling." Khari spoke up from Corvin's other side, where she was bent slightly, forearms resting on the post as she studied the movements of the soldiers, who'd paired off in striker-defender teams to try some of the moves a little more live, so to speak. She had to project a bit to be heard over the clanging of practice weapons on practice shields. “D'you ever have problems with them getting restless? We go months at a time without rotating the roster so new people get sent out to the field bases, right?"

The Irregulars at least had a semi-steady flow of work to do, and the scouts as well. But it was rare that the Inquisition mobilized all of their standing forces for anything, and it was most often the mages and the regulars that remained in Skyhold while other parties ventured forth.

"Well, sure we do. Anyone gets restless after a while. But fortunately, most of these ladies and gents aren't really the sort that intend to make a life of fighting. Or weren't, before this. If you take out all the ex-mercs and soldiers, most of them know they need to keep working if they want to keep surviving. Tends to take the edge off the impatience. What's left are professional enough to deal with it, and when it gets really bad, they know they can ask me to rotate them out somewhere with less snow for a while." Corvin shrugged. "The average fighter isn't as keen for it as you or me, Khari. Most of them are here for the cause and the wage, and as long as both seem to be on track, they're fine not getting almost-dead on a regular basis."

Leon felt a small tug at the corner of his mouth. "You make it sound as though you're prone to that restlessness though, Captain."

Corvin huffed. "You bet I am, Commander. But I can recognize when what I'm doing is important. I promise I only complain on my off hours, and not to the troops." His smile flashed teeth for half a second before receding again. "Still, uh... if you ever need an extra guy on the field, I ain't gonna say no."

"That's how you do it," said SĂ©verine, coming to join them as she set her shield down, bottom rim at her feet, hand resting on the top. "Complain all you want, so long as it goes up the chain. Never down." Her breathing was still elevated, a result of running through a few drills herself when she didn't feel the need to watch over her templars. She did still have trouble sometimes stepping back and commanding, but she was good at it when she did.

She glanced at Corvin. "Have you heard from Lia, by chance? I haven't seen her since... well." Since her father came back with the others from Minrathous was the obvious finish to the sentence.

He hummed, mouth pulling downwards. "'Heard from' is a bit too strong a term, but yes. She had some kind of argument with her dad after he got back. Been mostly sticking to a solo watch in the mountains since, but I saw her earlier. Supply run—she might still be around. I figured it might be better not to bother her, but if you need her for something—" He halted, glancing over his shoulder, then turning fully around.

"Stel? What's wrong?"

The Lady Inquisitor had indeed appeared; she was making a beeline for their small group, a piece of parchment clutched too tightly in one hand. She wasn't quite running, but it was a near thing, a few jogging steps occasionally creeping into her otherwise brisk walk. She made a clear effort to smile, first at Corvin and then at the rest of them, but it slipped off her face almost immediately. "It's Kirkwall," she breathed. "We have to help—Kirkwall's under siege."

She handed the parchment to Leon, who immediately opened it, holding it far enough away from himself that the others could all read it as well.

Estella,

Kirkwall is under attack from within. The templars have been fractured. Knight-Commander Cullen is dead, and I know not what has become of Ash. Red Templars have all quarters of the city besieged, and we can't hold them for long. I've sent word to Lucien, but your army is our best hope.

Please hurry.

"Lady Sophia?" he asked, glancing back up at Estella. She nodded quick confirmation. It made sense, but Leon wasn't familiar enough with her handwriting to know for sure.

"Shit." Corvin's face had blanched. "Mom. Nera."

"Dead..." It was SĂ©verine who said the word, barely more than a whisper, reaching halfway out like she wanted to grab the parchment but then withdrawing her hand away. "I don't—how could they... no." She shook her head, paused, and then shook it more fervently. "No. No, he can't be dead." She turned her eyes on Estella, looking hurt. "You're sure this is... no, this must be a trick. Trying to draw our forces away."

"The Dumar seal was on it, SĂ©verine." Estella said it softly. "Even if she's somehow mistaken, or even if this letter was forged by someone else, something is happening in Kirkwall. We can't afford to hedge our bets."

She was right—Leon had no doubt of it. He also suspected that the loss was personal for SĂ©verine in a way it wouldn't be for almost anyone else. Unfortunately, there wasn't currently any time to give that the consideration it deserved. "We have to act as if it's genuine," he said. "Khari—get Romulus, Ithilian, Amalia, and find Lia. Bring them all to the War Room. Captain Pavell, break up the drills and get everyone ready to move. Estella, please find Captain Aurora—and Rilien, if he's not already aware." Leon paused and took a breath, waiting for the others to acknowledge and disperse before he turned his eyes back to SĂ©verine.

"I don't need the whole explanation," he said quietly. "But I do need to know whether you're going to be able to command our templars here. Even if you discover that what the letter says is true." There were all kinds of emotional entanglement that would make that difficult or impossible. He didn't care to assume what kind it was, and he had no desire to know if she didn't wish to share. But more important still was that they go into this situation—whatever it turned out to be—with clear heads and steady hearts.

Whatever it was she felt, she quite visibly buried it on the spot, somewhere deep inside her. She'd watched the others go in silence, unable to dredge up anything to keep them in place. She drew up straighter, letting a breath pass in and out before she attempted to speak. "I'll be able, Commander." The threat of her not commanding, if indeed that was how she chose to take it, seemed to be more than enough to keep her focused. "I'll get my templars in order, and meet you in the War Room."

Though it didn't ease his reservations about this entirely, Leon nodded anyway. He believed in her ability, and if she said she could handle it, he'd believe that, too. Pausing for a moment to make sure both SĂ©verine and Corvin were able to break up the drills efficiently, he headed up towards his office first, digging in his files until he found what he was looking for—a map of Kirkwall he'd had Donnelly draw up for him. It was considerably better than the standard sort, marking out a number of hidden Darktown passages and the like. The work of someone who'd been both local to the city and accustomed to moving around in all parts of it.

With this, he made his way to the War Room, finding that Rilien, Sparrow, Estella, and Aurora were already present. Khari must still be out retrieving the others. Leon spared them all a nod and made himself busy arranging the map. Maps, plural, really, considering that there were separate sheets for each major district of Kirkwall. He doubted there would be too much they'd be able to plan at this point, but it would be worth getting everyone's initial thoughts, anyway. Going in with a few flexible preliminary options was still preferable to going in blind.

Sparrow squared off at the opposite side of the table, particularly focused on the maps dedicated to the lower parts of Kirkwall. Lowtown, Darktown. Once Rilien’s home, as far as Leon knew. She prodded her finger in the middle of the parchment, talking in low tones, swinging her head from Rilien to Aurora. Ashton was mentioned, quite a few times.The scarred woman’s expression was grimmer than usual, though it was unsurprising considering the topic at hand. Rilien took this as calmly as he took everything, hands folded into his sleeves, but the tension in the air was thick nevertheless. Aurora too appeared calm on the surface, though the rhythmic tapping of fingers along the arm held crossed belied the emotions she felt beneath.

Khari's group was next to arrive; she stepped in first, looking a bit grim but otherwise the same as ever. Romulus was first in behind her, not bothering to hide that he was troubled by the news, but unlike many of the others, he had no personal connection to the city. Lia stepped in next, appearing to not even see many of the people in the room. Clearly she was distracted, either by the news or by something else, but she visibly shook it off and peered at the maps on the table.

Ithilian wasn't recovering quickly from the injury he'd sustained in Minrathous; his severed arm was still bandaged, the end of it just visible out of his sleeve. He watched Lia as he entered, stopping next to her, but not daring to say anything while the room was still silent. Amalia looked a good deal more recovered than her counterpart, but then it would have been difficult to tell otherwise, given how many layers she was wearing.

SĂ©verine was the last inside, helmet tucked beneath her arm. She closed the door with probably more force than was warranted, large though it was, and made her way to the front of the assembled group, glancing once over at the maps. She likely knew the city inside and out, as did many of the Kirkwall residents in the room.

"Are the ships ready to transport our forces?" she asked, her face still stripped of any emotion save for a steady urgency. "We'll never make it in time on foot."

“I've sent a bird to Jader." Rilien glanced once at SĂ©verine, then addressed the room at large. “For what it is worth, I expect we will be reinforced to some degree by Orlais."

“Really?" Khari sounded skeptical, shifting her weight and raising an eyebrow at the spymaster. “Lucien's not even crowned yet, and they just had a civil war. You think they'll throw in with another armed conflict so soon?"

The tranquil inclined his head, perhaps in acknowledgment of the point. “Allow me to further specify: I believe that when the Emperor finds himself stymied by nobility inclined to wield outdated treaties and his currently provisional authority against him, he will grow frustrated enough to take matters into his own hands. I expect a few particularly loyal naval and civilian ship captains to transport the majority of the Orlesian Lions and some of Ser Lucien's personal friends to Kirkwall as soon as he can gather them." He shifted his attention to Leon. “I imagine that will factor into our strategy, eventually."

"Entry will not be straightforward," Amalia spoke into the silence that followed Rilien's words. She crossed her arms over her chest. "No doubt by this point the besieging party has raised the boom chains, meaning that access to the harbor will be difficult."

Estella nodded. "And the Wounded Coast is notoriously difficult to land on. All the shipwrecks are what gave it the name. Maybe we can get a small group into the city and make lowering the chains a priority? That would let all the boats land and give us a point to push out from." She sounded like she wasn't quite sure if it were possible, but it wasn't a bad idea if they could find a way to manage it.

Leon turned to the other Kirkwall natives in the room, knowing they could have insight that he lacked. "What do the rest of you think?"

SĂ©verine took the input quite seriously, her expression lined with hard thought. "We may not need to get into the city to get the chains down, if we can get into the Gallows instead." She pointed to the two separate towers on either side of Lowtown, where the chains were connected, as well as operated. "Controls for the chains are here and here, but if we can capture the Gallows, assuming they are in fact occupied, we might be able to just destroy the chains from the other end."

She glanced back, towards the Lord Inquisitor. "Captain Zahra's ship is still equipped with a weapon recovered from a Qunari dreadnought, correct?" Romulus nodded that it was, seeming to follow her idea. SĂ©verine tapped her finger against the outline of the Gallows fortress. "That could make us a way in, then. If the Red Templars are busy fighting elsewhere in the city, they may only have a token force manning the Gallows itself." Still, a token force of Red Templars was nothing to be scoffed at, especially in the tight quarters of a fortress interior.

"We can attempt that first," Leon agreed. "If it works, much the better. If not, we may end up doing as Estella suggests." He turned his eyes back to Amalia. "We've only been of middling effectiveness with the device thus far. Might that be something you could instruct some of our people about?"

She considered that for a moment, then nodded. "I will. I believe there is a former Hissrad among the Lions as well. I will speak to him, and we will do this." She paused. "You may wish to consider configuring additional explosives with lyrium, if you have an engineer. Cannon shells would be ineffective if hurled from a more traditional siege weapon, but it would serve to weaken the wall before using the device on it."

“I will ask Sennesìa to devise something." Rilien took the idea in stride, apparently confident that their dwarven mechanist would be capable of it.

"Then it's a plan," Leon declared, casting his eyes around the room. "I suggest you all make your preparations for departure quickly. We leave within the day."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella pushed a heavy breath through her nose. Already she was beginning to ache, perhaps more from the continued proximity of red lyrium than anything. It was in her arms especially, and oddly enough her teeth, making her jaw feel creaky and sore. Admittedly, the fighting had been rather pitched at the Gallows, even after the initial push was so successful. The time it had taken had given the remaining red templars plenty of opportunity to dig in to the more defensible areas, and trying to clear them out had not been pleasant, to say the least.

"Here." An arm appeared in her field of vision; Lucien was handing her a scrap of fabric that might once have belonged to just such a templar. It was clean, though, and wet from where he'd dipped it in the ocean. "You've blood on your face."

She glanced at him, offering a thin smile. "Thanks, Lucien." She hadn't even noticed, honestly, but it was probably better to be cautious. She didn't want to end up with an accidental case of red lyrium poisoning, after all. Carefully, Estella swiped at her face with the cloth, crouching by the edge of the water and wringing it clean before she went back a second time and did the same thing. She used the remaining water to slick her hair back, pulling stray black strands from in front of her eyes and patting them against her head. It helped her feel a little more human, at least. Less like a shambling automaton. So did Lucien's hand on her shoulder, offering a brief squeeze before it fell away.

They were waiting, now. While the Inquisition had managed to clear out the entirety of the Gallows, they'd had no luck at all in destroying the boom chains from this side. When Khari's group had gotten close enough to try, they'd found them protected by a growth of red crystals large enough to render even the non-magical in the party seriously ill. No doubt it would be fatal to stand too close for long, and it had been ruled too dangerous to even try destroying the lyrium itself.

So their options were few. No boats remained at the Gallows; all of them were harbor-side, and with the chains still up, none of the Inquisition ships were getting through either. Most of the army was still aboard, actually, unable to act without anywhere to land. Even here, where the hole in the side of the fortress had created a small place to come ashore, there wasn't near enough room for everyone. As day drew into evening, they had little choice but to wait for more information. Perhaps Lia and the others would have something they could work with.

Estella squeezed excess water out of the cloth and draped it over her neck, glancing to her left. Leon had come ashore for the rout, and now stood against the outer wall, planted on the thin strip of land between it and the sea, arms crossed and scanning for the approach of the scouts, no doubt.

Not far from where he stood, Khari was crouched by the water as well, using sand to scrub some more stubborn bits of blood and who knew what else off her gauntlets and sword. Neither would be back to pristine condition any time soon, but at least the joints and cutting edge would both remain functional. Rilien stood beside Sparrow, still as ever, with no sign of the impatience or expectancy that seemed to suffuse the air. On the other hand, Sparrow seemed intent on the stubborn, gory matter clinging to her mace, mouth pursed. Picking at whatever she could.

The caravel the scouts took to the Wounded Coast wasn't too much longer in the returning, easing in through the other impatiently waiting ships and pulling up alongside the slab of rock that they had to land on. Lia was the first one over the side, boots and pants still spattered with mud and dirt, but thankfully no blood. The elf hardly needed to get that close to be in combat, but her quiver looked to be full still as well, implying that they hadn't run into any trouble outside of the city.

Amalia followed her over, and then Ithilian. Despite the loss of his lower left arm he refused to be left behind, insisting on going with the other scouts to explore the outskirts. He didn't bother carrying a bow anymore, given the impossibility of him using it, but he did still have his knife. He required some assistance from his daughter getting down onto the rock without incident, but soon the caravel was pulling away again.

"No luck with the chain?" Lia asked, worry etched across her face.

Estella shook her head, rising from her crouch and brushing her hands off on her trousers. "Unfortunately no," she said, pursing her lips. "It's protected by a layer of red lyrium. Even if we could get close enough to try, it's too thick for any of the means at our disposal."

With a sigh, she glanced at Leon. The commander nodded and ducked back into the cannon-created entryway. "We were waiting for your report before we decided how to proceed. The others are in the mess." Everyone filed in, taking the short route to what had once been the dining hall for the rank-and-file templars here. It had been the site of a pitched battle, as the overturned tables and smears of blood on the floor would attest. But red templars didn't need to eat, and as a result, this had been one of the least-tainted rooms in the entire castle.

Someone had turned one of the tables and a pair of benches right-side-up, and there Rom and SĂ©verine already waited, Leon's maps once again laid out in front of them, along with an array of familiar wooden tokens. It was clear that this would not be a simple matter, strategically, and they needed to come up with something quickly, because there was no way anyone was swimming to shore.

SĂ©verine stood as soon as she saw them come in. Her expression was still grim, still frustrated. She hadn't found any sign of Knight-Commander Cullen in the Templar Headquarters, and while that meant his death couldn't yet be confirmed, she was clearly bothered by not knowing. No doubt also by being able to see Kirkwall without actually being able to get there and help.

"What's the situation?" she asked.

Lia took a deep breath, and began. "The Red Templars have seized all points of entry from the coast into Hightown. As far as we can tell, though, they don't have Hightown yet. There's definitely still fighting going on in there. My best guess is they established defensive positions at tighter points around the chantry building and the Viscountess's Keep. They're holding them off for now, but I can't say for how long."

"So how do we get the chains down?" Romulus asked, still seated and studying the maps. Quite the first visit to Kirkwall he was getting, as were many others. "How do we help them?"

"The way I see it, we have to go back to Stel's plan: get some people into the city, and go for the slave statue towers. They've gotta be guarded, but if we can just get one of them down, the ships could come through, and we could attack the docks in full."

"What's the status of the towers themselves, as far as you can tell?" Lucien folded his arms over his chest, studying the spot on the map where the nearest one stood. It was a familiar scene for Estella, really—still somehow more familiar than receiving such reports herself.

"Intact and working, I think." She didn't look entirely certain about that, but no doubt there had been a lot of ground to cover in a short period of time. "I don't think the Reds would want to damage them. If the towers come down, the chains would, too." Sadly, they were almost certainly out of range of any siege equipment they had on their ships. Even the Qunari cannon couldn't hope to fire that far.

"There are interesting things going on near either one, though," Lia continued. "The eastern tower isn't far from the Alienage, where there are definitely still people resisting. Safe to say the elves barricaded themselves in, as there's only one road that accesses it." As with Val Royeaux, it was meant to more easily trap them in the event that a purge needed to be carried out, but it also happened to make it a more naturally defensible position.

"And the western tower?" SĂ©verine asked. "Inside the foundry district."

"Right." Lia looked at the region of the city in question, where so many of Lowtown's residents made their living producing the goods that fueled the city's lifelines of trade. "The walls are too high there to get much of a look. But there's something happening. We didn't hear much fighting, but sometimes there would be these low booms and crashes." She shrugged, unable to comment further. "Easiest way to both of those places is through the docks, if we can get some people there without being seen. Not long until dark now."

“Well... we've got rowboats." Khari shrugged, shifting her weight. Estella could tell that she wasn't completely confident breaking into a strategic discussion of this sort, but as usual, she wasn't letting that stop her. “We couldn't send too many, obviously, in case they got spotted, but if we wanted to do this quietly, we could give it a shot."

Rilien nodded slowly. “That will need to be balanced with survivability. The Alienage is one matter, but whoever enters the Foundry District will be doing so blindly. There is a great deal of risk in that, and it will require skill to succeed." He paused, the uncanny smoothness of his face interrupted just momentarily by a small furrow in his brow. “I will go." He placed one of the bird tokens Estella knew to be his on the spot.

"You can't go alone," Estella protested immediately. She knew Rilien was subtler and more quiet than just about anyone, but if it came to a fight—she couldn't stand the thought of him facing whatever was in there alone. Even on the off-chance he was discovered. "I'll go with you, at least." He'd taught her how to move softly, and her mark was probably the single best chance of escape they had if things went really sour.

He shook his head exactly once. “No." Rilien's body language shifted just slightly; his grip on his own arms had tightened beneath his sleeves. “The danger is precisely the reason you in particular must not go."

“I’ll go with him,” Sparrow leaned heavily on her mace, both hands steepled together, chin resting atop them. Her expression softened a little, making the scar pull. She leveled Estella with a stare, and bobbed her head in a nod, straightening her posture, "Don't worry." If she went, there was no doubt she’d let anything befall Rilien, not without tearing the entire city down—even if he could fend for himself just as well. While she was not nearly as soft-treading as he was, her strength and personal involvement would make up for what she lacked.

It seemed quite unlikely that Rilien had not been expecting as much. “We will endeavor not to die." Estella recognized the dry statement as a form of humor, or whatever it was exactly that her teacher used instead.

With that worked out, it remained to decide who was going to tackle the Alienage side of things. Amalia glanced up from the map, meeting Stel's eyes as though she'd read the direction of her thoughts. "I can be part of the other group. Alone or partnered matters little; whatever you think is best."

It more or less went without saying that her usual companion-in-arms was a less obvious choice than he once would have been. Impressive as he was, Ithilian was now an elf with only one arm. Amalia clearly did not take this to disqualify him, and Estella didn't either, but if the groups were to be so small, it made sense to choose someone who could be as effective as possible at the task.

"I'll go with you." The offer came from Lia, though not without some nervousness, small hints in her voice only really perceptible to those that knew her well, as Estella did. There were several others in the room that could probably pick up on it, too. What it stemmed from was harder to say.

"You will not." That came from Ithilian. He moved his arms almost as though to cross them disapprovingly, but found himself incapable of it. His scowl grew. "I will."

Lia glanced at the others, obviously uncomfortable. "Dad..." She said the word very quietly, but still audible in the relative silence of the room. "You can't. Not like this. I know you don't want Amalia to go alone. We'll watch each other's backs." She looked at Amalia. "If that's all right with you."

Amalia took a moment to consider that. She didn't look terribly surprised by the suggestion, but then, Estella had never seen anything catch her off guard. She met Ithilian's eye first, some kind of conversation that the rest of the room couldn't follow taking place in the smallest change in their expressions. But then she turned her attention to Lia, and nodded slightly, just once.

"It is."

Well... that decided that. "Well..." Estella said into the silence. "I think that means the rest of us are going to have to wait things out on the ships. We should keep whoever plans to be in the vanguard on the same one." No doubt that would include most of the people in this room.

Ithilian didn't seem happy about it, but that was hardly a surprise. There wasn't much more to discuss, as it would be dark soon, dark enough for the boats to have a chance to slip through undetected by the Red Templars. The group began to disperse and see to whatever preparations needed to be made, though Lia asked Estella and Lucien to hold a moment.

"Some parts of Lowtown looked like they got hit pretty hard," she said, once they had a small moment of relative privacy. "I, uh... I think the barracks might not have made it. I hope the others had enough time to group together, wherever they are." It went without saying that an organized group of the Argent Lions made for a formidable opponent, one even a Red Templar army could have trouble with.

Lucien's mouth pulled to the side, but he nodded slowly. "I've no doubt Havard did whatever could be done," he said after a moment. Of course, it was still very much unknown what could have been done, or what condition any of their old friends were in. Estella felt a nervous flutter at the pit of her stomach, but she did her best to push it down. One step at a time—that was really the only option here.

Lia nodded, obviously nervous as well. "There's, uh... one other thing I wanted to ask you." She seemed to be asking it of Lucien specifically. "Can you talk to my dad while I'm gone, and... try to convince him to stay behind, once we get the chains down? He's—he's not ready to fight a battle. And he's never going to be again. I just need to know he'll be safe. He respects you, I think he'll listen. I hope he will."

He lifted a hand to rub at his short beard, frowning. "I can... make an attempt," he replied at last. "But if it's truly his desire to fight, I don't believe I'll be able to stop him. He cares about this place as much as any of us do, I think." His brows knit; the situation clearly pulled him two ways, but Estella knew well that Lucien wasn't the kind of leader who preferred to override the people he fought beside when there was disagreement.

"Okay. Thanks." The words left her in a bit of a rush, and suddenly she smiled awkwardly. "Have I mentioned how good it is to see you? Because it's really good to see you." She stretched out her arms, requesting a hug from the Emperor of Orlais. "Wish me luck?"

"The very best of luck." Lucien stepped into the hug, easily wrapping his arms around Lia. "And it's wonderful to see you again, too." He lifted one of his hands away, holding it out towards Estella, who grinned and happily stepped in as well, one arm around each of their backs.

She was still smiling when she stepped away. No doubt the battle ahead would be exceptionally difficult. But she believed more than ever that they'd succeed anyway.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The stairs leading up to Hightown had never felt so numerous.

It was understandable: though there were no live opponents to inhibit their progress, there were still wounded among them, those whose injuries slowed them down but did not halt them, and the passage itself was lined with corpses. Militia members, city guard, templars, and the occasional noble. They vastly outnumbered the red templar dead, and it was obvious to anyone with the eyes to see it. The picture presented was hardly encouraging, and the anxiety hung thick over those moving towards Hightown.

No one could say exactly what they would find there. A battle still active and bloody if they were lucky, a field of the dead and red templars aplenty if they were not. Lucien, accustomed to setting aside his emotions for the sake of making it out of battle alive, found that he simply was not equal to that task in this case; the knot of dread in his gut only tightened as they moved forward, he at the head of the formation, the Inquisition's Irregulars and a few of his Lions just behind. Ashton and the remains of the militia and guard came after, and then the rest. It was by no means an inconsiderable force, but neither had Kirkwall's been, when this all began.

He wondered what would be left when it ended. His grip on Everburn tightened.

As they neared Hightown, some of the bodies began to be more purposefully displayed. Stripped of their armor and lashed to pikes driven into the earth on either side. Lucien didn't recognize any of the faces, but it wasn't difficult to guess who they were: templars, those that had stood in the way of the red tide as it advanced. They looked to have been dead for days.

The top of the stairs came in sight, as did a row of tower shields blocking the width of the entryway, sharp spears leveled in their direction from the front ranks of red templar infantry. Lucien could hear SĂ©verine's breath leave her in a rush beside him, and all he had to do was follow her gaze to the last body on the left. Knight-Commander Cullen was stripped as the others were, secured to a more sturdy pole and displayed as a warning for all attempting to enter Hightown to see. He was covered in wounds, but his face was left untouched. Clearly they wanted him to be recognized.

"Go back the way you came, Inquisition," a voice called out from behind the row of shields. Two of them parted, letting a tall, powerfully built man in glittering armor encased in red lyrium pass through, his glowing greatsword resting upon his shoulder. His face was concealed by a full helm, but it wasn't difficult to guess who he was, either.

"Traitor," SĂ©verine hissed, the chain of her flail clinking at her side. "You die today."

Carver Hawke shook his head. "My position is superior. Turn around, go back the way you came, and we'll settle this another time, on another field. Attack, and your forces will break, just as the Queen's did."

Lucien straightened to his full height. "Your position was more superior two hours ago, and yet here we are." Without taking his hands from the hilt of his sword, he gestured behind him with his head. "The people behind me make a living beating odds like these. Lay down your arms unless you want a demonstration."

He was of two minds: desperate to push forward, all the rest of this be damned. And still, despite everything, himself: someone who knew his obligations. And one of them was to allow the opportunity for surrender. No one ever took it, but that wasn't the point. Everyone here knew what this would come to.

"Ah, I've missed you Lucien," Ashton stated, though the little laugh he gave afterward was mirthless.

In the distance, there was an almost rhythmic boom, boom. Something smashing against a solid surface repeatedly, perhaps, only audible in the tense silence before the inevitable storm here. Carver seemed to pay it no mind. "Your head will make for an excellent gift to the Elder One, Emperor."

Without warning, a volley of arrows arced over the top of the red templar line, soaring down at the Inquisition's force at close range. "Shields!" was all SĂ©verine had time to cry before the unwary were struck, a few in the front ranks going down before barriers and bulwarks could catch the rest of them. By the time the volley had passed, Carver had disappeared back behind his defensive line, spears awaiting the Inquisition's uphill charge. Another volley would be only seconds away.

And the arrows were the most dangerous part of the situation. They were only dangerous as long as the line in front remained to protect them, but considering the walled gate at the top of the staircase, the battle would be uphill in more than one sense.

There was no time to waste. Lucien charged, the enchantment on Everburn heating the edges of the blade until they were silver-white. His initial position saw him to the line first, and he swung the blade in a controlled downward arc, cleaving the wooden shaft of the pike directly in front of him. His attempt to body-check the red templar behind it only pushed the man back a step, where he braced against the next stair and held, throwing the pole away and reaching for a longsword to pair with his shield instead. To Lucien's left, another sought to take advantage of his momentary stop, a second spear seeking the weakness in his armor beneath his arm.

But Khari was already there, half a pace behind and to his left, guarding his blind spot and stepping forward to meet the spear with her sword. A quick upward stroke deflected, sending the end of the thrust harmlessly over their heads, and with a snarl, she took another step up, thrusting her heavy sword for the templar responsible. It screeched off the gorget protecting the armored man's neck, and she was forced back down the very same step when he lashed out with his shield. Holding her position by her toes, she redirected her momentum, throwing herself forward against the line once more. It yielded no further for her than it had for him, but she didn't reel backwards either.

The army as a whole smashed into the red templar line next, a sudden deafening cacophany of steel on steel erupting where so recently there had been stillness and quiet. "Push!" SĂ©verine called out, not even bothering to use her weapon and simply lowering down behind her shield and driving her legs as hard as she could into the stairs.

"Where did the knights go?" Vesryn asked, driving into the line on Lucien's other side. His own shield matched any of the red templar ones for size, but unfortunately his spear was nearly useless in such tight quarters. The red templar spearmen not in the front ranks were really the only ones that could use theirs anymore, and they stabbed back and forth, aiming for faces, throats, anywhere they could shed blood. Every few seconds another cry of pain or gurgled shout sounded out from the Inquisition ranks, while arrows flew overhead all the while, striking barriers from the mages that covered their heads.

"Oh!" Vesryn suddenly shouted. "I have an idea! Where's the Lord Inquisitor? Someone get Romulus up here!"

"Clear a path!" further back in the ranks, Estella had clearly overheard the suggestion and either understood what Vesryn was talking about or else simply decided to take on faith that the idea was a good one. Lucien heard the rustle and clank of positions being shuffled, but now his job had become holding the templars to their current positioning, and he couldn't spare much attention to it.

A pike dug in at his side, where the front and back plates of his armor joined, and he hissed as it pierced the chainmail, the force behind it far greater than most people would ever have a chance to muster. It sank a few inches into his side before he could shift away from it and retaliate, closing a hand over the pike behind the head of it and pulling with controlled force. That was not the directional force his opponent was braced against, and he tumbled forward, Everburn finding the armpit beneath his outstretched spear-arm and severing the large artery there. He dropped, only for another to fill his place within moments.

"Get down behind me!" Vesryn loudly suggested to the two Inquisitors. Both of them were much more lightly armored, and not best positioned on the front lines of a heavy infantry crush for long. When he could spare a brief moment, Vesryn looked back and down at Romulus. "We need a rift, right over there, right now!"

The Lord Inquisitor clearly wasn't so sure that was a good idea, but at the moment they didn't seem to have any others. The Inquisition's second and third ranks were being bled by the red templars, who had higher ground and frankly better organization, given that their army wasn't cobbled together from half a dozen different forces. Already the stairs underneath them were stained with a fresh coat of red. Grimacing, Romulus lit up his marked palm with a volatile energy practically bursting from within. He moved it up as though his arm was submerged underwater; Vesryn instinctively turned aside a spear that thrust for the glowing light.

With a crackling and a snap like a spark of built up static electricity, the magic flew from his hands, finding a spot in the air somewhere above the ranks of the red templars. A rift to the Fade erupted out of thin air, blindingly bright green, howling with a seeming hunger to consume everything around it. The immediate targets were the red templars, the front ranks of their archers and the back ranks of the heavy infantry holding the Inquisition back.

"Hold onto someone!" Romulus yelled. With a pulse of energy many of the red templars were pulled right off the ground and into the rift, disintegrating as they went, their corporeal forms not surviving the journey to the other side. Cries of pain and fright went up from the red templar infantry as more and more were pulled into the void, the ones at the edge scrambling to get away from its reach.

And then, finally, it stopped, collapsing in on itself until it burst outwards, leaving bits of Fade-matter raining down on their heads. Suddenly there was a relative quiet, while both sides recoiled from the raw force of the rift magic.

"Push!" SĂ©verine roared.

As one, the Inquisition pushed behind Lucien. Without their ranks of infantry behind them, the spearmen in the front couldn't possibly hold the line against the force pressing up on them. They caved and fell, toppled over by the sheer weight of the attackers, slaughtered and trampled as SĂ©verine led the way into the newly formed breach in the defenses that they couldn't fill quickly enough. They set foot in what had been the Hightown markets, stalls cleared away for space. All they could see were the rearranging red templar formations, archers trying to scramble to a safe distance, melee infantry shoving past them to try to plug the hole. But this was not a foothold the Inquisition would give up.

And they continued to push, the point of the charge flattening out and the line broadening until those that had been trapped behind the lines were able to join the fray. Lucien kept moving, knowing that to stand still now was to invite defeat once again to their doorstep. The red templar ranks, broken but not shattered, scrambled to reassemble.

"This can't be all of them," he murmured, mostly to himself. Everburn cleaved through the chestplate of a more lightly-outfitted shadow, felling her at his feet; he grimaced and took another step forward. The numbers visible were not enough to have inspired Hawke's confidence. There must be more of them occupied elsewhere. No doubt they'd be finding out soon, one way or another.

Behind him, Estella joined the fight in earnest, the bright blade of her saber glimmering in the dim illumination afforded by Hightown at night. She sought and found another templar's neck, flaying into her with a precise, ruthless slash that felled her in one, right at the tiny gap between helmet and breastplate. Beside her, Corvin pushed back another, making a charge for the Lady Inquisitor's back, sending them right into Donnelly's path. The lieutenant's shield clanged heavily against the templar's helmet, dazing him just long enough for Hissrad to finish him off.

Khari kept herself in Rilien's usual position. As shadows went, she wasn't half as quiet, but her reach and her persistence made her rather effective cover for his back. Though her strikes were fueled by controlled fury, she did not lapse into impulsiveness or impatience, keeping her momentum steady and controlled.

Further down the line, Estella's brother Cyrus clustered with some of the Inquisition's mages, running interference so that they could choose their targets more freely. They'd positioned themselves at the formation's flank, but occasionally a red templar would try to move past the main line and lay into them, to stop the flow of spells from overhead or disrupt the barriers making the archers less effective. Each time, he interceded, focused more on pushing them back than killing them, though those that fell and did not move again were in the majority.

Asala stood near the back somewhere, but her presence was no less felt. Her barriers alternated between forming in midair to counter the volleys of arrows still trickling down on then, to winking into existence in the red templar's formations, throwing them off balance and corralling them to be dealt with at the Inquisition's leisure.

Meanwhile, closer to the front, Ashton had found himself a shield and used it in tandem with his sword. The surviving guardsmen had also rallied around their captain and displayed a precise efficiency together, each covering the others' backs. At one point, when a red overreached on striking down his lieutenant, Vesper held him in place with her shield just long enough for Ashton's blade to slip between his ribs. When another red sought to avenge him, he received the rim of the lieutenants shield to the bridge of the nose for his efforts, and was felled by another guardsmen's blade to the back.

In the midst of it all, Sparrow bugled through a gaggle of reds, face contorted in teeth-baring howl. There was blood on her face, though it was difficult to tell if it was hers, or the carnage she was causing with her mace, steeling herself in place for a wild, overarching swing. She compensated her erratic swings by vaulting forward, snatching whichever part of armor she could get her hands on: the bottom of a helm, the lip of a chestplate, and bodily wrenched them to the floor for someone else to finish off. She only stopped long enough to grapple both hands on the shaft of her weapon, steeling herself against another opponent.

Zahra stood off near the back with bow in hand, hair stuck to her forehead. She remained closer to Asala and the other remaining archers, deftly loosing arrows through the crowd. The sound of hissing soared over shoulders, arrows biting into exposed, fleshy bits. Armpits, necks, knees, gauntleted fingers. Aiming mostly to hamper and debilitate, carving a way for the others to push forward, or maiming them enough for them to lose hold on their weapons, rendering them vulnerable to attack.

The red templars steadily fell back as the front line of the Inquisition carved through them. Vesryn remained in the first line, his armor nearly polished to the same sheen as Lucien's, though it too was now heavily stained with the blood of their enemies. Romulus hadn't appeared in the fighting, and while it was possible he was simply hidden from sight as seemed to be his strength, more likely he'd found a decently safe spot to catch his breath after the effort that earned them their breakthrough.

But their enemy was not finished, as was made apparent by the rumbling that came closer and closer ahead of them. "Brace!" Vesryn called, lifting his spear and trying to slow their own advance. "Knights incoming, form up!"

It seemed the red templar knights had been held back, allowing the pawns to take the brunt of the Inquisition's wrath until they fought their way into more open space. Considering that most of the red, corrupted, hulking warriors fought without much in the way of weaponry, they were perhaps better suited for a brawling melee only possible when there was actual space to disrupt a formation. They charged forward now, their lesser infantry stepping aside and following in behind them.

A volley of red lyrium shards from red templar horrors whistled in overhead, cracking and hissing as they burned through barriers more quickly than arrows could. Before the enemy knights arrived, more arrows came in from behind, cutting down Inquisition regulars and Kirkwall militia alike where they were momentarily unprotected. Archers were positioned on the rooftops above and behind them, using the slanted roofs for cover in between shots.

Just after the first volley, the knights crashed into their line from the front, some of them crushing soldiers with a single swing, ripping and tearing, grabbing people and hurling them over their shoulders to be skewered by waiting ranks of foot soldiers. Carver charged in among them, his greatsword cleaving one of SĂ©verine's templars from the neck all the way through the rib cage. Plate armor seemed to melt like butter where the blade cut.

His appearance seemed to cue one of the Inquisition's own; Leon emerged from the back ranks and put himself directly in Carver's way, strafing aside from the first massive swing of the greatsword. It cleaved into the stone street below, throwing up shards of rock and clanging loud enough to be heard even at considerable distance. The Inquisition's commander seemed rightly wary of that strength—Lucien was under the impression that his own was at something under full muster at the moment. But he could understand the move anyway: even weakened, the Seeker would be less affected by the red lyrium than most, and his skill was still well above the average soldier's. If they wanted to contain Carver's damage, someone like him was the best option for it. SĂ©verine stepped in beside him, likely having more personal reasons for wanting to engage with the red templar leader.

Lucien kept at the knights, but these foes were far slower going than the others, stronger, faster, and hardier than ordinary red templars. It felt like for every one or two he managed to fell, he found himself with another wound even in spite of maximizing the advantage of his armor—they were just that strong. It stopped none of their blows outright, and so he had to turn it to deflect, something which took far more effort and attention. Eventually he was entirely on the defensive, juggling several foes at once, but with only minimal opportunity to strike back. He'd have to rely on Khari for that.

She did her best, orbiting around him like he was her center of gravity, striking out hard when she found the opportunity but never moving too far. When things got too dicey, she retreated behind the bulwark of his defense to reset herself, then moved forward again. In this way, a few more knights met their ends, distracted by him and unable to defend against the more aggressive prong of their assault. But even her relentlessness couldn't break through the wall of them, only keep it from moving any further forward.

A heavy shard of red lyrium caught Lucien in the shoulder, denting the armor there, and he grit his teeth. "Someone take care of the archers!" he barked, more harshly than he intended.

"Get ready to climb!" a mousey voice called somehow above the din. A moment later, a barrier began to form at the base of the building. It took a few seconds to grow in size and width, while also taking on a slight pinkish hue. Not too long after it was initially summoned, a wide ramp stretched from the ground to the lip of the roofs. "Go!" Asala called again, urgency dripping from the word. It was likely she would not be able to hold it for long until her reserves gave out, or the red templars sawed it down.

Cor, Donnelly, Hissrad, and Aurora took heed, thundering up the temporary ramp to where the archers and horrors had situated themselves above the battle. Corvin hit first, being faster than either of his two compatriots, and nearly always in the front. He cut a horror's legs out from underneath her, kicking her over the side and to the street below.

Donnelly stepped in front of him in just enough time to deflect a volley from one of the others with his shield, and then sidestep to run an archer through, finding a weak point in his armor where the red lyrium crystals growing from his body had ruptured it. Hissrad's greataxe split the helmet of another, and then the skull beneath it, the Qunari not even pausing before tearing it out and slamming it into the next. Aurora weaved in between the Lions, and used the momentum she built up to drive a heavy stone sheathed fist into the midsection of an archer. The force alone was enough to bend the red templar just slight enough to set up the uppercut that came next. The moment she connected with the archer's jaw, she cast the the stonefist in earnest. It was enough force to rock him onto his heels, and then his back. It only took another stonefist to start the red templar's slide off of the roof and to the cold hard ground below.

That relieved a considerable amount of the pressure on the Inquisition's forces, but it would not help them break the line. Not directly anyway. Lucien could feel himself beginning to flag, just the first signs of fatigue that hopefully would not set in too soon. To the left, Leon landed a heavy punch to Carver's shoulder, forcing him backwards a step, but the greatsword was in the way before anything could be made of it. The commander was bleeding from somewhere, it looked like, ribbons of it trailing down his bronzed chestplate.

They needed something more, or the line of knights would simply overwhelm them. Attrition was a battle they could not win, not when their foes were so nearly tireless.

“Stellulam!" Lucien could make out Cyrus's voice from somewhere to his right. “You've got to try it, at least. We can't hold like this!" What it was wasn't immediately clear, but he seemed to be quite convinced of the fact that they needed something Estella could do.

"All right!" she called back, frustration, a touch of panic, and certainty warring for control of her tone. Lucien was suddenly aware of a high-pitched hum, not entirely unlike the sound that Romulus's mark had made, but at a different frequency.

A loud crack followed, and from behind him, a green mist spilled out onto the battlefield. The visual effect was a slight distortion, maybe, but it was the way it felt that was truly strange. Like warmth had blanketed him, seeping beneath his armor to lay comfortably next to his skin. Stranger still... the red templars within the distortion had slowed, almost like they were fighting to move through water or mud. Slow. Much slower than they had been.

"It won't last long!" Estella's voice was all urgency now. Lucien didn't need to be told twice. Temporarily abandoning his defense for more aggressive maneuvers, he slammed Everburn into the red templar making a slow-motion stab for his midsection, hewing into the unprotected space between her shoulder and neck. She fell immediately, the strange magic no longer gripping her, and Lucien moved onto the next.

He didn't know how long they had, but they had to be fast. The effect wasn't global, but if they took advantage of the area Estella had managed to cover, they could cleave right through the line of knights.

Khari kept pace beside him, wrenching the helmet off one of the larger knights and then taking a half-step back to bring her sword down, execution-style, on the back of his neck. He'd already been half-bent into an oncoming charge; he had no hope of changing what he was doing fast enough to get away. Slowly, the expressions on the faces of the reds around them began to contort into shock and surprise—perhaps if they seemed to be moving slowly to the Inquisition, then Lucien and his allies had sped up to them.

Already, the effect began to fade. Carver, on the edges of the area to begin with, broke free first, suddenly accelerating in his attempt to fend off what might have been a finishing blow from SĂ©verine. They both overbalanced; Leon beside them recovered first, but not nearly fast enough to do more than push the Red Templars' leader back another few feet. It took the others more time, but eventually the mist faded and time regained its former balance.

It hadn't been for naught, though—the Inquisition had broken through the enemy lines at several points within Estella's radius. Slowly, the breaks became wedges, the Inquisition forcing the templars into smaller pockets, more easily isolated and flanked, and the numbers ever so slowly began to swing in their favor.

Carver's next swing at SĂ©verine was caught by her shield, but the greatsword cleaved partway through it from the top, slicing into part of her arm as well. She was bleeding from multiple wounds as well, but for the moment she had Carver's sword lodged in her shield, and she used it to force it up and open him to the bash of her shoulder that followed, enough to send him stumbling back to regain his footing. They were steadily making progress now, just as the first hints of morning's light could be seen in the sky behind them.

They had pushed all the way out of the market area when a heavy, rhythmic thudding started to come closer and closer. Looking ahead, they could see a monstrous red templar, easily larger than any of the knights, with an obscene amount of red lyrium growth covering its body. A behemoth, with one arm so encased in red lyrium that it formed a great maul, wide enough to crush multiple soldiers in a single blow. The other arm ended in a two-pronged blade of red lyrium, like a twin pair of razor sharp longswords held in a single hand. It ran forward with an almost ape-like tread, shifting its gait to smash aside a group of regulars, tossing broken bodies through the air back into their comrades. The knights were emboldened, renewing the attack, and the momentum the Inquisition had built up was suddenly lost, deflated like a held breath being expelled.

"Merde." There was no avoiding that thing. Lucien had never seen anything like it; the reports from Haven didn't do it justice. Leave it to Rilien's dry narration to leave out the sheer impact of such a creature on the morale of both sides.

The only remaining wedge in the line was the one he and Khari occupied. Lucien took a hard step forward, whistling sharply and drawing the behemoth's attention. It thundered towards him, abandoning the effort of crushing regulars beneath its red lyrium cudgel. Lucien held his ground as long as he could, then abruptly strafed to the side, swinging at it with Everburn as it passed him. The hit jarred his arms, and the creature stopped more suddenly than he'd judged it capable, throwing the larger of its arms back.

The blow caught Lucien head on, lifting him from his feet and hurling him several meters away. He hit the ground heavily, rolling an additional few before coming to a stop, his sword pinned beneath his body. Unfortunately, the behemoth had followed, and now raised the maul-arm, intent on crushing him beneath it.

From Lucien's left, there was a clang—someone dropping a sword or other weapon. It was followed by a raspy yell, and Khari interceded, throwing herself at the oncoming red lyrium hammerhead as it descended. Her jump put her at the right level, and she wrapped her arms around it, her weight and momentum knocking it off its trajectory just enough. It still slammed into the ground, but it did so a few inches to the right of Lucien's shoulder, with an elf attached.

She shrieked at the impact, something crunching under the lyrium. Perhaps it was just her armor. More likely, it was both of her legs and a few other bones besides. Her grip slackened, head lolling to the side. When the behemoth lifted his weapon away, she did not move.

Lucien felt panic grip him for some amount of time he could not properly quantify. Swallowing, he pushed it down. Khari had bought him time, and he couldn't think about just what it had cost her right now, because he needed to make good use of it. Rolling to the side, he freed Everburn and pushed himself back to his feet, trying not to contemplate the mess that was her lower half right now.

The behemoth's focus was back on him, and Lucien took several large steps away from where Khari had fallen.

Others were trying to move up to support him. Vesryn visibly moved in where Khari had fallen, watching Lucien's flank, and Asala was nearby in the space behind him, likely ensuring she would be around in case a barrier was needed to save Khari's life. Or anyone else's, for that matter. Vesryn took the pressure off of Lucien by engaging the behemoth, deflecting a stab of the heavy twin blades aside with his shield and thrusting into the opening with his spear. It sank into the behemoth's thigh, but seemed to do little. The maul came back around, and Vesryn reacted with impressive speed, dropping low and bracing himself, angling his shield precisely.

It was still a nearly impossible attack to block directly, and when it bounced off the steel it sent the elf stumbling back and struggling to find his balance. A knight took advantage of that, landing a hook across the side of his helmet, a second coming down on the top of his shield. The behemoth went for the distracted opponent, throwing a downward smash of the maul in an attempt to crush him.

Before the maul could connect, a soft bluish pink barrier sprung to life in front of them. Asala had taken the step forward that Vesryn had taken back, putting her in the path of the behemoth. The improved barrier held fast against the maul, but spiderweb cracks quickly began to form across the surface. The red lyrium had to have an affect on the magic, improved as it was, and it was all she could do to jostle Vesryn out of its immediate way.

The barrier could take no more and shattered under the maul's pressure. It continued its previous trajectory, though instead of crushing Vesryn outright, it struck Asala in the head. A loud, audible crack followed soon after as one of her horns was snapped in half, gouging her shoulder from the force of the strike. Her head rocked forward and she fell backward, blood flowing from both her head and now her shoulder. She was still awake, the barrier absorbing enough of the maul's weight to not kill, but her eyes were confused and glazed over, and her body stiffened as she crumbled to the ground.

From Lucien’s peripherals, he’d seen Zahra hunching over Asala’s prone form. A hand, fluttering to a throat. Only for a moment. Her mouth twisted, sour, before she sprinted to the behemoth’s flank. More like that not, she wasn’t even aware of what she was doing. Couldn’t possibly know how to combat such a monster. Arrows cut through the air, rebounding off crimson lyrium. Ineffective. Only then did she abandon her bow, in lieu of her rapiers; a soundless howl on her lips, ducking beneath a wild swing of its arm that mussed her hair. She was not so lucky the second time, misjudging the behemoth’s unpredictable movements. It’s arm crashed down from overhead. She had no time to move.

Sparrow’s roar sounded over the din of crushing metal. The sound of crackling barrier, and the inhuman rasp of the behemoth. She charged off from the side, flanged mace dragging on the ground behind her, sparking to life. A blueish, green hue that crackled up to the steel head. The behemoth’s arm slammed against the mace, sending a shower of electricity into the air, locking them into place, instead of biting into Zahra’s skull. She held it there, but bowed backwards against the force, red lyrium biting into her shoulders, her collarbone. Drawing blood in sluggish streams. Her face turned ashen, sickly pale. Her arms trembled.

The behemoth took advantage of her weakness, lifting its arm only long enough to send her tumbling head over heels backwards, tangled into a motionless heap.

His allies were collapsing around him, unconscious or barely awake, others still in the fight but only as a matter of time. Their line was collapsing, too, the red templars regaining the ground they'd lost in the Inquisition's push into Hightown. Lucien gritted his teeth, leveling Everburn out in front of him. Prolonged exposure to the lyrium was bringing a shake to his limbs, bone-deep, robbing him of the strength he'd been fortunate enough to keep for so long.

He'd have to keep it a while longer. Lucien slid his front foot forward, preparing to charge, but just as he was shifting his weight, he heard an unexpected sound. Hoofbeats—someone was approaching on horseback.

The Emperor of Orlais had never been the sort of man who prayed often, but in that moment, he did. He willed his thoughts to whoever would listen.

Please. Let that be her.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by AugustArria
After several days and nights of chasing down her enemy, SĂ©verine was forced to return to Kirkwall empty handed.

It wasn't really a defeat; the Red Templars had escaped for the moment, but they had a giant in their ranks, and such a creature left tracks that were very difficult to disguise. Some of her most trusted troops, as well as a few scouts from the Inquisition, would track the traitors back to whatever hole they were using as a base of operations. All things considered, it was probably for the best. The army needed time to recover, and their enemy would find it exceedingly difficult to replace their numbers. After all, there weren't many templars left for Carver to draw upon.

SĂ©verine could not help but feel disappointed that he had escaped, but the battle simply hadn't presented an opportunity to kill or capture him without significant sacrifice. The cavalry charge from Sophia's Companions had effectively disrupted the enemy formation and allowed them to seize the upper hand, especially once the behemoth was turned away. But that same creature would likely have killed Sophia had SĂ©verine not broken off from her fight with Carver to help alongside Lucien. And considering that she and Leon were barely handling him as it was, it seemed unlikely either of them would have survived a one on one fight with him. So he would flee for now. She would bring him to justice eventually.

It took a great deal of self-control to let Carver go, but Sophia had to be the priority. Her future was too important. In truth, it was extremely reckless for either her or Lucien to have been on the front lines of that battle, but SĂ©verine of all people knew that they'd done so for most of their lives, and that it went hand-in-hand with who they were. Something that made it all the more painful for SĂ©verine to ask of Sophia what she had.

She led her outriders through the gates into Hightown, finding herself wearier than expected. She'd spared the time only for the healing that was required before riding out, despite the severity of her wounds, and she hadn't found much in the way of sleep after the battle either. The Red Templars did not need rest, and she could afford little when pursuing them. Dismounting, she gave the reins to a waiting stablehand, starting back towards the Keep.

No sooner had she reached the top of the stairs than she found Leon, apparently discussing something with one of the guardsmen who manned the front door. At her approach, however, he broke off the conversation and made his way to meet her.

To say he looked unwell was at this point something of an understatement; he looked rather like it was still only a couple of days after the battle, rather than nearly a week. He'd been in no shape to aid in the pursuit of Carver, having fended him off essentially alone for a significant portion of the fight. It had cost him, as the bandages visible beneath his left sleeve attested. They ran up the entire length of his arm, where there was a deep slash wound that didn't seem to be healing well at all. Perhaps because it had been infected with red lyrium. No doubt if he were anything but a Seeker, it would have slain him.

He offered a slight smile, though, surprisingly warm for an expression so thin. The rings under his eyes were several shades darker a purple, stark in the sunlight, but if he was as fatigued as they suggested, he wasn't allowing himself to show it right now, at least. "Welcome back, Captain," he said. "I take it you've a report for us."

"I do," she said, coming to a halt and managing a smile in return, more just as greeting than anything to do with the news she brought. "Yours first. How are the wounded doing? How are you doing?"

"Recovery is slow," he admitted, raising one hand, palm down, and tilting it back and forth. "On both accounts." Leon grimaced slightly, the expression still somehow retaining his characteristic good nature. "My arm's seen better days; Rilien had to retrieve a couple of red lyrium shards that had lodged in the bone. He seems to have gotten them, though—I should heal up eventually." It certainly wasn't the kind of injury normal healing could do much about until the chunks of crystal were gone, if so.

He paused, casting back over a mental accounting of the injured, no doubt. "Khari definitely endured the worst of it, I'd say. It will still be quite some time before she walks under her own power again. Everyone else is somewhere between that and already completely recovered."

She was glad to hear that Khari would walk again, at least eventually. It hardly seemed like a guarantee that she'd still have her legs, given the hit she took from the behemoth. All things considered SĂ©verine was lucky to escape with the break to her arm from blocking its blow. Khari didn't have access to the same templar magic that had helped repel it that SĂ©verine had called upon. Without it, she doubted she'd have many unbroken bones left in her body. Instead she just needed the arm set enough to heal in order to chase after her enemies.

"That's good to hear," she said, taking a second to glance up the arm Leon had injured. "I'm... holding together as well, I suppose. A bath and a bed will be welcome." She paused, growing significantly more solemn. "I'm assuming the dead have been given the proper rites by now..." Likely some of her guilt shone through. Leon would know which of the dead most concerned her, and SĂ©verine couldn't help but feel that she should've been here, paying her respects in some way other than with a futile chase after the traitors responsible.

Leon nodded, catching her solemnity like it was contagious. "The pyres went up two days ago," he said. "Though there hasn't yet been much time for proper mourning on anyone's side, given all there is to do for the recovery effort. You've not missed too much; no doubt there will be something more official when there is time enough to give it the weight it deserves." Whether he'd guessed at her thoughts or not, he seemed to be speaking to them.

She nodded back, trying to push it from her thoughts. All of it was a mess that she wasn't quite ready to deal with, but the facts of the matter were that the true templars were without a leader now, and she was the obvious candidate to step into that role. After what she'd been through with the Inquisition, and how she felt it had improved as a leader, she was ready to accept that role. Knight-Commander didn't seem as impossible a step up as it once had been.

They headed inside, winding up to the left after the first set of stairs, bypassing the throne room for the Queen's office. A pair of guards waited at the door, saluting before they opened the way. SĂ©verine was not surprised to find she was expected; they must have sent word of her approach on ahead.

Her arrival seemed to interrupt a conversation between the Queen and the Emperor, the former rising from where she was seated on the front of her desk, while the latter stood beside her. They seemed... really quite happy. SĂ©verine supposed that was a good thing, but it honestly wasn't expected. Given what she'd asked of Sophia when last she visited Kirkwall, and what Sophia had agreed to consider, SĂ©verine expected the Queen's reunion with Lucien to be rather more complex. But perhaps she was overthinking things.

"Your Excellence," she said in greeting, before she hesitated. "Er, Your Majesty—"

"Either way, it's still Sophia," she responded, her smile somewhat wry. "I'm glad you made it back safely. I didn't get the chance to properly thank you for saving my life."

SĂ©verine nodded, expecting that would be her opening. "It was an honor to fight beside you. Both of you. I'm just sorry we weren't able to capture the rest of them. The conflict has already dragged on long enough."

"And it will no doubt drag a bit longer," Lucien said, frowning. The expression proved to be quite temporary, however; the same happiness was still coming through rather clearly in the way he held himself.

Leon, at least, didn't seem to find it odd. "Still," he added, "we've clearly begun the process of turning things around. They invested a lot of their resources on this siege and takeover, and that we broke it was no doubt a heavy blow to the red templars as a whole, even before their actual casualties are factored in."

"That's accurate, yes," SĂ©verine agreed. "They made no attempts to attack us in our pursuit. It was a full retreat. I believe Carver threw everything at his disposal at us in this attack. His failure here will crack the Red Templars, but..." Her eyes fell momentarily. "The nature of their fall prevents them from surrender. Wherever they've gone, we'll need to destroy them utterly for this to be over."

"And where are they going?" Sophia asked.

"Unclear, as of now, but their tracks lead west into Orlais. With any luck they won't be foolish enough to attack anything there. Weakened as they are, I expect they'll flee to a fortified position. Given their activity in the Emerald Graves, I wouldn't be surprised if they return through there on their way to their destination. I've already sent word to our scouts there to expect them."

It would be preferable to engage them on the road somewhere if they could, but logistically it just wasn't going to be possible. Their forces moved too quickly, without little need of rest or resupply, and the Inquisition simply couldn't locate them, maneuver, and set up a proper ambush before they would be gone again. Not after having just fought a battle. As they had from the start, the Red Templars would make the end as painful for everyone else as possible.

"Good," Sophia said. "With that settled, there's something else we need to discuss. The Red Templars are defeated, but Knight-Commander Cullen is gone, and both the Templar Order and the Chantry are leaderless."

SĂ©verine nodded, feeling uneasy but still somewhat confident. "I had some time to think on this. I'm ready to step into the leadership role that is needed. I feel I've learned a great deal, from all of you, and with your help I can guide the templars forward."

Now Sophia gave her an uneasy smile. "That's good to hear, but... I have a different leadership role in mind for you. That of the Chantry, not the Templars."

The Chantry? But that meant...

Whatever confidence SĂ©verine had flooded out from under her, and her armor suddenly felt twice as heavy. She realized in a instant what Sophia had in mind, and it felt like blocking the behemoth's blow all over again. Why was it that she always prepared so diligently for one thing, only for an entirely different thing to be required of her in the end?

"Divine?" she said. Using the word aloud made it all the worse. "Me? Really? Is that...?" she wasn't sure what the best end to that question was, so she let it hang in the air, looking between them for some confirmation that such a thing was not only possible, but a good idea.

"Does it seem so preposterous?" Leon spoke from his spot on her left. His smile was uneasy, too, but something about it was different from Sophia's. "The Chantry right now... honestly, I'm of the mind that it needs someone exactly like you. Because it needs to follow exactly the trajectory that you have taken, SĂ©verine." His eyes moved away, settling on some bit of paper on the Queen's desk. He clearly wasn't really looking at it, occupied somewhere in the middle distance instead.

"It has hit a low point, lost credibility with those it most needs to serve. And nothing short of proactive, thoughtful and firm leadership will see it out of that. You've proven capable of drawing yourself out of a situation like that, and the Templars out of yet another." He squeezed his hands together behind his back, meeting her gaze again.

"You won't be alone, either," Lucien pointed out. There was nothing whatsoever uneasy about him, at least, and his smile was warm. "Seems to me you'd be starting off well, with good connections among the Templars, a friendship with your Lord Seeker—" there he nodded at Leon—"And of course a not-inconsiderable working relationship with a few of Thedas's secular governments, to say nothing of the Inquisition. All things you achieved without really thinking too much about achieving them, I suspect. There's much to recommend you."

They all made very good points, but this was not an easy thing for SĂ©verine to come to terms with. It was hard to believe that someone with a darkness in her past like herself could be a better candidate than Sophia of all people, who had stayed true to the right cause even through all that she'd been plagued with over the years. But it wouldn't be unheard of, for a Divine to ascend from her current position. She found Lucien's words most reassuring of all, the reminder that she had built some very strong and useful connections already with the people she'd be working alongside. They would strengthen both her candidacy and her ability to actually perform the duties of the office.

Her eyes met Sophia's. "This would... free you, I suppose. To choose something else." She was no fool, and it was well known besides that the Queen and the Emperor felt quite strongly about each other. It was among the greatest of things SĂ©verine had asked Sophia to give up by striving for the position of Divine.

"While that may be true," Sophia answered, "I'd like to say I didn't take it into consideration in this. I still believe you're better suited for this than I am. The Chantry doesn't need to be rescued by an outsider, it needs to be uplifted from within, by a woman who has used the opportunities it gave her to change herself and the world for the better." She smiled then, glancing briefly at Lucien before she looked back. "But you're right. I am... very much looking forward to the future now."

Even if she wasn't the best candidate, SĂ©verine would gladly take on the role to give Sophia that gift, that obvious happiness she'd fought so hard for. SĂ©verine wanted it for both of them. It couldn't be why she accepted the task, but if nothing else she was glad it would work out that way for them. "I'll need some time. To think about this, to..."

"Of course," Sophia said, nodding. "And you still have work to do with the templars, Knight-Commander. I wouldn't dare take you away from them now. When Carver Hawke and his followers are brought to justice, we'll take the next step. Not before then."

"Thank you." She glanced to her sides. "All of you. I pray I'll be worthy of the honor, and up to the challenge." Next to being pushed for Divine, being named Knight-Commander hardly seemed daunting at all.

Leon seemed to ease, brightening a bit either due to something she'd said, or perhaps just because she'd indicated she was willing to consider it, to prepare. "I've the utmost confidence," he said, inclining his head, "but you're both right. Let's see the Red Templars to their end. The rest will come in its time."

"In the meantime, I'll do what I can to settle the situation in Orlais," Lucien added. "Perhaps the ranks will stabilize a little if they sense that their leadership won't be undecided too much longer. And if you need any support when you find Carver—do write. Honestly. We're depleted after the civil war, but not so depleted we can't assist, at least."

"I'll be sure to," SĂ©verine promised. It wasn't about revenge, couldn't be, but she had to imagine few people wanted Carver brought to justice more than the ones in the room, considering what he'd attempted to do. Wherever they found him, she knew it wouldn't be easy.

But nothing had been up to this point, and they were only made stronger because of it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon nodded once, indicating that Corvin and Donnelly could leave. The guard and patrol schedules were updated, the final losses tallied, the relevant next of kin informed. The Inquisition was more or less back to ordinary function after the events at Kirkwall.

He wished he could say the same for himself. Aside from Khari and a few of those who'd sustained nearly-fatal injuries from among the regulars, Leon knew he was taking the longest to recover physically from the aftermath. Even a month gone, he still ached, and he knew without having to consult any experts that this would be a permanent condition. The result of pushing himself as hard as he'd had to to survive the fight with Carver Hawke. Leon flexed his right hand, feeling pain shoot up his forearm from his fingers, and hissed softly. Even when he relaxed, the fingers shook. He couldn't hold a quill steady for more than a half-hour at a time anymore.

All the signs pointed the same way. The constant fatigue, the loss of fine motor control. He was losing muscle mass at an alarming rate now, unable to muster the strength necessary to maintain it. His entire body felt like it was being eaten from the inside. At this point, he couldn't be sure recovery would be possible, even if some way to halt the progression of his symptoms was found. He wondered, not for the first time, if he'd be able to see this through to the end. If perhaps he'd have to keep his promise to Khari before the next year was out.

If Firstday a week from now would be his very last one.

But such thoughts were burdensome and unhelpful and so he did his best to discard them. He was due at Cyrus's for tea—a regular occurrence now. At first, it had been optimistically intended that the weekly appointments would be for progress reports on the other man's research, but when progress had proved slow, they hadn't ceased the visits, just... started talking about other things instead. Leon enjoyed them. More or less against his better instincts, Cyrus was his friend. As unwise as it was to have them anymore, he couldn't bring himself not to.

He rose slowly from his chair, pausing to make sure his legs would actually hold his weight before slowly crossing to the hook where his cloak hung, shuffling it around his shoulders with the speed and grace of a man much more ancient—which was to say almost none. He hoped that his recovery was merely slow, and that this was not his new baseline.

The winter wind hit him like a wall as he stepped out, chilling him to his core, but that wasn't anything too unusual. Less normal was the fact that he'd made it only halfway across the battlements before he had to halt, reaching out and placing a hand on one of the raised crenelations, a soft grunt escaping him as he eased some of the weight on his legs. Carver had slashed him along the outside of his thigh; that muscle was always the first one to tire, now. Leon's breath puffed out in large, uneven clouds, he swallowed back the taste of bile. His body didn't even feel like it belonged to him anymore. How long he'd taken his strength for granted. Not having it now... it was a blow to his pride as much as anything.

Funny, since he'd never really thought he had much by way of pride.

A couple soft steps could be heard padding their way up the stairs onto the wall behind him. The figure that appeared was hooded and wrapped in a heavy, thick cloak. Leon didn't need to see the man's face to know it was Romulus; he went almost nowhere without that cloak in the middle of winter, and he had rather uniquely steady movement besides. An eye appeared underneath the hood when he turned it up enough to get a look at Leon, but he was obviously shielding himself against the wind.

"I thought I'd check on you," he said, coming to a stop next to Leon. "Saw you leaving your office. Is this a bad time?" It wasn't the first time he'd come to see Leon since they returned from Kirkwall. He didn't seem to have any ulterior motive for the visits beyond simply talking. As though it was something he enjoyed practicing, even if he often struggled.

Leon tried to smile, though it looked more like a grimace than anything. With a couple deep breaths, he was able to push himself back off the crenelation and stand under his own power. "It's not the best of times," he admitted, "but you're welcome to come with me if you like. I was just heading to Cyrus's—I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you were there as well." They didn't do much but converse, and Leon was relatively sure that Cyrus and Romulus had some sort of rapport. There was respect there, at least.

Romulus nodded his agreement. For a moment it looked as though he planned to say something else, but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.

Progress across the wall was slow, due entirely to Leon's weakness, but Romulus was as steady now as he'd been on his way up the stairs, and didn't seem to mind slowing down for him, something he was grateful for. Even more helpful was the fact that nothing explicitly got asked about it. He wasn't sure he could handle giving the answers just now. No doubt Cyrus would want some kind of progress report when they arrived there anyway. Leon wouldn't begrudge him the update; it was important that he know.

He knocked only to inform his friend that he'd be entering, then did so without waiting for a response. Better, when the room's only occupant could be halfway inside his own head with whatever he was working on at the time. "Cyrus? I've brought a guest."

Cyrus did indeed look like he was partly somewhere else, but he blinked, snapping out of it more or less when Leon spoke. “Hm? Ah, Romulus. Nice to see you." He gestured at the group of chairs by the fire, then at the wall next to the door. “Cloak hooks are right there. I'll be with you in just a moment."

Snapping shut the book in his hands, he stacked it atop several others, humming thoughtfully to himself before flipping through a few of his loose parchments. One of them got a note in the corner—a series of numbers, by the look of it, but then he tucked the work and the thought both away and dropped into the chair directly across from Leon's.

Clasping his hands in front of his mouth, Cyrus tilted his head. Taking in the ways his appearance had deteriorated since the last time they spoke, no doubt. “I take it your symptoms are progressing apace."

"You guess correctly. Some of this is still the battle, but... recovering that slowly is a symptom itself, I'm sure of it." Leon had been injured enough times in the absence of healing magic—a relative luxury from his point of view—to know that this wasn't normal. Even with the magic, he was pulling himself together too slowly.

"Anything new on your end?" He knew Cyrus was working on a way to restore his own magic as well as a way to help Leon, and if only the former worked, well... that would still be enough. To have made the trip and retrieving the book worth it.

Cyrus nodded, a small smile curling his mouth. “Actually, yes. On both things. Though we'll talk about yours right now, because that's the big one."

He leaned forward in the chair, putting his elbows on his knees, and glanced between them. “I think I've discovered the crux of your problem. Remember when we discussed the spirit intervention part of the Vigil? I was collecting accounts of spirit-contact in preparation for—well, why's not important. The point is, I think you met the wrong spirit."

Leon sat back in his chair and considered it. He didn't really remember anything that had happened at the end of his Vigil, something that Cyrus knew and was apparently quite typical of the experience. "What do you mean the 'wrong spirit'? I thought all that was required was for some spirit or other to come in contact with the initiate."

Cyrus nodded. “That is all that's required, technically speaking. But different kinds of spirit have fundamentally different natures. It only makes sense that they would affect the process in different ways." He lifted his shoulders. “Bear with me, since this is only a hypothesis and I can't prove it, but I think you drew a different kind of spirit than most Seeker initiates do. All the sensible accounts I have of previous Vigils indicate that spirits of Faith were involved. Makes sense, right?"

Leon expelled a breath. "Sure, I suppose that tracks." Seekers were only ever drawn from the ranks of those who'd committed their lives to the service of the Maker. And most of the time, it took quite a lot of certainty in one's belief to make it through the training and reach the Vigil in the first place. "But you think that's not what happened in my case?"

“Precisely." Cyrus pointed over at his desk. “For accounts of what direct contact with other spirits was like, I had to go to much more dubious sources. Avvar records, cloaked in mystical language, about what their shamans do. A few historical accounts of people who allowed themselves to be temporarily possessed in battle. The personal journals of spirit healers, especially the ones who came to it outside a Circle—that sort of thing." He withdrew his hand, crossing it with his other over his chest.

“I think that when you were exposed to the Fade, it wasn't a spirit of Faith that answered. It was a spirit of Compassion. And the lingering effects of its interference are part of what made it physically impossible for you to kill someone without a dose of Reaver tonic."

That was... certainly something. He supposed it even made a certain amount of sense. Leon wasn't an expert on spirits, exactly, but of all the varieties he'd ever heard of, Compassion made the most sense as a reason he found it difficult to use lethal force. Doing so was contrary to the nature of that kind of being. Mercy was in that general family, if he recalled correctly. "But if this is a result of the Vigil after all... then it doesn't seem like there's any way to fix it. There's no going back from that process; my teachers did make that much clear, at least."

With a soft hum, Cyrus shook his head. “I don't think that's necessarily true. The issue isn't with the treatment, but the side-effects. Your Seeker talents are hardly dependent on maintaining your pacifism, as we all well know by this point." He smiled, a little wryly. “And you've been managing the side-effects rather well. The problem is that you've just been trading one inconvenience for another."

Romulus seemed to be following everything well enough, or at least as well as he could. He was also no expert on spirits or the Fade. He'd also finally managed to suppress the bit of shivering he'd been doing finally. Perhaps he should've kept his cloak on longer. "So do you have a theory then?" he asked. "Is there a way to remove the side effects?"

“Well..." Here Cyrus had the humility to look rather uncertain. “The Reaver tonic has proven effective. It's also demonstrably true that blood magic like that is more potent depending on the blood used. In theory at least, a sufficiently-potent version of it should be able to permanently suppress the Compassion problem. No repetition required." He glanced between them, clearing his throat. “Of course, when I say the 'Compassion problem,' I'm not sure exactly what degree of change would be wrought, so..."

Leon grimaced, reaching up to rub at his jaw with his left hand. He was halfway to a beard at this point; he'd have to take a razor to his face, soon, if he could get his hands to stay steady long enough. "You mean there's a chance it could do more than that?" He didn't want to waste away until his death, but he thought even less that he wanted to lose himself permanently to the same kind of brutality that overtook him when he dosed himself with the tonic. But that might all be beside the point anyway.

"And this more potent version of the tonic... what would be required to make it? I doubt even Rilien just has what we'd need sitting around in his workshop."

“High dragon blood, as it turns out. One of the strongest alchemical reagents in existence, and obviously not a simple matter to acquire. That said, if we could manage to track one down and kill it, there would be enough that Rilien and I could experiment with the formula before you had to take any actual risks." Cyrus's lips thinned. “Of course... it would be a risk. Only you're in a position to decide if it's worth pursuing. But if you want to try it, I'll do everything I can to get it right. I can't promise success, but—" He exhaled sharply. “But I'll do my best."

Leon could tell he wasn't saying that lightly. He supposed that if there was even the remotest possibility of success, Cyrus and Rilien would be able to find it. But the issue was that there were many, many ways for it to go wrong. Still, what other choice was there? He was dying, faster every day, and even if they solved the problem tomorrow, Leon had no way of knowing if his recovery would ever be complete. Holding off for too long could cripple him permanently; holding off a little longer than that would just kill him. It was a rather bleak picture.

"A high dragon..." That was no easy task, either. What would he even be risking to attempt to slay such a creature? More lives than just his, to be sure. Shaking his head, he turned to Romulus. "I'd welcome your thoughts on this, if you'd share them."

Romulus took in the information evenly, as he usually did, weighing things quietly to himself. He didn't seem to need to think on it very long, however. "I'll kill what needs to be killed if it'll help you," he said, as though the high dragon in question was a far more simple target. He wasn't really equipped for such a fight, but no doubt his mark could do some damage, even to a dragon. "I worry that it won't help you, and what we might have to lose for the chance, but... we all still need you. As the Commander, and otherwise. You're worth the risk, and I know the others will agree."

Leon considered that for a long moment. He could see the sense in it—he nearly always did, when it was Romulus's words he was examining. Still, though...

"I suppose the first thing is telling the scouts to be on the lookout for dragons, then," he said on a heavy exhale. "Absurd as it sounds to say that." With some effort, he pushed himself upright from the chair, reaching for his cloak.

"Thank you both. I'll... I'll start thinking about how we ought to approach this. In the meantime, I suppose I'll see you next week, Cyrus."

It hadn't exactly given him anything else to do at the moment, but he knew the discussion would weigh heavily in his thoughts for some time to come.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Amalia was quite used to doing this sort of work alone, or with Ithilian only. It was fortunate that they'd found assistance now, because there were many more materials to go through than usual, and much of it was simply beyond the realms of her expertise. She was no mage, and had studied relatively little of the so-called Fade and its occupants.

Still, she supposed she'd been useful, as far as translation went. Qunlat was not an easy language to learn, though she was surprised by the number of people here who had even a loose command of it. As she worked on the last stack of pages, the others rifled through what she'd already rendered in the trade tongue. There had to be something in here that would give them some idea of what Marcus's plans were. She could not abide the thought that there wasn't—that all of the sacrifice and effort of the raid had been for naught after all.

She frowned, narrowing her eyes at the page below her. "I have seen this word too many times," she said, her brows knitting. "Iina. I have translated it as 'jar,' because that is the strict meaning of the word, but in context I think it would be better if it were vessel. Qunlat lacks a term that general for storage." Which meant that iina would have been the closest thing, if Marcus were searching for a way to convey 'vessel' or 'receptacle.'

Such was the price of keeping one's notes in a language less likely to be understood by spies. Few even in the Imperium knew much of it.

Lia was not among the individuals with knowledge of Qunlat, but that hardly stopped her from trying. At the very least she could look for specific words that Amalia pointed out to her, finding repetitions of them in other documents and passing them along to help expedite the search. She was tenacious in her efforts to contribute; Lia took many things more lightly than others, but she approached this with the utmost seriousness.

"What's the significance of that, you think?" she asked, looking up from her cross-legged position on the floor, setting down the paper she was glancing over.

"Nothing good," Ithilian grumbled, leaning against the wall near the closest window. The pieces of him that were lost didn't stop him from helping with this, in a way similar to how Lia was working, though over the years he had acquired a partial knowledge of the language they were working with. He and Amalia had spent countless hours together, after all. "Might be something he was searching for. An artifact of some kind. He spent plenty of time tomb raiding."

Rilien's face remained impassive as he scanned over several more of the translated pages. “Some of these definitely pertain to blood magic as well. I am not certain if that is connected or not—he appears to have had a wide range of active projects."

“It's almost like even he wasn't sure what he was doing—the notes are scattered." Cyrus could read Qunlat, or at least enough of it to decipher the original pages. It probably didn't hurt that he'd occupied a similar position to Marcus's in Tevinter, either. Rather than sitting, he stood, several pages in his hands, and leaned back against one of the inset bookshelves. His hair was disheveled, evidence that he'd run his fingers through it many times over the course of the day. “Like he was searching for something; or trying to collect anything that might be relevant on some subject. Vessel. Vessel..." He shook his head, shuffling through a few more sheets of parchment.

"So he might have been looking for some... vessel sort of object, and he thought he was going to find it in elven ruins?" Leon looked quite wan these days, but the malady seemed to be mostly physical, whatever it was. "Does he say anything about what the vessel was for? It seems really unlikely he was after anything of purely historical or financial interest."

Amalia grimaced, barely containing the frustrated noise that threatened to escape her. Something about the trajectory of the discussion was wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew it was there anyway. Marcus wasn't the kind of person who—

She clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Power," she said flatly. "Marcus cares about nothing but power. Obtaining it, asserting it, having more of it than anyone else. It's just the kind of person he is." She knew that. Knew it with a certainty she only rarely felt about anything else.

"So this vessel thing could somehow give him more power..." Lia said, mostly to herself. "Maybe Vesryn or Harellan would know more about what he might be after? If it's something the ancient elves buried somewhere?" She obviously hadn't heard of such a thing herself, and it didn't take more than a look at the others to know that no one immediately knew of what Marcus sought.

"It doesn't make sense," Ithilian said, his voice carrying that same frustrated note. "Assuming Marcus does find what he's after, won't it just go to Corypheus? He's serving Corypheus, his Venatori followers serve him... and why is he serving him to begin with? As his general, Marcus can't rise any higher without—"

"Overthrowing him," Lia finished. "Could he be planning to do that? Overthrow Corypheus?"

Something about this line of thought must have struck Cyrus the right way, because all at once he was moving, crossing to the main table where the documents were piled and rifling through them. Translated, untranslated; it didn't seem to matter. He pulled them almost at random from other piles, creating a much smaller one and then spreading the parchments over the bare space on the table.

“Vessel, vessel... blood magic. Elven ruins, Corypheus—trying to overthrow Corypheus. What's the only way you topple someone like that? Someone with more power than you?"

“From behind." Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves.

Cyrus nodded several times, tracing his fingers down a page and then moving to another one. He seemed to be reading, but very quickly. “I don't think the vessel is a physical object. I think it's—I think Marcus is the vessel. It's a type of magic. Apostasy, something you only hear about in rumors of wilds-witches and... ancient elves."

"What is the purpose of this magic?" Amalia asked. "What is Marcus to be a vessel for?"

Cyrus frowned. “Corypheus." He let that settle for a moment, then explained. “Specifically two parts of Corypheus: his power and his consciousness. The consciousness part is the easier one: the ancient elves knew how to do it—bind a mind to either a physical object or another mind. That's the Saraya case." He pressed his lips together, shuffling through several more pages. “Unsurprisingly, Marcus is interested in blocking that. Methods of resisting the binding. The other part is power, which isn't in anything I've ever read. But if Corypheus can do it, Marcus obviously isn't going to mind."

“So Corypheus intends to share a mind and a body with Marcus, who is disinclined to accept the arrangement?" Rilien seemed to find something off about the statement, but Cyrus was already shaking his head.

“If Saraya and Ves are cohabitating, what Corypheus wants to do is evict a tenant and move in himself. No sharing involved."

"Do the notes contain any indication of how close he is to achieving this?" Leon's tone betrayed ambivalence; he obviously wasn't sure whether success on Marcus's part would be a good or bad thing for the Inquisition overall.

Amalia knew very well that success on Marcus's part was never good for anyone but Marcus. This Corypheus was indeed powerful, but any cunning in strategy seemed to be the work of his immediate underlings. Perhaps that power structure would collapse if Marcus tried to use it. His aims were certainly more occluded than wanton destruction in the name of continental rule. But she did not believe that was any reason for hope.

Much better that they kill him, and thwart both plans at the same time.

“I can't say with certainty." Cyrus grimaced, aware that this wasn't reassuring news. “These notes definitely don't have all the parts in place, but on the other hand, they may not be the latest version of his plan, and even if they were six months ago, they certainly aren't now, if he's as clever as he seems." He set the parchments back down on the table. “I can say that even here... he's fairly close. The missing pieces are important, and I wouldn't know where to find them, but I'd know where to start, which means he probably does, too."

“Then it seems our priority in this matter should once again be locating him. I will divert more agents to this purpose." Rilien apparently shared Amalia's intuition that the best thing to do was kill him as soon as possible.

Perhaps it was time that Amalia went back on the hunt, as well.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The city was abuzz with excitement, perhaps moreso than any other tourney that Marceline could remember had. Of course, this was also the first time in recent memory that the reigning Emperor was actually a chevalier himself. That, along with Orlais finally being at peace with itself had a noticeable effect on the proceedings. Even Michaël had a hop in his step, though his excitement came from more than one source. She leaned into him as they walked the white cobbled streets of the city. They, being them and the rest of the Inquisition, had arrived in Val Royeaux recently. The Inquisition obviously had garnered an invitation from the Emperor-- though the plans that they had in mind overstepped simple invitations.

The thought must have made its way onto her face, because Michaël noticed and placed a sturdy hand in the small of her back. It will be fine, the smile on his lips told her, and she was inclined to believe him. There was a lot that could go wrong, but he had faith, and she had faith in him. She returned his smile and wordlessly accepted that everything would turn out for the better. If not soon, then later. Change always took time, after all.

The tourney's events were planned to be held at a variety of locations across the city, but the main locus of activity was to be the proving grounds, an arena located deep within Val Royeaux. As she understood it, most of the area surrounding the arena was cleared to allow for the contestants to set up their tents and to provide safe storage.

Perhaps understandably, Khari was having some difficulty containing her enthusiasm. She drank in the sights like they were water, eyes unable to remain on any one thing for too long. Even the parts of Val Royeaux that were not directly involved with anything to do with the Tourney were decorated for it, bright banners and streamers advertising anything and everything that could possibly be related to the event or the influx of visitors it welcomed.

As they drew near the arena itself, her focus narrowed quite obviously to the array of canvas tents, many of them brightly-colored or striped according to the owner's lineage or allegiance. Even the well-armed Inquisition blended here, among the knights and their auxiliaries. Horses were stabled at one end of the large field about the arena, necessary as they were for the jousting portion of the Tourney.

The advance group the Inquisition had sent ahead had already prepared what would be their tent, though it lacked the obvious russet and gold, since the point was that no one was meant to identify a competitor with their organization. They'd have to see to their disguises before entering it; before they did, though, more private lodging had been arranged at the palace itself. Still, Khari had wanted the lay of the land before anything, and she studied it now with eagerness tempered by what was clearly only fully hitting her now: the sheer scale of it all.

“Somehow, this is a lot more people than I was expecting."

"Almost overwhelming, isn't it?" Leon settled a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed, probably in a way that was meant to reassure her. "It won't matter when you're in the ring, though. Then they'll all just be noise."

He let his hand drop away and addressed the group at large. "Why don't we go assume our disguises and get set up? Meet back here in an hour?" Naturally, a few of them had additional formalities to see to, Marceline among them, that would require the extra time. But it would be equally important that their competitor be allowed time to acclimate to her new surroundings before the contests began in earnest tomorrow.

Since Marceline and Michaël were sponsors of their particular contestant, they could forgo donning disguises. Instead, their time was spent handling more official business, registering and securing official lodgings. Fortunately for them, they had all of their documents and paperwork in order, and the process was relatively painless-- minus the fact that some of the papers were suspect. Eventually all the papers were signed and they were free to leave the palace and return to their tent at the proving ground.

An hour after they'd parted, the group rejoined at the same spot, this time able to head with confidence towards the tent set up for them. The custom of mask-wearing, and the tendency for masks to be so characteristic, worked in their favor, since for the humans among them at least going unrecognized was just a matter of wearing different ones than they otherwise would have. As part of Khari's false paperwork and history, Marceline had tied her to a loose edge of MichÀel's family tree, distant cousins with the surname Gérin. Given their obscurity, it wasn't at all difficult to conjure the necessary papers for a hitherto-unknown Katriane Gérin.

The Academie credentials were harder, but as long as no one looked too closely, they'd hold. They only needed to serve for the length of the Tourney, in any case. The family's masks traditionally resembled wolves, and the slate grey and gold of their colors wasn't too difficult to replicate, either, so the disguises carried the themes appropriately.

Khari herself would have to remain helmed at all times, given the vallaslin and her ears both. The t-shaped opening in her helmet allowed her to speak mostly clearly, at least. The rest of her armor was plain, taken from Inquisition stock since at least a few of the people in attendance here knew her trademark appearance quite well. The cloak must have been from elsewhere—green and gold, and made well enough to belong to wealthier nobility than she was really meant to portray.

“Okay, so. We're here. That's our tent. This is really happening." She paused. “This is really happening, right? Because it feels kind of like I'm dreaming, I've gotta say."

"Somehow I imagine Romulus looks a little more dashing in your dreams." The comment came from Vesryn, walking at the side of the group. He had the luxury of going without anything concealing his face, though he'd still altered his appearance. His normally loose hair was bound up behind him and actually braided to his head on the sides. It had a dramatic effect on his recognizability, not to mention the drab mercenary's gear he wore. It seemed unlikely anyone would pick him out as the self-proclaimed champion of the Inquisition.

"Go easy on the names," the Inquisitor advised, from Khari's side. If he had any reaction to Vesryn's jab, it was concealed by his mask, along with the rest of his face. Unlike Vesryn, Romulus was very recognizable, with facial markings of his own, and an image that had been replicated across most of Thedas by now. His role in the competition would be done in a full face mask and helmet, and his gear had been altered to also assume the mercenary look, with particular care being given to conceal his marked hand.

"I think everyone looks wonderful, for what it's worth." Their smallest elven ally behind them, Brand, looked like he was just happy to be along, but his skills with information and crowded places were bound to be valuable. He was practically invisible without any disguise at all. "A perfect... dignified shabbiness. A scrappy underdog."

"Well, this scrappy underdog thinks we should probably have this talk in our tent," Estella put in, smiling slightly underneath the half-face mask she wore. Simpler than Khari's, as she too was meant to be a mercenary here, and no Argent Lion at that. Like Romulus, she wore a heavy leather glove over her marked hand, hers without fingers.

Leon lifted the flap first, stepping inside the generically-appointed canvas shelter. "There are basic wards against sound escaping and such," he warned, "but any more than that and people might have thought we had a bit too much to hide, so do still be careful with what you say. A good eavesdropper would be able to find a way around them." He glanced once at Brand as he said it, then shrugged.

"But since this is probably the last time we'll all be in one place for a while, I think we should nail down the details of this plan. The first event on your docket is the joust, and the day after is the team round. Then you'll have a day to recover before the melee. It's a long time to maintain a cover in a situation like this, so we'll all need to stay alert and careful."

"You need not worry on our end, Michaël and I will divert any questions regarding you away," Marceline answered. She could spin a tale well enough to satisfy anyone's curiousity without delving into too many details. If not, well, then she would just have to avoid some of the more inquisitive types.

Michaël chuckled, undoubtedly already imagining her talking at length about nothing in particular. "Do not let it take up all of your focus though," he added, "I'd hate for you to catch something in the jaw because you were to busy worrying if someone saw your ears," he said with a grin.

Khari nodded as much as the helm would allow. “It's not really that part I'm worried about." She didn't elaborate though, instead walking the length of the tent once, eyes cast down at her boots. “There's still some things to decide, aren't there? I know we brought my horse down from Skyhold, but there's supposed to be someone around when I'm actually jousting, right? To help with the lances and stuff?" She pursed her lips. “And what do we know about the team round scenario? Anything? Who are the people to watch for, anyway? People set books and odds for this stuff, don't they?"

It was quite a lot of questions at once. Leon took it upon himself to tackle them.

"Such an arrangement is normal in the joust, yes. If you don't mind, I'd... like to handle that myself." His voice sounded just a bit thicker than usual, but it was subtle. He didn't elaborate on it.

Whatever caused it, Khari picked up on it, her pacing coming to a hard halt. She swallowed audibly, nodding in several quick, shallow motions.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Wouldn't want anybody else." The moment stretched for a heartbeat too long, until she forced herself to start moving again and the atmosphere settled.

The other items in the list were somewhat easier to tick off. "The team scenario won't be known in any detail until you're thrown into it. But I double-checked, and your team does have the right number of people. I should point out that magic is not expressly forbidden, though it tends to be frowned upon, and anything trademark or particularly unique should be avoided for the obvious reasons. You've also been appointed a healer for the duration, to ensure that magic worked upon you in that capacity doesn't give you an unfair advantage. But you should... take care not to injure yourself if possible."

There were a lot of reasons for that, obviously, but unfortunately the integrity of the disguise was one of them.

"As to favorites... only one of them is familiar to you—and not in a good way, unfortunately."

Khari clearly struggled for a moment to think of a chevalier she both knew and didn't like. The answer hit her like a wall; behind the helm, her mouth twisted into a scowl. “You're fucking kidding me. Him? Really? All the chevaliers in Orlais, and it really has to be Blancheflor?"

Vesryn laughed, obviously not as bothered as Khari was. "Maybe stick to the weapons when you're beating him. He's most likely to recognize you if you punch him, right?"

“Actually it was a headbutt." Khari paused, assessed the statement, and then sighed.

“But point taken."

A in no way contained grin plastered Michaël's face. "I'd say it gives you an edge, you've already drawn first blood," he noted with an accompanying chuckle.

"Welp, shall we get to some last minute prep?" He asked, cracking his knuckles.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
So far, so good.

Khari had made it through the first two rounds of jousting more or less intact. Though she'd had a couple lances broken on her, it wasn't anything that would do more than bruise, which of course wasn't the point. Really, she'd always known this was going to be her weakest event; she hadn't had all that many opportunities to practice. She could ride, of course, and she'd been working with lances to the extent she could, but Skyhold sure as shit didn't have a tilting area, and so putting all the components together was the work of a couple days in Kirkwall and last minute work yesterday.

She was lucky to have made it as far as round three, but she refused to show so poorly that she had no shot at the overall win.

Which was why, despite having a pretty good idea that she was about to get her ass handed to her by this next guy, she was still letting Leon strap her onto her horse. She had to get out there and do whatever skill or luck allowed—even if she'd watched this Caron guy wipe the floor with the last knight he'd jousted.

Her breath was shuddery; her heart unsteady in her chest. Her nerves jangled together like mangy tomcats squalling and swiping at each other in a dirty back alley, and dammit, she was going to have to do this anyway. It wasn't even the danger or the prospect of this particular defeat that was doing it. It was just the thought that she couldn't let her dream end here, like this, with a whimper instead of a bang, taken out of the competitive point totals before she'd even been allowed to do the things she was good at.

“Don't suppose anyone's got any last-minute sage wisdom, huh?" She shifted slightly in the saddle, tilting her head so the slit in her helmet allowed her to see her friends.

"Don't die," Ves suggested, and not for the first time. He'd been watching almost all of the tilts, not just Khari's, to better study her potential opponents. Or rather, to let Saraya study them, since that was where the majority of his riding skills came from. He'd been helpful thus far, for the most part.

He stepped to the other side of Khari's horse while Leon worked, giving him a pat on the neck and staring down the lane at Caron, getting ready on the other side. "And don't try to outmuscle this one. You won't. He's brute-forced his way this far, and doesn't seem to care where his shield is most of the time. If you trade body shots, he'll come out ahead. Personally, I'd aim high, and make sure my placement is perfect before worrying about power. Somewhere near the gorget." He glanced back at her. "At the very least, don't worry about him trying to do the same. A crushed arm or ribcage seems more likely."

The only trouble with that was, Khari couldn't be totally sure she had that kind of precision in her. It was exactly what was missing when she practiced the individual pieces of jousting without really being able to practice it all at once. Still, it was probably really good advice; she nodded.

“Don't die, aim better than him. Got it." She pushed a breath out between her teeth, grimacing when some of it caught in the confines of the helmet and blew back at her. She was really learning to hate this thing. Not that she had a problem with helmets generally, but the emphasis on total concealment here was not her usual reason for wearing one, and the almost complete close-in was irritating.

She shifted her left leg so Leon could adjust the straps on her shin, pulling her shield into place herself with her free hand. It was basically strapped onto her arm; one less thing to remember to grip. The downside was, Caron wasn't the only one who sort of forgot it was there sometimes.

The last few straps in place at her legs, Leon lifted the gold-and-grey striped lance near his feet up to Khari. It was one of a large number they had, since one of the acceptable ways to earn points was to succeed in splintering one on an opponent. The other, of course, was to knock them off their horse.

"He has better reach than you do," he said, patting her armored knee with one large, gloved hand. "So you're going to need timing as well as aim. One other way to go might be to try and get your lance under his. Aim for the armpit, take some force out of his hit and even the distance a little."

Stel didn't really have a lot to add to the strategy portion of the discussion, it seemed, though she did grin under her mask and pull something out from her sleeve. A handkerchief, by the look of it. Dark blue; not quite her usual indigo, but close enough that Khari could identify the object as a favor. Reaching up, Stel tied it around Khari's right wrist, winking under her mask.

"Good luck, my friend."

Khari had only half a second to grin back before the horn sounded, signaling that it was time for the riders to line up. She forced out another exhale in a shortened burst, nodding and swallowing. Like some kind of conditioned response, the sound had pulled her head back into the game, and further from her friends as a consequence. She waited for everyone to step clear; only Leon would remain in the list area itself, since he was serving as squire for this exercise.

The horse beneath her moved smoothly with the direction of her knees alone, approaching the near end of the list, which consisted of several even stakes driven in a straight line into the ground, their tips painted chevalier red and yellow. At the other end she could see Caron—he really did look quite large. His horse was tall and sturdy, too, something which only increased his advantage. Khari, being small and swifter than she was strong, had opted for a lance on the short end of things, on the rationale that it was easier for her to handle and quicker to adjust. Caron had obviously taken the other approach. His light blue and white one looked heavy, and a good two feet longer than hers at least.

The crowd applauded, as was customary at this point. Both riders swung their horses so as to see the Emperor's box, where Lucien did indeed sit, observing the proceedings. Not for the first time, Khari wondered if he might not be in the least suspicious that she'd do something like this. It was probably good that there wasn't a lot of time to think about it. The riders bowed in their seats, then wheeled around, arranging themselves on their ends. Khari was closer to the audience on Lucien's side; Caron rode the opposing side.

She shifted, tensing in her seat and leaning her weight just a little forward, stepping harder into the stirrups and readying her shield. Her right hand squeezed the handle of her lance; she tried to time her breath to coincide with the start signal.

Exhale.

Inhale.

The horn sounded again, and with a sharp “hya!" she urged her horse forward. Already keyed up by her own nerves, he leaped into a gallop immediately—though not as smoothly as she would have liked. It took her a second to feel that her shield was in the right spot and start bringing her lance around.

Too late; she nearly bit her tongue with the force at which Caron's lance collided with her shield. The sharp sting of pain radiated up her forearm to her shoulder; Khari grit her teeth as the joint wrenched, nearly leaving the socket. She angled the shield just fast enough to stop his lance from shattering; her own hit only air as they passed. She was forced into a backwards lean, but kept her seat, finishing at a canter and then turning her horse back around to reset at her end. The crowd's volume had swelled momentarily at the hit, but died back down quickly when neither rider earned the point.

Her shield arm was still feeling the force of that hit; Ves hadn't been wrong about the force Caron could apply. Khari flexed her fingers and hoped it didn't go numb. She approached Leon a bit shaken—she'd felt air between her seat and the saddle on that one.

"You all right?" Leon spoke quietly, re-fastening a few things that had come loose with the sheer force of the pass. He looked up at her, though, letting his hands work automatically while he studied her with what must have been a furrowed brow under his mask. "You look a little stunned. Well, ah—" he gestured broadly to indicate her body language, rather than her facial expression.

“Yeah, I'm—I'm okay." Khari had to pause for breath midway through the sentence, grunting slightly when her effort to lift her shield back up into the ready position immediately failed. Sure enough, the limb was going insensate. Handing her lance to Leon, she used her free hand to loosen the straps and shift them up somewhat on her arm before tightening them again. Hardly a substitute for actually actively using it, but at least she wouldn't be a total sitting duck on the next tilt.

Leon frowned openly beneath his half-mask. "If you're certain." He clearly hadn't failed to notice her improvised solution, and while it technically counted as being in control of all her equipment for rules purposes, the subtle reproach in his voice made it obvious that he wasn't entirely satisfied.

Much as she valued his advice, Khari probably valued him more for this: the fact that all of that aside, he wasn't insisting. He knew how important this was for her. And she had decided already that it was important enough not to let this setback end the round for her. She had to get herself enough points to have a fighting chance at the rest of this.

Taking up the lance again, she nodded slightly, guiding her horse back out onto the list. This time when the horn sounded, she eased into the pace a little more, narrowing her eyes and trying to see the weaknesses Ves and Leon had pointed out to her.

And all of a sudden, there it was. Emboldened by her disadvantage, Caron dropped his shield slightly in an attempt to hit her early, like last time. Khari's hand tightened on her lance, and she followed the path she could see. Tilting her lance, she aimed high and precise, placing the very tip of the wooden instrument between Caron's sternum and shoulder.

The impact came with a crack this time—her lance splintered on his platemail, large shards of wood tumbling to the ground and leaving her with less than half of what she'd started with. Caron's aim wavered with the hit, his lance slipping low and catching unluckily between her leg and the saddle. It came out of his hands, the point of it digging into her relatively unprotected inner thigh, close to her knee.

“Fuck." The word was a low exhalation; gravity pulled the lance away and it fell heavily to the ground, but there was already a smear of blood decorating her saddle. She had no way to know how serious the wound was; she couldn't see it from where she was, and her own tendency to push pain to the very periphery of her awareness was not helping. But the slickness of the leather suggested the lance might have nicked something important.

The crowd-noise was nothing but a low buzz at the edge of her senses as she rode back to reset again.

"Khari." Leon was still aware enough of the surroundings to speak quietly, but he regarded her with undisguised concern. "You've got to forfeit the next pass. That's going to need a healer immediately." He was already inspecting the wound himself, sliding her foot back out of the stirrup and setting her shin over the crook of his elbow to get a better look at the damage.

But Khari shook her head before he'd even finished. If she forfeited now, the match would go to Caron and she'd lose the opportunity to earn any more points at the joust. She threw her broken weapon-stump to the side of the ring, already working to untie Stel's favor from her wrist. It was long enough to wrap around her leg; it would have to do for now.

Leaning slightly over, she tried to tie it on herself, but a numb hand and the other shaking from adrenaline were not helping matters. Her whole body was shaking, actually; she hadn't realized until just now. Her breath, too, little shudders echoing around in her helmet and drowning out so much of the other noise.

“Leon—Leon please, can you—?" She gestured with the hand that still clutched the blue linen. One more pass—she just had to make one more pass without letting him score a point on her, and she'd be the winner. Three tilts, that was the rule. She could make one more. She could.

She might as well have sucker-punched him. Actually, that probably would have been easier for him to accommodate, if the stricken look in his eyes was anything to go by. There was a very slight shine to them behind the mask, his jaw flexed where he clenched it. "Khari, no. This isn't a battle; the point isn't to risk your life. If you let this bleed—" The stain was already beginning to run, blood dripping down the side of the saddle and off the toe of her boot. "You've got to trust that what you've done already is enough. That what we'll be able to help you do tomorrow is enough. You can make up the points." He pressed one gloved hand over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding more effectively than a little strip of fabric would be able to do.

"You can't make it up if this wound gets worse. Your legs still aren't at their best, and you know you're going to need them for the rest of this. Please. Don't ask me to help you hurt yourself." He swallowed, shaking his head slightly. "I can't. I won't."

Khari wanted to insist. To hold him to the implied promise of the kind of person he was. The kind that let other people make the big, important decisions in their own lives. Who didn't try to force anything on anyone in his personal relationships.

But she was being a heel. He wasn't trying to force anything, except maybe her continued good health. And she was making him feel shitty for doing even that much. She wanted to tilt again. She'd seen the hit last time, and she really believed she could make it happen again. She wanted to prove it to everyone else, too. Every little fight here felt like the big one, and she wanted to win them all and show the world that she could.

Her lips parted, but when she tried to speak the first time, she failed. Even more than she hated the idea of forfeiting, she hated the idea of making him feel that way. For fuck's sake, Leon was her friend. More than that—he was family. And family was trying to look out for her, and she was making him feel bad about it.

Gods, she was an asshole.

“Okay. Okay, I'll forfeit. I'll—" She blinked, swallowing past a hard lump in her throat. Trying to make this feel like it wasn't the same thing as surrendering was really fucking hard, and she really wished she didn't have to do it.

But if she was anything, she was an elf of her word, and she looked up to where the officiants sat, making the hand signal for forfeiture. They called the match, and the win went to Caron. It sat bitter and hot in her belly, like an ember. Maybe she could make something of that later, but right now... Khari pressed her lips together, feeling herself sway sideways a little further than she'd meant to in the saddle. She leaned her good hand on Leon's shoulder for support.

“I'm going to need some help getting down, I think."

And maybe a healer wasn't a bad idea after all.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
Behind him, the crowd roared as undoubtedly a young chevalier ate another lance. MichÀel's mind was elsewhere however, and his intended path taking him there. There may have been an urgency to his stride, a worry on his shoulders, but for the life of him he wouldn't let Khari know that. Marcy knew, she could read everything he felt, even through his mask. Though it couldn't have been too difficult, he hadn't hidden the the hiss between his teeth when Caron's lance dipped low. Marceline had let him depart without a word, only a knowing nod.

It didn't take long with his quickened pace to reach Khari's tent. Instinctively he reached out to the tent flap before he hesitated. He tossed a cursory glance around him to ensure that there were no prying eyes before he poked his head in. He quickly scanned the inside before trying to catch the eyes of Leon in order to get some information. He'd seen that Khari was dripping blood, and for her to forfeit, it couldn't just have been skin deep. It'd take a lot for her to just give up, even if it was the wisest option at the moment.

Leon was not typically difficult to find, though in this case, the number of people in the tent was not helping. As it happened, he was still beside Khari; he'd anxiously looked up when MichĂ€el half-entered, but his brows furrowed—obviously he was expecting someone else.

"They should be sending us a healer," he muttered, as much to himself as anyone else. Tightening his grip on the fabric between his hands, he tugged, reinforcing the makeshift tourniquet he'd just tied around Khari's leg. The plate armor on that side was gone already, the pieces discarded to his left. "Anyone have a potion in the meantime?"

The question overlapped with Khari's loud “Fuck!" Her grip flexed on one of the wooden supports of the cot he'd put her on. Her face screwed up into a grimace; she forced herself to breathe through her nose.

"I've got one." The little elf, Brand, had slipped in the tent behind MichÀel, and he approached Khari now, offering a potion with a distinctly Orlesian label.

"Let me see that," Rom grabbed it from his hand, inspecting the bottle. He popped the cork and sniffed. The Inquisitor had been in the tent ever since Khari's match had concluded, staying close but out of the way. He'd been staying quiet as well.

"I know my potions, too, ser," Brand objected. "I got a good one." Rom was apparently satisfied, as he relinquished the potion to Khari. Brand backed away from the cot, glancing at the more senior members present. "I'll be outside. Keeping an eye out."

"Not to cause further problems," Estella said, breaking into the conversation from her spot a little further away, seated in one of the plain wooden chairs the tent was furnished with. "But... exactly what are we going to do about this? Even assuming you put the helmet back on, the healer will do a better job if they know you're an elf, and a clever one will probably be able to figure it out whether we tell them or not."

This thought did not seem to have occurred to Leon, at least not in the heat of the moment. He grimaced. "Well... we really only need them to stay quiet for the duration of the Tourney. Bribery is always a possibility."

"Marcy and I brought a decent purse with us," MichÀel said, stepping into the tent more fully, though careful to stay out of the way of more important personnel. He lingered near the mouth of the tent, arms crossed with a hand rubbing the beard at his chin. "Half now, half after the Tourney?" he offered. Marcy had thought to get some shopping done while in the city, but... Well, their need was elsewhere right now. He'd make it up to her somehow, but later. He glanced at Khari and then back to Leon, "We may need their... services later. It'd be convenient to have one in our pocket for the time being," he noted. He found himself wishing that they could use their own personnel for this, but that was too much of a stretch. Even if they'd come to Val Royeaux with them, their healers were rather unique.

Leon grimaced. "Assuming the idea even works, I can take care of it. No need to dip into personal funds here. Just... please be aware that we're going to have to negotiate something before the healer leaves the tent, and that something might involve a bit of strongarming." No doubt it was rather hard to plan when the most important element in the equation was entirely unknown to them.

Not that they had a choice, in this case.

Further discussion was precluded; the healer in question arrived not a few moments later, standing politely in front of the tent flap before admittance. Once it was pulled aside, his eyes swept the assembled before landing quite quickly on Khari. The way he froze allowed a tense moment of study for all involved.

He must have been Riviani or Antivan by heritage, given the mid-toned brown of his skin. His face was slightly weathered, though nothing about him suggested age over thirty, so a life in the sun was the most likely cause. He blinked, dark brows arching towards his hairline.

No immediate recognition was apparent—the surprise could only be directed at Khari. The expression morphed to confusion, then suspicion, but in the end it settled on something a bit more difficult to place, his mouth a compressed line and brows knit together. "Excuse me, but if you could clear slightly more space around the patient, I'd appreciate the room to work." Antivan, then, from the accent. It rolled over the r's and lingered on vowels in a way that suggested a lifetime spent quite a ways north.

Leon didn't vacate immediately, instead keeping pressure on Khari's wound until the man had reached her and could immediately take over the work.

Khari made a sound somewhere between a grumble and a groan. “The patient's got a name."

The healer was already crossing the remaining space, eyes down on the potions suspended from his belt by leather loops about their necks. "And I'm sure it's a lovely one. I'm equally sure it's better if I don't know what it is."

Rom wasn't quick to clear the space he was occupying, but he did so eventually, all while examining the healer unlucky enough to get sent to them. "Are you freelance?" he asked. "You're a long way from Antiva."

"So I am." The healer smiled a bit crookedly and handed Khari a potion. "Drink this, please."

“What's it for?" The answer didn't appear to concern her too much; she was already uncorking the bottle.

"The pain. I'm not a spirit healer; this is going to hurt a bit." He was already inspecting the wound, wincing in what might have been sympathy when he got a better look at the gouge. His hands lit a soft green; he passed them over the injury a couple of times while Khari swallowed whatever he'd given her.

Whether by design or coincidence, she did visibly relax, some of the tension leaving her muscles. The cot creaked softly underneath her as she leaned back into it.

The magic in the man's hands flickered a couple of times before the color shifted towards the yellow end of the spectrum. "They had to scrape together most every decent healer in Orlais to cover this event. And some outsiders. And probably some healers that aren't even decent. I'm local for the moment, though—just moved to Val Royeaux a little while ago, actually." Apparently, speaking did not detract from his work so much that he felt uncomfortable doing both at the same time.

"I'll not ask where any of you are from."

"That's... perhaps the wisest decision for the moment," MichÀel noted with a passing glance to Leon. The less information they gave the healer would perhaps be for the best-- for both parties.

It was unclear if Leon caught the glance; he was studying their unlucky mage with an unreadable expression. He didn't seem to disagree, though, and volunteered no information himself.

"I'm sure it's... quite an adjustment to move to," Estella said, probably to keep the conversation flowing. There would be an awful lot of tense silence, otherwise.

MichÀel's attention was drawn away from the conversation by Brand, who had reentered the tent quietly. The elf tugged subtly at his sleeve, looking at the healer work but with his attention split elsewhere. "Might have a problem," he said quietly, not even loud enough to be heard by Khari or the healer. In fact, the conversation there helped to mask his. "Mysterious hooded lurker outside, don't think he came with the healer. Definitely interested in our tent. Probably knows something he shouldn't by now."

"Ah dammit," MichÀel cursed under his breath. He looked up from Brand and shifted his head to try and catch Rom's eyes. Once he managed to catch his attention, MichÀel gestured for him to approach. He was never for the cloak and dagger, that was Marcy and Larissa's wheelhouse, and between all of them in the tent, Romulus was a much better resource to lean on than he was.

Once he was close enough, he leaned forward and spoke softly, so as to not interrupt the other conversation going on. "We have prying eyes," he said with an indicative nod towards Brand. "Think we should find out if they've seen something they're not supposed to?" He asked Brand and Rom. He couldn't do it on his own. He didn't have any delusions toward himself, he wasn't subtle like they were and this would require subtlety. However, he could still be useful, if used right.

Rom only responded with a nod, and was the first one out of the tent, leaving Brand to shrug at MichÀel. "This should be interesting." The others stayed behind with Khari, not needing to know what exactly was going on. The three of them could certainly handle one eavesdropper, and any more would draw more attention than they wanted.

The activity outside hadn't lessened any, the tournament still going strong and people still coming and going and passing by all of the other nearby tents. Rom waited in the street for them, peering at strangers from underneath his mask. Brand jerked his head sideways at him, indicating the left side of the tent.

The hooded man in question had noticed the exit of three people from the tent, no doubt, and by the time their eyes were on him he was already walking at a brisk pace away from the tent. Barely restraining the urge to break into a run by the looks of things.

MichÀel glanced at Brand first, then gestured toward Rom and hoped that they knew what to do from there. For himself he angled himself away and at their mystery man. He aimed to follow the man at his brisk pace and though he tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, it wasn't exactly his forte. However, it was for the other two with them, and hopefully while the man tried to avoid the obvious fellow following him, he wouldn't notice the other two.

The field was a chaotic mess of tents, colored canvas interrupting the landscape and their eyelines at various intervals. Knights, squires, servants and healers all moved about with purpose, the metallic clank of armor and occasional horse-noise giving the area a music MichÀel was long familiar with. It was a controlled sort of chaos, but more than enough for one person to get lost in.

Their eavesdropper took a sharp right, ducking behind someone's black-and-yellow tent; by the time MichÀel rounded the same corner, a flicker of dark fabric was all he could see around the next.

"Shit," MichÀel muttered under his breath, though he never dropped his pace. In fact, he quickened it toward the last place he'd see the cloak. As he proceeded, he tossed a glance around his shoulders in search of either Rom or Brand, but he couldn't find them either, which he found more comforting than not. Maybe one of them still had the man in their sights. Regardless, MichÀel ducked his head and took a hard step around the next tent, his eyes immediately scanning the next row.

"This way, ser!" The call came from Brand, on MichÀel's left, poking his shaggy head out from behind an olive green tent. He used the title without any trace of the teasing manner he'd used on Rom, and was already starting a backpedal, urging MichÀel towards him. "He's this way!"

With Rom out of sight, he could only assume that the Inquisitor was in pursuit of their fleeing eavesdropper. It wasn't as though Brand could say that out loud; they hadn't settled on any code names for Khari's mercenary help just yet, and yelling out a strongly Tevinter name in Val Royeaux wasn't the best approach.

They took off on Rom's trail, darting around mounted knights returning from their jousts, their squires and servants attending to them as they went. One horse was gargantuan enough for Brand to duck entirely under rather than run around. Before long they caught sight of the dirt kicked up at their heels. Rom was right on the eavesdropper's tail, arms outstretched to take him down. Quick though he was, he couldn't outrun the Inquisitor.

Unfortunately they went down in the midst of a group of servants at the front of another large tent, knocking down several people in the process. A chorus of angry and surprised shouts went up, and within seconds the chevalier inside had opened the tent flap to investigate the commotion. Rom struggled to pin the hooded man down, but an elbow thrown back caught him in the face.

It ripped his mask off, tossing it to the ground. Rom had enough awareness to abandon the eavesdropper in favor of the immediate problem. While the hooded man scrambled to his feet and tried to take off again, Rom rolled over and grabbed the mask, his hood concealing his features from the people all around him well enough while he struggled to put it back on. Brand skidded to a halt in front of the watching people, who shouted and swore in their native tongue at him and Rom still on the ground. That left it to MichÀel to snag the eavesdropper before he could get away again.

The commotion and ground fighting had let him close the distance, and by the time the hooded man found his feet, MichÀel was there. With his big paw, MichÀel seized a large handful of the strangers collar and cloak. He was by no means a small man, and what he lacked in subtlety more than enough made up for in strength, and it looked like delicacy had flown out of the window regardless. MichÀel growled low at the man in his hands before he quickly turned toward the chevalier who had just exited. "My apologies ser, just dealing with a troublemaker," was all that he offered before turning to start to drag the fellow in his grip away-- hopefully somewhere secluded.

"Very sorry," Brand added, tugging Rom up as soon as he had his mask on. "Very sorry, ser," he repeated. The pair of them followed in MichÀel's wake, Rom uttering a string of nearly silent curses on the way.

"Let go!" The man in MichĂ€el's grip thrashed, his hood falling down to reveal a head of curly auburn hair and pointed ears—his slight stature made more sense now. He wasn't much bigger than Brand. "I've done nothing wrong—you can't do this!"

The protestations drew several disapproving eyes, but as soon as the hood had fallen, most of the offense and concern in the surrounding populace had faded as well. Several of the most immediately involved outright scoffed. The chevalier scowled, opening his mouth as if to chastise someone, but closed it again with a shake of his head, waving them off with an inpatient gesture.

The reaction was no doubt disheartening to the eavesdropper, who didn't seem to struggle so much anymore. The sullen downturn of his mouth remained, and he breathed heavily through his nose, chest rising and falling more gradually as his breathing calmed. Though he walked well enough where steered, he certainly didn't go out of his way to accommodate MichÀel, dragging his feet as if to slow their passage as much as possible.

"There's witnesses now. Someone will notice if I disappear."

MichÀel cast a couple of glances around him, mostly at other individuals. While few spared looks their way, it was clear that their attentions were tied up elsewhere, and probably mostly only looked at them because of the oddity of it all. He grinned, though it was his usual half smirk. "Honestly, I think you're the least of their concerns at the moment," he answered with a half-hearted shrug. "But you're in luck, I'm not in the business of making people disappear." He didn't make it a habit of murdering strangers for no good reason. At worst, they'd just have to ensure that the elf kept his mouth quiet for couple of days.

"We do have a couple of questions though, and would enjoy honest answers," MichÀel answered, his smirk dropping into an inquisitive frown. They needed to know how much he knew, and how much of a danger he was to Khari's operation. There were many ways this could go wrong for her, and he'd hate for it to all fall apart because of a pair of loose lips. She'd put in too much work to be undone by chatter.

He steered them away from the congestion and activity of the proving grounds and into a secluded corner. He checked around him to make sure that no one was in their immediate vicinity and then asked, "So, why were you being suspicious around our tent?" he asked with an arched brow.

"Standing in public space is illegal now, is it?"

"Depends on where," MichÀel stated with a waggle of an eyebrow.

That earned him nothing but stony silence, the elf's glare baleful. This close, it was easy to tell that he was hardly more than a child, still gaunt in the manner of an adolescent whose growth up had outstripped his growth out. He couldn't have been more than fourteen.

"I know what a spy looks like," Brand added, quietly. "Or rather, a wannabe spy, or maybe someone who was asked to be a spy and didn't really have any choice. All of those things look a lot like you. Trust me, I've been doing this a lot longer than you." He gave the elf a pat on the back, as if to comfort him. "Question is, who's spying on us? Are they afraid to face Katriane GĂ©rin in a fair fight? Come on, who put you up to this?"

The softer approach seemed to mollify the youth somewhat, though his shoulders bunched up a bit, fingers curling into the rough fabric of his tunic. "It's not—it's not like that, okay? Just... I was supposed to walk around, see if I could hear anything interesting. There's dozens like me around, acting like stable-boys or servants or pages or all the other invisible people. You pick something up, make like you're bringing it somewhere all quick, and nobody looks twice at you." He had the grace to look a little ashamed. "Except this is my first time trying it. My, uh—my friend said that sometimes if you hear something good, you can sell it to someone who cares. That's all I'm doing, I swear!"

MichÀel was inclined to believe him. It sounded like fairly typical tactics for the Game, and no matter how many times the emperor changed, the Game would remain. "And your friend, is he another invisible like yourself?" He asked, absently stroking his beard.

"No. She's just—" He shrugged. "Just someone who gave me a tip, that's all. Hard to find work sometimes. Gotta take what you can get. Big event like this—it just makes sense, right?" The elf dropped his eyes and shrugged, shifting his weight and curling his toes into the ground. "Didn't really count on being chased down by a bunch of crazy people. Er... no offense."

"None taken," MichÀel chuckled. He held no illusions that any of them looked especially sane chasing down a elf kid for apparently no reason. "Oh," he added, and began to fish through his pockets. "Ah, there. Here you go kid, for you to forget anything you may or may not have heard," he said, taking the boy's hand and depositing a handful of coins into it

"And if you hear anything that might interest us, try to remember us then," he said with a wink.

The erstwhile spy's eyes went wide; he closed his fingers over the coins, disappearing them into a pocket or up his sleeve or somewhere with surprising deftness for such a clumsy eavesdropper. "Uh, sure. You got it, ser."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
This was it.

Beneath the layers of armor and fabric, Khari could feel the film of cold sweat on her skin, giving her whole body an uncomfortable, clammy feel that was a lot like being sick. The churning feeling in her guts seemed to go right with, even though it was moving slowly up into her chest like a plant pushing its way up through soil to sunlight. She'd sown it a long time ago, she figured, when she buried her dream in the deep-down-dark part of herself that she once hadn't shown anyone.

By now the audience was starting to filter in and the competitors gathered at the edges of what had once been the jousting ring. It was cleared of all the equipment, now, reduced to nothing more than a bare, sandy pit for all three hundred of them to try to claw their way out of. The dull hum of the crowd talking amongst themselves was lost in her ears—she was too taken by the vast empty ring and the colorful arrangement of pennants, one for each of the competitors, fluttering in easy reach of the dozens of officiants. By the time the match was finished, only one would still be flying.

She looked for a moment towards the Emperor's box. Lucien wasn't there yet, but she was willing to bet it's where her friends would be sitting when they made it up there as well. Better or worse, they'd see everything. Somehow, that made it both better and worse.

Khari had fought quite literally for her life on so many occasions she was losing track. She'd fought for causes she cared about and for people that mattered to her. But never once had she fought so directly for this. And never once had she been half so afraid of doing it. Her hands flexed in their gauntlets, the molded leather over her palms creaking softly as she squeezed her fist together. Her life wasn't even really at all that much risk here: it would take a terrible, very unlucky accident or a serious effort to kill her for any of the magically-blunted weapons wielded by her opponents to manage much more than broken bones.

But still it felt like if she lost, there'd never be any coming back from it.

She sucked in a breath just as the horn sounded, signaling five minutes remained until the melee began. Pivoting on her heel, she faced her friends, forcing a smile under the helmet so her voice would sound right when she spoke.

“Well, here goes nothing, right?"

"You're going to do great." Stel grinned and stepped in to hug her, the awkwardness of armor apparently not bothering her in the slightest. "Whatever training all these guys have had can't come close to some of the things we've been through, I'm certain of it." She sounded it, too, almost a bit much for Stel, who was usually quieter in her assurances.

Leon's smile was smaller, but when he stepped in close to clap her on the shoulder, he leaned down to speak quietly next to her ear. "No matter what happens today, I'm proud of you. You've earned this. So go get it." Though his grip was weaker than Khari knew it to be, she could feel the squeeze he gave her through the leather at the joint of her mail. When he straightened, his eyes were a little glossier than normal, though the mask allowed no further hint as to why.

She couldn't have seen it even if it did, because her own vision had blurred, hot prickles stinking behind her eyes, though she refused to let the tears get the better of her. Heedless of the armor in the same way Stel had been, she threw her arms around him. As much as her presence here could only be attributed to a whole bunch of people working together to help her, she knew Leon had probably made the most difference of all. Being taken seriously by someone like him was not only one major source of her confidence, but of her skill.

She'd never been alone the whole damn time. Not since these people, at least. No—not since Bear. Whatever else was true, he'd put her on the path to the Inquisition. To her friends and her sense of home.

When she won this thing, it was going to be for all of them, too.

Khari gave Leon one last wordless squeeze and stepped back. “You guys better head up. I'll see you on the other side." One way or another.

"Not getting rid of me that easily," Ves protested, offering her a little grin. His expression soon sobered, however. He stood at a further distance than the others, and didn't offer a hug or a clap on the shoulder or anything of the sort. In fact he seemed only to study her for a moment, standing there in her armor. "You know, it feels right. Seeing you here, doing this. I'm sorry I ever thought you needed to be anything else."

“Don't be." Khari grinned under the helmet. “I figure I needed that, too." Ves and by extension Saraya had pushed her when she needed to be pushed, forced her to really consider her reasons and realize the strength of her convictions. And while she hadn't seen it at the time, she was beyond grateful for it now.

He let that linger for half a second before a smile returned, and he glanced to the others. "But she's right, we should get going. I hear we have good seats for the show."

He led them off, and then only Rom remained. He wasn't hiding his own nervousness so well anymore, though he was obviously trying. Still as a statue and just as quiet, that was his way whenever he felt his emotions needed bottling. Even with the mask they were easy enough to see, spilling over the top.

"Brand's already in the crowd," he said, taking a step closer now that the others were gone. "I'm going to be, too. We've got your back."

“Always making sure I don't get my dumb ass killed, right?" Her voice cracked softly at the end; his emotion was contagious. Shit, she was a sentimental mess; at the worst possible time, most likely.

But damn if she didn't wish the mask and the helmet were gone. She reached up anyway, settling her hands carefully on either side of his face. “The good in me's got this, you know." She swallowed. “And the good in you has everything to do with it. I want—I want you to know that." He probably already did, but it felt right to say it. To acknowledge it.

“That's the difference between us and killers."

He leaned forward, the mask touching against the crown of her helm. He didn't say anything, just letting the moment pass in silence. When he pulled away, he looked less nervous than before.

"Have at them," he said. A thought seemed to occur to him, the hint of a smile touching his lips. "And, uh... have fun."

“Oh, I'm gonna."

Expelling a gusty breath, Khari took a step backwards, then another, giving a little wave before turning on her heel. The participants were entering the ring, now, and already she could tell the beginning of this was going to be a fight for elbow room. While the arena was more than big enough to hold all of them standing and then some, no few of these people had even bigger weapons than she did: swords, axes, spears, big shields—the works.

More than that, though, with their armor enchanted to turn red after they took too many hits, everyone was gonna want something to put their back to, which meant space next to the fencing was especially valuable. People were already jostling for it, about as aggressively as they could while still having some semblance of manners. The occasional clang of metal hitting metal signaled a scuffle or jostle that didn't quite keep it on the right side of the line; the officials were already watching the field like hawks.

Khari didn't push too hard for one of those spots. She figured there was a lot of advantage to having them, but also that everyone who didn't was going to be going there first, making the people in the good spots bigger targets, too. She knew she wasn't as good at holding a position as moving, so she wanted to start off as strong as she could, and try to survive the mess with her head above water, or however the saying went.

The rustling and soft clanking died down pretty quick when the Emperor stood up, though, everyone in the ring turning almost at exactly the same time to crane their necks up at Lucien.

When he spoke, it was with the same pleasant warmth as usual, though admittedly with considerable gravitas added. Probably partly because he had to project enough to be heard by an entire arena full of people, and that wouldn't have been easy for anyone.

"Welcome to the close of the Grand Tourney," he said, spreading his arms a little to indicate their surroundings. "I have to say it's been quite an interesting experience, being here again. I've been both spectator and competitor before, but having one thrown in my name puts it in a much different light." Lowering his arms, he folded them comfortably behind his back, seemingly entirely undisturbed by the sheer number of eyes on him.

"More than anything, it has given me a sense of pride. To see that the young chevaliers of the country I love have so much to recommend them. That they bring so much skill, honor, and will even to an exercise like this reminds me that for all we've lost over the last years, there are still so many talented, hardworking people willing to put blood and life on the line for our homeland. I hope you've been as impressed as I have, because it really is something to behold." He inclined his head to the field of combatants, a motion of deference to their efforts.

"Let us keep them no longer from their last chance to show us what they're made of." He resumed his seat; the motion was a clear signal that the event was about to begin in earnest.

Khari reached back to grip the hilt of her sword, pulling it free from the scabbard on her back. A damn inconvenient place to keep one, but better than having it possibly tripping her up here. The collective rasping of just about everyone else doing the same was more of a rumbling growl than the serpentine hiss of just one, ringing echoes fading several seconds later. She took a deep breath, turning herself slowly around to get an idea of who was where.

Pretty much everyone was surrounded on every side, so strategy just had to be picking a direction and committing to it. And trying to be as conscious of her positioning as possible. When her rotation ended, she came face-to-face with some guy with a huge axe. Everything in his body language screamed his intentions: he was going for the smallest target on the field and he meant to do it right away.

It was actually kind of reassuring.

Bringing Inga around to her front, she took a double-handed grip on it and leveled it outwards, angled slightly up. Firming her feet against the ground, she shifted onto the front part of her feet, bending her knees and dragging one leg back through the dirt so it was braced behind the other. Setting her teeth together, she waited.

The seconds dragged, distended, sharpened, like the string on Stel's lute being pulled too tight. She could feel the start horn through the ground half a second before the sound reached her ears.

The chevalier with the axe didn't even get it all the way up for its heavy downward arc before she was under his guard, swinging her hand-and-a-half for his midsection. It collided with a harsh clang; she used the rebound to help her lunge to the side, under his arm and around to his back.

Her second hit must have been enough; his armor turned red, and she immediately reassessed her positioning. Like she'd figured, it was chaos, the noise alone almost enough to drown out her thoughts.

Really, though, thinking didn't have much to do with it. A flash in the peripherals of her helmet was all she got—she threw Inga up in a hasty block, knocking aside the incoming blade by instinct. The chevalier who'd struck at her wasn't expecting it to be rebuffed; they staggered backwards, trying to regain their balance on the loose sand of the ring. Khari followed them back, sweeping low to take their legs out from under them, and follow up with a cleaving blow to the chest.

Two down. Not that she was dumb enough to be counting.

Already, there was much more room than there had been half a minute before, the initial clashes resolving themselves and nearly halving the field. Most of the people that left did so from the middle—the edge-dwellers had one less side to guard, after all. Khari understood the change only as more space to swing, more strides to run, a few seconds longer to catch a breath between foes.

She was readying a blow for the well-shielded man in front of her when the chevalier's armor turned red. He stumbled to the side, revealing the other who'd stepped up behind him and delivered the finisher. Khari locked eyes with him, registering only that the magnolia flowers on his mask were familiar before he turned away and brought his shield up to counter a hammerblow from some other guy who had to be nearly as big as Leon.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Khari moved on, too, smashing her way closer to the section of the wall she'd picked. It looked a little less stable than some of the others, the lines not as firmly-drawn, and that was her in. She was doing pretty well so far, but this was going to turn into an endurance match eventually, and she was going to need to start conserving some of her steam if she wanted to make it to the very end.

Hitting people from behind wasn't her favorite thing to do, but she did it anyway, taking the first fighter in her way out before he even knew she was there. The second caught on faster; she had to tuck into a roll to avoid the heavy spear that whistled by overhead. The dirt yielded under her, momentum carrying her back to her feet with a bit of a boost from her free hand. She had to strafe aside from the swift arc of a sword right after, lurching to the side and landing hard on her left foot.

A jolt of pain shot up her leg; she grunted and shifted her weight, batting aside the next hit from the sword and stepping in, ramming her helm into the chevalier's chin. The ringing blow dazed him long enough for her to get at the back of his knee, and a blow to the side of his head with her pommel did the trick after that.

Slowly, she pushed her way towards the fence, cutting a swath through everyone else trying to do the same. By the time she reached it, she was breathing heavily through her nose, the thrum of exertion warming her limbs until her sweat was anything but cold. The exhilarating buzz of the adrenaline was normal; the dull ache in her left leg was not.

It sharpened when someone behind her stabbed their spear into it, pulling a pained hiss from between her gritted teeth. The leg gave out, and Khari found herself buckling. She threw herself sideways with her good leg so she landed on her back, sword still ready. It was all that saved her from the follow-up. The spear tip screeched along Inga's blade instead, leaving the ancient steel unblemished but Khari's arms shaking. She kicked out with her legs, tangling the spearwoman's and bringing her to the ground, too.

She didn't land half as well, awkwardly trapping her weapon underneath her arm. That was all it took—Khari pushed herself back up and struck again. Her leg protested with every step she took to position herself against the fence, blinking fiercely to keep the stinging sweat out of her eyes. Her breaths echoed back at her against the helm; her face was sticky, disheveled hairs plastered to her cheeks where they'd fallen loose in the fight.

A disturbance to her right forced her back into it—that guy from before with the flowers was backed up into another section of the fence, three fighters with shields working together to keep him pinned.

Of course, that put their backs in a pretty vulnerable position.

Khari didn't think too much about it—she just took the opportunity that presented itself, bringing Inga back up and striking the one closest to her with a heavy diagonal slash across the back. He must have taken a few already, because his armor turned red after just one. His sudden disappearance surprised the one in the middle, and flower-mask capitalized, slamming their shields together and hacking at his side.

The last in the alliance, a woman with a shortaxe, broke off before she could fall victim to the same, but her attempt to escape was cut off by someone else—the big guy with the hammer again.

Just like that, Khari realized there were only three competitors left on the field. It was her, flower-mask, and hammer-guy. Only the aching of her arms, the hard rasp of her breath and the shooting pains in her leg gave her any indication how long it had taken to reach this point, but as soon as the realization struck, she noticed the hush that had fallen over the crowd. Like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

She swallowed.

Now what?

By some kind of silent consensus, they all backed the hell up, leaving themselves standing in a rough triangle a good ten feet away from each other. Khari shifted her eyes warily between the other two, not totally oblivious to the fact that one really logical way to go here was to knock out the little one so the two more obvious contenders could have a go at each other unimpeded.

But there was also the fact that she and flower-mask had helped each other—sort of. And even though she was pretty sure she knew who he was now that she had five seconds to actually think about it, there was sure as hell no chance that he knew who she was, or he'd have let that other guy take her down the first time.

For once, she wasn't totally sure what the right play was, and she hesitated.

In the couple of seconds that took, hammer-guy decided to take his chances, and lunged for the bigger threat, charging for flower-mask and hauling his hammer up and over his head in the kind of swing meant to pulverize shields.

With a shout, Khari leaped in, too, faster over the ground than the encumbered giant. He'd committed to his charge, and so when she swung low, he couldn't really do much about it. With a ringing clang, her blade collided with the back of his leg, hard enough to throw off his balance. Flower-mask stepped in, strafing sideways at the last moment and striking decisively at hammer-guy's back, sending him to the ground in an impact heavy enough to throw up a cloud of sand. The whole thing was smooth like they'd done it before, and the silvery plates of hammer-guy's armor flashed red. He was out.

Somehow, it didn't surprise her at all that it had come down to this. ThĂ©odore had been sitting pretty at the top of the rankings since the jousting. Much as it rankled her to admit it, a person didn't usually end up that arrogant without something to back it up, either—Khari knew she couldn't afford to let her fatigue overwhelm her for even a moment. Though there was no longer any need to watch anything but him, there was also no room for even a slight miscalculation, no flow of the field to lean on to get herself into or out of positioning.

Sucking in a deep breath, she pushed all the exhaustion and pain to the side, locking it down in the part of herself that ceased to matter at times like this. She'd learned to keep her wits about her even when the Haze descended, but it forced her to let go of some things, too: her doubt, her fear, her weakness. Her instinct for self-preservation and her aversion to pain.

Setting her teeth, Khari charged.

Her first blow clanged off Théodore's shield, but the deflection wasn't perfect. He probably hadn't expected her to have so much left. She forced him a half-step back, trying for a head-blow on the backswing. His pommel caught her in the stomach instead, hard enough to disrupt her footing, and when she stepped back, he went forward. Khari lashed again, Théodore parried, his motions precise and firm. Straight-on seemed to be a dead end, so Khari moved, sidestepping and going in for a different angle, testing his defenses, trying to wear them down and force a mistake. She kept herself fluid, planting whenever she landed but shifting like a bent sapling until she needed to change positions again.

The assault built, more of her weight and strength behind each successive hit. She was baiting him, trying to get a rise, trying to get just a little too much out of one of his reactions, anything that would give her a gap to exploit. But Théodore was stalwart where Khari was mobile, as practiced at resisting such blows as she was at delivering them, and at each moment, each beat, he exerted only as much effort as necessary to protect himself, and no more.

Her frustration built with her strength, and it wasn't long before she was the one leaving unnecessary gaps in her form, sacrificing them for just a little more speed or a slightly different angle, bending and twisting and strafing when parrying became impossible or her positioning too awkward.

Once, she didn't quite manage it, and the punishment was swift: Théodore brought his shield up for a block, and Inga bounced off too hard, leaving Khari exposed. She twisted out of the way of the slash he aimed for her exposed hip, but in doing so, opened herself up to a hard bash from the kite shield. It planted her hard on her back, jarring her helm against the ground.

She was damn lucky it wasn't her head. Scrambling to her knees, Khari braced one of her feet behind her and thrust as she rose. The ferocity of the counter finally caught him unprepared, and her blade met his chestplate and screeched as it was forced to scrape across the steel. She had no idea how many hits either of them had left, but she wasn't counting on any more chances to protect her from the loss.

Following through on the blow, Khari body-checked him, and he staggered back, releasing his sword and grabbing for her arm instead. Her eyes went wide; not strong enough to resist the momentum, she toppled over with him, and they went to ground. Somehow, all of her best fights ended this way.

It meant she was damn well prepared for it. Abandoning her heavy sword, useless at this proximity, she immediately went for the pin. Théodore's leg got in the way; he planted his knee under her sternum and turned the leverage into a roll. Grimacing, Khari went for her sidearm, pulling the knife free of its sheath even as the weight of the armored man above her started to suffocate her, the knee digging into a part of her armor that was chain instead of plate. Sensing the end, both of them scrabbled furiously, raining blows and seeking to find the spots that would count enough to end the match.

It happened much too fast for her to really register at first: Théodore went for a head blow with his free hand, gauntlet curled into a fist. Khari drove the blunt knife for the unprotected side he opened to attack.

Her hit struck first; his armor flashed red.

He didn't pull the blow fast enough.

The hit, right up under her chin, knocked her helmet loose. Loose enough to expose parts of her jaw and lower lip, and she was momentarily blinded by the interior—the eyeslit was pressing into her left brow now, she could feel it.

"You." Théodore's voice was a hard whisper. She thrashed, but felt him grip both sides of the helmet anyway, lifting it off her entirely. His weight disappeared at the same time; he stood rapidly, backing several paces away and tossing her helm to the side.

Well, shit. This was not how this was supposed to go.

Dimly aware of just how quiet the arena was, Khari pushed to her feet, dusting herself off. A strange sort of calm settled over her, evening her breathing and settling the pace of her heart. It was done now, after all. The part she'd been most afraid of. Taken out of her hands, almost literally.

“Me."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
The celebratory mood was slow to ebb from Skyhold, as though the walls and everyone within them fought to hold on to the flush of Khari's victory. Leon could understand that perfectly well—only seldom were their triumphs so unmitigated. Rarely did the celebrations take place near no funerals or solemn remembrances of those lost. And of course, it was not so often that they represented such obvious achievement. Anyone who knew the first thing about Khari, or even just the first thing about Orlais and its chevaliers understood just how tremendous a thing she'd accomplished. Perhaps the line of thought was that if one of them could manage something like that, then the rest of them ought to be able to overcome their collective obstacles as well, if only they were willing to work for it.

Even he was almost taken in by the thought. There was a beauty to it, and a purity. Sometimes, people did get what they deserved, because they tried hard enough and willed it strongly enough and took their destinies in their own hands.

But it was a harder thing to cling to in his own condition. The hope that perseverance would yield the desired result. That his trials, too, could be overcome if only he could find the strength within himself to make it so. Some things in the world simply weren't like that. He had to remind himself that her dream had seemed to be one of those things, and then she'd done it anyway.

His hands ached; the quill in his right shook so badly he'd never be able to make anything legible with it. Setting it down on the desk—getting it into its inkwell without spilling was simply out of the question—Leon curled his fingers into a fist, considering his bony knuckles with a frown. He'd not been this thin since he was fifteen, suddenly four inches taller than he'd been the year before and unable to keep up with his own growth. That had ached, too, but not like this.

Khari had once asked him if the Maker made him instead of two separate people. Sometimes he felt so mismatched to himself that he wondered the same. Especially now, when his spirit wanted nothing more than to live but his body felt half-dead already. It just wouldn't obey his commands anymore. Even walking was becoming difficult, something he could no longer do without the aid of a sturdy wooden cane or someone else's shoulder. It made him sick to even think about.

His time was well and truly running out, now. Just thinking about it made his throat feel tight, the tremors deepening until they rattled his spine. He'd never used to fear death, least of all death in the service of a noble cause. It had been an utterly insignificant idea, one with no power over him.

But now—now.

The door opened, dulled morning light temporarily flooding through it along with a flurry of thick snowflakes. Winter's grasp on Skyhold lasted a long time indeed, and no doubt would squeeze them several more times still. SĂ©verine slipped through the door and closed it behind her, her face half concealed by the hood of her snow-dusted cloak. She made a noticeable effort to keep her face down; if Leon didn't know better, he might've thought she was hiding it from him. But he'd witnessed the lengths she'd gone to celebrate Khari's achievement last night.

Her greatest obstacle at the moment was the headache, no doubt.

"That ass of an elf," she muttered, hand stroking her forehead. "He'd better be feeling this too." She sank into a chair on the other side of his desk. "Took a potion for the headache, only to have a new one form right after it."

Finally she pulled back her hood, slowly as though the extra stimulus on her eyes would hurt her. They settled on Leon, and indeed she almost seemed struck, though not the sort of shock a head pain would create. "Shit," she breathed. "I'll stop moaning. Can I... help you with anything?" She glanced at the quill and parchment. "Writing something, maybe?"

Leon shook his head quickly, forcing the edges of his mouth up in the best smile he could muster. He had a feeling it looked more like a grimace than anything; the knowledge only exacerbated the burning of his face. He'd never grown comfortable with his companions seeing the extent of his condition—but it became more and more difficult to marshal a stoic demeanor with each passing day. "It's quite all right," he said, finding his normal mild tone with less difficulty than the right expression. "I've little enough of it to do. The tremors will pass shortly."

Of late, some combination of Reed and Cor handled most of his documentation—thankfully the amount that truly fell only to him was rather limited, and he could complete it in intermittent periods throughout the day. Stretching his capabilities, to be sure, but his infirmity was somewhat predictable, and he used the information as well as he possibly could.

"It seems you and Vesryn both celebrated quite thoroughly last night." Some of his tension eased; having something to think about other than the obvious was a welcome respite. "I'll have to ask him sometime if he ends up with two hangovers or only half of one."

"Now there's a strange thought." She seemed to melt in the chair somewhat, relishing the opportunity to take the weight off and relax. "Just my way of congratulating Khari, I guess. Since I wasn't able to witness it happen." SĂ©verine had been far too occupied to take the trip to Val Royeaux. Remarkable as Khari's accomplishments were, the Knight-Commander had something just as important looming ahead of her.

She groaned, settling her hands on her stomach. "Never imagined Justinia drunk. Or hungover. Seems like that sort of thing is beneath being Divine." She laughed softly, though her nervousness was laced into it. "There's another strange thought."

"Well, perhaps in public," Leon conceded. "But Justinia was actually from a more worldly background than most assume. I cannot attest to her private habits, but then few people could." All of them had died along with her—not even Ophelia had known her especially well, despite her high position in the Seekers' organization. It made sense that one would have to choose one's confidants very carefully in a position like that. No doubt the real friends of a Divine were few.

He flexed his hands a few times; they were easing somewhat in their tremors. He could swear it was all the worse when he focused on it, but perhaps the correlation was only in his head. "It seems the strange thoughts have been hanging over you?" Not that anyone should expect any differently. It was a momentous thing they'd asked her to consider. Unlike most people asked to take up such an important position, SĂ©verine had not been prepared for it beforehand. She'd likely never have been the remotest candidate, but for a catastrophic intervention no one had foreseen. That could only make it that much more burdensome.

"I almost wish I had it like Estella and Romulus did," she said. She tugged herself up a little higher, like she refused to let the headache of her morning after get the best of her for long. "All in an instant, just wake up with the responsibility and deal with it. I've gotten pretty good at that." She'd certainly had practice. So much of their work had been reactionary, for SĂ©verine in particular. For all their lack of subtlety in battle, the Red Templars had an uncanny knack for surprise.

"Instead it's just waiting for me, my reward at the end of what might be my hardest fight." The way she said it made it sound like she didn't particularly think of it as a reward, despite the fact that her new position would be literally at the top of the Chantry, possessing more power and influence than almost anyone, if she utilized the rank properly. "I'm trying to use it as motivation, but I've had to settle for the thought of vengeance. Base desire though that might be." She exhaled a long breath through her nostrils.

"I want to kill him with my own weapon for what he did. For what he took from us."

Leon couldn't say he had any experience with the feeling. As he was on the average day, the thought of real violence sat uneasy at best. Not that he didn't understand the impulse to it, just that he'd never experienced it in kind. When the time came for him to do harm, he became... different. And it was never about vengeance then. There was neither righteousness nor hatred to it, just—

Well, just nothing. It was rage and ferocity and exultation and he sank into it, like a stone into a bog. It was just instinct. His ideals guided the application, to be sure. He never stepped on a battlefield he was not willing to occupy. But in the act itself, there was nothing personal or idealistic or even cynical. Just the raw feeling and bare mechanics of death.

"I don't think that's... wrong." He hesitated over the word, unsure if that was exactly what she'd been getting at. "I think I of all people have to say that whatever can get you onto and back off the field alive is the right approach. With luck, there will be a day when none of it's needed anymore. When you can let it go. If that happens to be the day you slay him, then... good. Better than it festering and lingering past then." He certainly knew a thing or two about that.

"Despite everything they did before Kirkwall, it didn't feel personal." Her gaze became distant as she thought back. "Maybe I would've described it that way back then, but it doesn't compare to now." She steepled her fingers together at her waist. The talking seemed to be doing her headache some good, or at least it was distracting her from it.

"They were just another enemy until they took someone important from me. Especially when..." She hesitated, looking dejected. "When I didn't get to say goodbye, I suppose. Didn't get to say a lot of things." She let that linger, and didn't elaborate. There wasn't much need to.

She blinked, and shook her head. "But I need to focus, now that we've found Carver. That's what I came to report, actually. Well, we've almost found him."

He accepted the shift to more concrete matters with a small nod. It wasn't as though he failed to understand what she meant, and he was certainly no help there. But this part, he might be a bit more use for. "You've narrowed the possibilities in some significant way?" Even a mid-sized geographic region would be helpful. Something the scouts could use.

She nodded. "They bypassed the Emerald Graves and fled into the mountains. The Frostbacks. They've been right under our noses." Of course, the Frostbacks were a massive mountain range with very few passages even remotely safe to travel through. Even their scouts could only safely keep a watch on the immediate mountains and paths surrounding them, not nearly the whole range.

"We sit on the Fereldan side, and it's almost certain the Reds are somewhere on the Orlesian side. There are a few fortresses that we know of they could be using, and it's possible there are more ancient castles like Skyhold we don't know about yet. I'm having the scouts work slowly, no need to risk them. We have eyes on all the routes out, so if they try to make a move, we'll know."

Her expression hardened until it was grim. "Wherever they are, it'll be another siege. I doubt it'll be over as fast as Kirkwall was."

Leon made a soft noise of agreement. Kirkwall had been a rather extraordinary situation, with extraordinary help, and many allies with not only formidable skills in battle but also a great deal of important knowledge. There was a marked difference between maps and schematics and firsthand knowledge. "You're most likely right." He frowned, the expression proving too stubborn to smooth away.

"I don't know how much help I'll be, when the time comes. Likely not much, but if there's anything I can do in the meantime, don't hesitate." The siege, when it came, would likely require most everyone they could spare, and no doubt he'd be included in some capacity. But as it stood, his days of commanding from the front were behind him, barring a miracle he couldn't even bring himself to pray for.

"When those tremors are gone again," she said, "perhaps we can get word to the Emperor. I'd welcome having some chevaliers at our side, next time we take to the field."

He mustered a wry smile in place of the scowl. "As I hear it, the job of corresponding with His Radiance on matters of import falls to Romulus these days. But I suppose I could manage this one." With a small shake of his head, he set the subject aside and chose another. "In the meantime, I think I'll send down for some tea. Might help that headache a little, and then you can tell me about how the troops are doing."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Image

When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me
And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then
In the pounding of my heart
I hear the glory of creation.
-Canticle of Trials 1:7
Image

Khari pounded up the stairs at full sprint, uncaring of who was in the way or why. She blew past a patrol on the wall, calling out a halfhearted apology over her shoulder for just a second before fixing her eyes forward again, to where Leon's tower door grew closer.

Finally. Finally, there was a chance.

Her practice armor clanked with every step, uncomfortably chafing where it didn't fit so well as her real battle set. It was meant to be heavy and cumbersome, so that was hardly surprising, and she ignored it with little effort, turning aside just in time to avoid barreling into Reed on her way in, slamming against the door and turning the knob at the same time.

“Leon!" Her voice was too loud for the usually-calm atmosphere of the Commander's office. She couldn't be bothered to give a shit—not right now.

“Dragon! The scouts found a dragon!"

At first, it wasn't even entirely clear where he was; her shouts were not answered with either his voice or any kind of motion. It only took another moment to spot the problem—Leon lay on the other side of his desk, sprawled over the floor, blood oozing sluggishly from a gash in his temple. The matching smear on one of the corners of the desk, still shiny and wet, made the cause of the injury quite clear.

Even at the volume and fuss of Khari's entrance, he remained utterly motionless.

Shit.

Oh shit, no. Nonono.

“Leon?" A spike of cold fear lanced Khari's chest; she ran across the leftover space, dropping heavily to her knees at Leon's side. Yanking at her gauntlet, she forced it off without loosening any of the fussy straps and tossed it to some corner of the room, bringing a shaky bare hand to his throat, trying to feel for a pulse. She couldn't feel it, not at first—but she wasn't sure if that was just her panic numbing her to it or because it was really gone. He was warm at least. That was good, right? Warm meant alive. He couldn't have been here for too long. The blood was still wet. He had to be fine. He had to.

Something fluttered weakly under her fingers, and Khari nearly lost her balance when she slumped with relief. The tension left her as fast as it had come, but not all of it. He was alive. That was good, but... he looked like shit, and he'd obviously fallen unconscious somehow. This wasn't an afternoon nap. And the head wound—she grimaced.

Potions. He had to have potions around here somewhere, right? She knew he didn't like taking too many of them, but also that he basically had to at this point just to stay alive. There had to be something that would do for this wound. Standing on shaky legs, Khari searched quickly, motions clipped and minimal as she pulled open drawers and cabinet doors, rifling through Leon's belongings. Normally, she never would have—for all she knew there was private or confidential stuff around here, but that wasn't as important as helping him.

“Come on, come on. Potions. Where the hell do you keep them?" She nearly growled with frustration when the lowermost drawer of his desk yielded nothing, and she moved to attack the next cabinet, pulling out a couple bottles of liquor and then a couple more of lyrium. One of them missed the counter she'd been trying to set it on and crashed to the ground with a glassy shatter. Khari didn't even look at it, too preoccupied with the flash of red she saw at the back. Yes, that. Thanks to knowing Rom, she also knew what potions looked like, and what colors and smells meant what.

Snatching it up, she hurried back to Leon's side, using her bare hand to turn his face towards her where it had lolled to the left. The bones of his face were so prominent now—it felt like there was just a layer of paper-thin skin stretched over them. Carefully, she uncorked the potion, tipping it slowly into his mouth and holding her palm over it to force him to swallow.

Not now. Not today. Not when hope had just come back to bite them again like the demon it was.

Several long seconds passed, but Khari could feel him swallow under her hand, so that had to be a good sign. Sure enough, the bleeding, sluggish as it was, seemed to stop entirely within a few minutes, and the breath against her fingers grew stronger.

It took about five minutes in total for Leon to come to with a soft groan, violet eyes foggy when he cracked them open. One of his hands found its way to her wrist, easing it away from his face. "Khari, what—?" His voice rasped, the edges of the words lost to the stone-slurry of his muddled delivery. The remaining hand found the injury on his head, his fingers coming away sticky. He grimaced.

She squirmed; the urge to sag against him in relief, maybe wrap her arms around him and squeeze was just about too much to handle. But he was clearly not in good shape, and she'd been a patient in the infirmary enough times to know that the responsible thing to do here was not crowd him. Still, the smile she gave in response was a bit wobbly, and she turned her wrist around in his grip so she could clasp his hand.

“You fell, I think. I was coming to see you, and—" She gestured vaguely, letting their positioning fill in the details. A shudder crawled up her spine, the full weight of the event sinking under her skin like lead. “I thought you were—" The emphatic shake of her head smothered the last part of the thought. She couldn't make herself say it.

Even so, it was obvious that Leon understood her. Pushing himself up into a seated position, he sighed heavily, taking several deep, slow breaths in a row. "I think I blacked out," he said. "I don't remember falling, or the impact, so it must've..." His hand, knotted and abused with years of barehanded combat, tightened around hers. It was oddly cold.

"Thank you," he said softly, resting the other atop her riotous curls for a moment. "Do you think you could help me stand? I'm afraid I can't—manage it on my own just now."

That question didn't even need answering. Not with words, anyhow. Still feeling a little unsteady herself, Khari clambered to her feet, bending a bit and using her grip on his hand to shift his whole arm over her shoulder so he'd have plenty of support to lean on. Together, they got Leon's feet underneath him so he could stand at least mostly. She wasn't exactly tall enough to support him at his full height, but they managed.

“Chair?"

A soft hiss escaped Leon, who tensed momentarily around her before nodding. "Yes," he said, once the spell had passed. "Thank you."

He leaned heavily on her as they shuffled back towards the desk chair, lowering him as carefully as possible into the seat. A heavy breath left him then, halfway between a pained sigh and a relieved one. He swallowed several times. "If you can hand me the rest of that potion, I'll be all right. You said you'd come to see me?"

Khari passed over the half-full bottle from the floor without protest. If he'd noticed the mess she made looking for it, he hadn't said anything, so she figured he understood her reasons. The question did remind her of her original goal, though she wasn't entirely sure she was willing to bypass the rest of this just yet. Settling into one of the chairs across from him, she sucked in a breath.

“Leon... you're awfully calm for a guy who just passed out from nowhere." Her lips thinned, paling from pink to white under the pressure. Should she really be bothering him about this? He was so private, and a little bit proud, too, she thought. Not the kind of person who wanted anyone else to trouble themselves over how much he was suffering.

Normally Khari wouldn't care one whit about that, especially not with his health at stake, but what if asking just made him feel worse? He was already in such terrible shape. Her teeth clenched hard enough they nearly creaked, and she expelled a harsh breath from her nose. “This isn't the first time, is it?"

His eyes dropped to the desktop. They'd faded, it seemed, dulled to the color of a bruise where they'd been a more vibrant wisteria before. It might have been a trick of the light, but just as likely not. The rings underneath them were almost the same color. Leon looked like he'd already gone ten rounds with a dragon and lost. Or maybe a despair demon instead.

"No." The admission was stark for him, blunt. So was the follow-up. "Please don't ask me how many. I don't know. Usually I can get to a chair or something before it goes completely. They pass quickly enough." He shrugged, halfhearted at best. "I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind." That was almost a plea, from him, the slight plaintive note at the end of it an appeal to her mercy more than any sort of authoritative request or command.

She swallowed hard and nodded slightly. Maybe... maybe it still wasn't too late. And she had news anyway. News that would help him. “Western Approach." She blinked, trying to get her thoughts in the right order again. A lot harder now than it had been ten minutes ago, to be sure. “They found a High Dragon. The scouts, and some weird Orlesian scholar guy, I guess. They've got a plan to bait it and bring it to ground, but obviously we need to be there and make it happen, so. I was coming to tell you."

Leon did not immediately react to the news. At least not much. His face was difficult to read, still haggard but largely without expression beyond the obvious fatigue weighing him down. "One more," he said after a moment, finding her eyes and holding them with his own. "Suppose that I only had one more fight in me, before I give out. Should I... should I really risk it on this?"

Khari had no problem letting her facial expressions do a lot of the talking for her, and the scowl she wore now was probably pretty eloquent. “What—what are you talking about? One more? You can't possibly—" Know that.

Could he?

Leon shook his head slightly. "Unless this really is a solution, I think... I think my next is my last." He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the wood squeaking softly with his weight. "I was thinking perhaps it would be better if it was Corypheus. If I just... did it then."

He was talking about dying.

The weight of it hit Khari like running smack into one of Skyhold's walls, all unyielding stone and sudden stopping. Her eyes rounded. Something about this was—not surprising exactly, but just—too much. Leon had been spending who knew how much time trying to decide which battle he was going to die in. How much longer he could afford to hold onto his life before it wasn't worth clinging to anymore.

As someone who could now consider herself a pretty smart strategist, Khari understood cost-benefit analysis. She could see the parameters. The most important battles were in the future, but at some point his body would become too weak to serve him, even with the rage of dragon blood hot in his veins. He was trying to choose the optimal moment.

Her hands clenched into fists. “Stop it!" Leaning forward, she slammed both of them into the surface of the desk. “Stop talking about this like it's inevitable! You don't get to do strategy with your own life! You don't!" She stood, leaning over the desktop to get in his face. “You don't get to give up. I won't let you."

He actually flinched back from her, grimacing under the weight of her scowl. When he spoke, his tone tried for placating, but the obvious weakness in it didn't allow for the same sturdy mildness he used to have. It ended up cracking. "Khari, I have to be realistic about this. I can't just pretend I'm not dying. The Inquisition—"

She wasn't about to let him get away with that. “Fuck the Inquisition!" Her own voice was a snarl. “Fuck being realistic. Not one person here is asking you to do this. Not one of them thinks you have to be the Commander right up to the point of dying at the most useful time! You're the only one who thinks that, and it's because you've already given up on living!"

His face blurred momentarily, but she blinked away the tears, too angry to let them stay. “You listen here, Leon. You never gave up on me. Not once. You do not get to sit there and expect me to give up on you." He'd practically beat the sense back into her after the whole Durand fiasco, and if that was what she had to do to make him see sense, then she would. Sick or not.

Reaching forward, she snatched up part of his tunic in her hand and curled her fist around it. “You might be dying, but you're sure as fuck not dead yet. Start acting like it!" He wanted to live. He'd told her so.

Khari was gonna make damn sure he remembered.

"Nothing's ever easy with you, is it?" Leon's throat worked as he swallowed, and he reached up to grip her hand, gently prying her fingers away from his tunic. His eyes were misty; a tear escaped the corner of the left one, then another on the right, sliding down the contour of his nose.

“No." She tightened her jaw, biting off the syllable, but already her fury was deflating. “Leon. Please. If you have to gamble your life on something... gamble it on living. At least try. I don't want—I can't lose you like this. I can't." Unvarnished by noble sentiment, that was the truth of it.

Screw blood. Screw race. Leon was her brother and her friend. And she didn't want him to die.

He exhaled a shuddering breath, but then his head dipped, perhaps the closest thing to a nod she was going to get.

"All right, Khari. Have it your way." He managed an awkward smile.

"We'll go slay a dragon."

“Hell yes we will."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
It was a long ride back to the Western Approach, but Rom didn't need much convincing to take it.

He'd been among the first to know of Leon's condition, the first to learn of his worst fear and greatest enemy: time. Now that time was running out, but they still had grains of sand left in the hourglass. Fitting then, that they'd come to this desert to refill it. Rom never knew how it was that he could help Leon, but it turned out he'd be able to make good on his offer. He could kill what needed to be killed, with the knowledge that it would save his Commander. His friend.

And he was good at killing. Man or beast. He was no dragon-hunter, but he could already feel his mark tingling, brighter than usual. Almost in anticipation of the use he was certain it would see. Unless the dragon was old and worn down, he doubted there would be many places his blade could sink in.

"How much farther is it?" he asked Rhys, who rode at the head of their column, guiding them to their destination. It was already further into the Approach than they'd ever needed to go when battling the Venatori and the Grey Wardens here. That struggle seemed like ages ago now.

"Over a couple of more dunes I'd say," the elf said, standing in his saddle to get a better view over the horizon. A lot of good that it would do, seeing how deep the dunes were this far into the Approach. Before he sat back down, his partner Rashad leaned over and told him something in Qunlat. Though he had been with the Inquisition for a while now, his trade tongue was still shaky and used Rhys to translate whenever he could.

Rhys chuckled lightly to himself and agreed, before turning to repeat it to the rest of the party. "As a forewarning, our dragon expert is... well, he's a bit eccentric. 'Course, you'd kind of have to be to think camping out in the middle of the desert watching for dragons is a good idea, but there you have it." He turned with a smile and pointed over the next dune. Expectedly, once they crested it, their expert's camp waited on the other side.

"Sounds like he'd fit in well at Skyhold," SĂ©verine said. She looked uncomfortably warm in her armor, but considering their reason for being here, wearing it was sensible.

The campsite itself was quite small, consisting of little more than a small canvas tent and a fire pit. It looked like the kind of setup designed to be packed up on short notice and moved. The sorrel horse standing in the shade of a large rock must have been the method of transport—the desert had rendered it lean, but it seemed to be doing well for itself otherwise.

A dug-out fire pit with an iron a-frame set over it for cooking was for the moment cold, but their scholar sat in front of it anyway, seemingly preoccupied with a notebook, at least until their voices reached him. He glanced up, dark eyes under a mask with ashes smeared around the eyeholes, probably to stop the sun from blinding him with glare off the silver. It made him look a bit raccoonish. He was otherwise dressed sensibly for the environment: lots of loose fabric for sun protection. When he stood, stowing the book in a bag at his waist, he leaned himself against a staff, smiling at the Inquisition party with the air of someone who'd most definitely been expecting them.

"Inquisition! It's an honor. Frederic of Serault, at your service. Please, join me for a bit—we've some information to cover, I expect." He gestured vaguely around the fire pit, which lacked seating of any sort, suggesting that the sand itself would have to do.

“Introduction to Dragons, is it, professor?" Cyrus sounded somewhat amused, for all the danger, but then it wasn't like anyone had much choice about the latter. He slid down from his mount first, glancing at Khari, and then Leon.

She seemed to understand the wordless point, and followed hastily. There was really no way not to be obvious about the fact that the Commander needed a bit of help, even if it was just someone standing there to make sure he stayed standing after he landed. Khari served that purpose just fine, and Cyrus held the horse still, just in case.

Leon seemed mostly steady—definitely better than he'd been in several weeks, at least. But even then, he did land a little too hard on his dismount, grimacing and leaning heavily on Khari for a bit. The cane he'd taken to using to get around at Skyhold was missing now, replaced by a staff that would do him a little better in the desert, at least until the time came to fight.

Once everyone was settled, the horses left to Rhys and Rashad, the professor sat again as well. He got right to business, whether because he sensed the need or because he was just inclined to do it. "So," he began, setting his hands on his knees. "Rubis—that's what I've been calling her—has been keeping to this area over the past couple of years. I've tracked her patterns of behavior, and you're in luck. Spring is a particularly active season for her, and she tends to eat in large quantities around this time, enough that she'll scavenge if such resources are available. Statistically, she prefers to eat quillbacks when possible, but I've also found evidence of varghest consumption."

"And this is... definitely a high dragon we're talking about?" Leon flexed his hands, creaking the thin leather gloves over them. His gauntlets were still tied to the saddle of his horse.

"Assuredly," Frederic replied. "Rubis has only grown larger since her appearance here; I believe she is now quite possibly the largest dragon to be recorded, but of course for now I can only approximate her dimensions. That's where you come in, no?"

"Feel free to do all the measuring you like, once we've killed her." Rom didn't allow any amount of scorn to creep into his voice. He held no ill will for the dragon; on the contrary, it would be saddening to see her dead. Though she was a great and terrible creature capable of inflicting destruction anywhere she flew, she did nothing wrong save for existing, her only mistake so far being that she was discovered by this scholar, an error that would lead to her end.

"Not that I don't share the Inquisitor's confidence," SĂ©verine added, "but how are we to bring the creature down? Some sort of trap?"

"That's the idea, yes," Frederic replied. "As I said, she eats... quite a lot at this time of year. In preparation for mating, you see. I suggest you present her with an opportunity to feast, and ambush when she attempts to do so."

"She won't see us as she flies in?" Leon sounded skeptical. "The landscape isn't that conducive to hiding, especially not from something airborne."

"Actually, her vision's not especially good," Frederic replied. "You ought to be more worried about how you smell than anything. Fortunately, I already know how to deal with that. I've prepared several decoctions that should let you not draw her notice. At least long enough to get you close."

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth here, professor Frederic, but, uh... you seem to know a lot about this dragon. Why are you helping us kill her?" Khari no doubt felt similarly to Rom about it, if her reaction to the one other they'd seen together was anything to go by. She didn't seem outright suspicious of the scholar's motives, but perhaps a bit of concern was understandable.

"Truthfully?" he replied. "I'd rather it wasn't necessary. I feel there's still much to learn from her. But your Inquisition keeping this area clear of bandits and the like has made several years of productive research possible, and moreover I fear that if things are left much longer, worse will become of her than death."

"Please explain." Leon's tone was too weary to convey any surprise.

Frederic sighed. "The Venatori," he said, shaking his head slightly. "I understand they have a lyrium-infected dragon? I've had to deal with small groups of them before—but the last didn't burn all their correspondence. I believe they mean to convert Rubis into another of the same. And that, well. I couldn't stop that. Death seems a mercy for her, compared to such a fate. So I contacted your garrison at Griffin Wing, and here you are."

Rom hadn't faced the corrupted dragon at Adamant Fortress; he'd been too busy chasing down Pike and being thrown bodily into the Fade. But he had come face to face with the beast at Haven, and he knew full well what it could do to hurt them. The thought of Corypheus having two at his disposal was... disconcerting, to say the least. Saving Leon's life was motivation enough, but knowing the Venatori had their own plans for the dragon was all the justification they needed to take it away from them.

"We'll do what we can to make it quick," he promised Frederic. "For whatever it's worth."

SĂ©verine stood, hefting up her shield. "Anything else you can tell us? Any signs of damage on it, from earlier battles?"

"Not that I've observed," Frederic replied, after a short nod to Rom. "Like all of dragonkind, the scales on her underbelly are softer than those usually exposed, and of course the eyes and inside of her mouth are vulnerable as well." He paused, blinking quite deliberately before he amended. "Not that I recommend the last. Very powerful fire breath, you understand. Quite capable of cooking you in that armor, I should think. If you've alchemical or magical means of resisting that, I do suggest making liberal use of it."

SĂ©verine shrugged. One wouldn't have thought she was about to fight a dragon. "Templar training is not without its uses... but yes. Probably best to avoid the fire."

Rom stood as well. "We should get to work. Lots of hunting to do, and not much time." He looked to Leon. It was honestly hard to imagine him being up for another fight in his current state... but he of all people knew what magic and alchemy could do to the body. And he'd only experienced a taste of it. "We'll send for you when we're ready. We won't take long."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon stood in the shade of a large, exposed sandstone slab. It was part of what must have once been a building of some sort, perhaps a temple, though its exact purpose was rendered unintelligible given all of the damage it had weathered. The uncorked glass vial, realistically no more than a few ounces, felt as heavy in his hand as if it were made from lead.

He hadn't been lying to Khari. He truly felt that unless this really worked, he was about to enter his very last fight.

The others had spent most of the afternoon hunting quillbacks and dragging the corpses to this spot, chosen because it afforded more cover than anywhere in the bare desert, while still being far enough from anyone that there was no risk of collateral damage. He suspected that the professor planned to find somewhere close by to watch, but no doubt he was smart enough not to interfere directly, so that was fair enough. They were about to end years of research, even if there was realistically little choice in the matter.

Leaning heavily on the staff in his other hand, Leon shifted deeper into the shade of the slab. Half a dozen quillbacks later, the sun had set almost completely on the desert, bringing a chill to the air that would never have been possible under the burn of daylight. He could hardly feel it through the layers of armor and linens. No doubt SĂ©verine and Khari were more comfortable now, too.

He watched carefully as everyone took their hiding spots, marking each in his own mind just so he'd know where they'd be coming from. Dusk was apparently a habitual feeding time for the dragon—Rubis. Hard to think of giving a creature like that a name with such a texture of fondness, but perhaps it just went with the territory of following her around for so long.

It was hard to keep track of exactly how long they waited; the landscape changed in front of his eyes as the shadows grew longer and deeper, the sand shifting from orange to deep red with the fading of the light. A harsh breeze kicked up grains of sand, a few stinging the side of his face, but the stone protected him from the worst of it.

Leon felt her before he spotted her approach. Perhaps it was something in his blood recognizing kin, the magic that had soaked so close to his bones over years and years of calling upon it. It was invigorating, like a spike of adrenaline direct to the heart, spreading over his skin like needles of frost. Her shadow passed overhead; he craned his neck until he could see her, circling the clearing. Her head bobbed up and down like a hound scenting the air—most likely that was exactly what she was doing.

He saw it the moment she committed to her landing, and then there was no longer any time to wait. Lifting the vial to his mouth, Leon downed it in a swallow, the thick taste of copper sliding over his tongue, lingering bitterly even after he swallowed. And then he was alive, senses sharp and an almost-forgotten strength back in his limbs.

Once more.

The dragon landed, kicking up sand and stretching her neck towards the nearest dead quillback. Her eyes glowed like embers in the dark.

He dropped the staff, and charged.

Khari was just as quick on the ambush, only she shouted as she broke cover, immediately drawing the dragon's attention to herself—and away from everyone else. Though the sand had a way of slowing things down, she was light over the surface of it for someone in so much armor, bringing her enchanted sword around and down in a bid for an early hit on the dragon's snout.

Unfortunately, Rubis was too quick for that, lifting her head well out of the small elf's reach. She was easily as big as the lyrium dragon had been at Adamant—perhaps larger still. Undaunted, Khari redirected her momentum and went in for her front left leg instead.

Romulus immediately went after one of the wings. While there wasn't anything vital to attack there, damaging the wings enough could keep the dragon on the ground permanently, where they actually had a chance to fight back against it. He sank his blade into the relatively thin membrane there and tore through it several feet, leaving a bloody hole for the air to pass through when Rubis lifted the limb on reaction. She swiped blindly with a leg in his direction.

SĂ©verine stepped in the way, catching the claws across her shield with a horrid screeching sound. The force threw her back, but she kept her feet under her and stayed upright, bringing her heavy flail around to smack and bludgeon against the leg. It had more success than a slashing weapon would have, but still the damage was negligible.

Leon took advantage of the ample distraction provided by his friends, lowering his shoulder and barreling into the dragon's back left knee. She roared at the impact, the joint buckling enough to interrupt her attempt to gouge Khari with her claws and lean her entire frame towards him. The sound indicated a solid impact, blunt like SĂ©verine's flail and similarly not enough to do any lasting damage.

She kicked back against him, talons scraping over his chestplate with a furious screech, but it lacked the momentum necessary to punch through the armor outright. Leon dug into the sand, skidding backwards and carving deep furrows in it with his feet. But he didn't topple over, and the moment she'd spent focused on him was one in which someone else could act.

Cyrus, for one, took advantage of the opportunity, moving in on the opposite flank from Romulus and stabbing both falcata down into the membrane of Rubis's other wing. Her violent reaction tore one of his blades from his grip, flinging it somewhere Leon couldn't see, but he kept hold of the other, redoubling his grip and dragging it free, flinging drops of blood from the edge to the sand.

Rubis shrieked, the sound building until it was almost deafening, echoing inside their armor and helmets. With a great heave, she jumped away from them, landing several meters to the left, but still grounded. Whether she could even take flight anymore was hard to say; her wings both bore great bleeding tears, and she held them aloft and away from her body as if to protect them from further damage.

Khari gave chase, only to be intercepted by a heavy swipe of her front claws. The attempt to roll out of the way was only partly successful, and she flew no fewer than ten feet through the air, crashing into the sand with a heavy whump.

Rubis's jaws opened, neck arching back before she lashed out in Khari's direction. Again SĂ©verine was there to intercept the blow; a blast of bright light illuminated the darkness in front of the dragon's face as her fangs came down. Judging by the way she recoiled and turned her head away for a moment, it had partially blinded her. It wasn't enough to hide SĂ©verine from the next bite, jaws snapping shut on either side of her shield with the dragon's head turned sideways. It was just wide enough to keep the teeth out of SĂ©verine's sides, but there was no escaping the clutches of those jaws without help.

Romulus attempted to provide it, grappling up onto Rubis's lower neck in the moment it was available to him. He'd sheathed his blade, likely knowing it wouldn't be much use against anything on the dragon's back. He went to work with his mark instead, pressing his palm against the dragon scales at the back of her neck and unleashing energy. The blast was enough to tear off scales and send a spray of dragon blood into the air.

In the moment it seemed only to enrage her. She reared back, throwing Romulus off and onto his back and simultaneously lifting SĂ©verine up at least ten feet into the air by her shield arm.

They needed to force her to let go, before she decided breathing fire was the thing to do. Leon would have ordinarily tried to weight her down himself, wrestled her head to the ground with whatever means he could, but though his instinct demanded he try, he knew he simply wasn't currently strong or fleet enough to succeed.

"Cyrus! Can you climb? We need to force her head down!" It hadn't escaped his notice that, magic or not, Cyrus's balance was extraordinary and practiced.

For his part, Leon hurried to the front, throwing the full weight of his body into a kick aimed for the back of Rubis's foreleg. She was holding more weight on one than the other at the moment, and he aimed for the load-bearing side, hoping to throw off her balance and interrupt her attempts to chew through SĂ©verine's shield.

The kick alone didn't quite do it, but he followed up with a pair of heavy punches, the reinforced steel bands around his knuckles landing in exactly the same spot, right at what looked like the tendon he needed. The precision paid off, and the leg collapsed underneath her, sending her shoulder to the ground.

A low whistle signaled Rubis's incoming tail; Leon braced for impact, unable to get clear in enough time.

This time, Khari got in the way, swinging her sword not at the incoming limb, but hard towards the ground, plunging her blade into the sand. The spikes at the end of Rubis's tail slammed into the metal with a hard clang, uprooting both the sword and its wielder, but also taking the momentum out of the strike.

Cyrus, meanwhile, had taken Leon's advice, pulling himself astride the dragon's back by reaching up her collapsed shoulder and grabbing the spike there with his free hand. His face was twisted in intense concentration; he pulled his legs under him upon reaching the base of her spine.

It was about then that she finally got her feet back under her, too, though, and the violence of her lurch back to a stand nearly threw him off, balance notwithstanding. He doubled down on his grip on the spike, keeping his center of gravity low and close to her body, before seizing the opportunity provided by a moment of stillness and rapidly ascending her neck, using more of the spikes as handholds. No doubt they'd have sliced his hands to ribbons but for his gauntlets.

When he reached as far up as he was going to get, he stabbed his blade just behind her jaw with all the force he could muster. He was probably trying to cut something that would force her grip on SĂ©verine to loosen. Once the blade had pierced the smaller, less-tough scales at the hinge of her jaw, he swung himself to hang from the side of her neck, torquing his body in an attempt to pull her downwards with their combined weight.

It worked, at least partially. They started to lower, the stab from Cyrus's blade clearly having some kind of effect, but Rubis jerked her head sideways before they could safely reach the ground. Her clamp on SĂ©verine loosed at the same time, resulting in her being thrown sideways and taking Cyrus with her. They smashed into the ground in a heap together, which looked more painful for Cyrus given the way SĂ©verine in her armor came down on top of him.

Rubis stomped a foot down and fixed her eyes on the pair of them, nostrils flaring in more than one sense. A quiet curse escaped SĂ©verine, and she seized Cyrus by the collar, hauling him up and throwing him along with herself behind a nearby pillar. Or rather, the remains of one. It was all the cover they had when Rubis unleashed an inferno from her gullet in their direction, temporarily causing them to disappear from Leon's sight in the fire.

Only a moment passed before it was cut short, however, as Romulus drew his blade again and plunged it into the dragon's flank, which she'd left exposed for the fire attack. He hit something important, obviously, as Rubis ceased her fire breath and lashed back with a front leg, hitting Romulus hard and separating him from his weapon. He landed in a puff of sand some distance away.

That, for the moment, left Leon alone with the dragon. She clearly noted it, too, lunging for him with impressive speed for a creature so large, swiping at him with one massive foreleg, claws hooked to catch him. He backpedaled furiously, both of them kicking up sand as he scrambled to avoid the hard crimson of her talons.

One of them caught his leg, pitching him onto his back, and she growled low in her throat, with a sound like two boulders being crunched against each other. Her second foreleg came down heavily over his body, pinning him to the sand firmly enough that his armor started to whine where the plates were pressed too hard against each other. All it would take was one joint to buckle, one side to give, and he'd surely be crushed to death.

She'd left his arms free, though, and he grabbed one of her toes with both hands, pushing back up against the pin with all the strength body and blood could muster. His arms screamed at him, pain lancing up through every nerve ending when the sheer force of the Reaver magic and dragon's blood began to shred his muscle fibers, too weak to support the force with which his instinct compelled him to push.

Rubis's rumbling grew louder, building as she bore down with more of her weight. Some combination of pain and fury bid Leon respond in kind, and he did, a snarl tearing free of his throat as he kept pushing up, the center digit of her talons loosening where it had speared into the sand, lifting inch by inch from where it banded across his chest. The little bit of give let Leon breathe again, black spots receding from his vision with fresh air in his lungs, and he bore upwards with everything he had left, until it was just enough—had to be enough—and he slid himself out from underneath her pin, armor scraping against scales and sand. He rolled to his feet, aware that he could not stop or he'd fall.

With a roar of his own, Leon launched himself forward, wrapping both arms around her foreleg and stomping, hard, on one of her protruding knuckles. She tried to lift the limb, to shake him off, but he held tightly as he could, pulling ragged breaths in through gritted teeth. He wasn't sure who was up, who was in any shape to help, but it had to be now. Rubis reared onto her haunches, exposing her softer underbelly.

It was Khari, helm gone and blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, who got there first. Darting in quickly, she took the remaining several steps to gather her momentum, thrusting her heavy blade forward with all the strength she had.

The enchanted sword flared with some inner light, its green hue brightening for a moment before dying down again, the front half of the blade now deep within the dragon's body. From the way Rubis went slack so quickly, she had to have found something vital, and when she wrenched the blade free, it released a cascade of blood nearly the same color as the dragon's scales. Khari was drenched in it, only just managing to get out from under the massive body of the beast before she was crushed beneath.

Rubis stilled completely where she'd fallen. Her death had, at the last, been a quick one.

“We're alive, right?" Khari sounded unusually weary, perhaps understandable in the circumstances. She was also definitely favoring her left leg again, now that Leon could see her move. “I'm alive. Is everyone else alive?"

“Technically, I suppose." Cyrus was only just emerging from behind the pillar SĂ©verine had pulled him to. His arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and his limp was even more pronounced than Khari's, probably due to the gash on the outside of his thigh. It looked like something had unluckily slipped around the armor there.

SĂ©verine emerged as well, armor and mangled shield blackened from the dragon's fire. It looked to have singed off some of her hair, and there were no doubt some burns that needed treating, but she was otherwise in one piece.

Romulus offered a half-hearted grunt of confirmation from where he sat in the sand. He looked dizzy, to say the least, the blow he took from the dragon likely leaving him with a concussion.

"Leon?" SĂ©verine called, her concern apparent.

It took him a moment to blink away the last of the effects of his rage, and truthfully he almost wished he hadn't. He lost all grip on Rubis, tumbling to the dirt without the ability to catch himself. What he'd done to himself was becoming clear: neither his arms nor his legs would respond to his commands, muscles and tendons ripped beyond the point of function. The blinding pain was replaced with a sort of numbness that felt more cold than anything. Even when he gained the wherewithal to speak, his words slurred heavily, his head swimming in the same dizzy way he recalled from his few adolescent benders.

"Can't... move," he mumbled. "Sorry to make you... carry me again."

But unlike the last time, he retained the barest hold on consciousness now, and it was enough to get him back to the camp and astride his horse, fortified with enough potions to get him to the healers at Griffin Wing, at least.

He wasn't dead.

Hopefully that meant something good for his chances.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
It had been about a week into his recovery that Rilien and Cyrus had administered the modified Reaver tonic to Leon. Cyrus hadn't felt especially comfortable doing so that soon, given the absolute mess the Commander had made of his own body during the fight with the dragon. But, as the tranquil had pointed out, allowing him to recover from that was a consideration that had to be balanced with the increasing risk that the new tonic would prove too demanding on his weakening body if his was left to decline much longer. Or that he'd simply... die.

Cyrus had never had to think about those kinds of things before. Not with respect to a friend. He found it disconcerting. Fortunately, Rilien had no such compunctions, and so they'd administered the dose three days prior. The immediate reaction had been... not much. Pain, as far as Cyrus could tell. But the fact that it wasn't immediately fatal was promising. Obviously.

Mounting the steps to the infirmary, Cyrus pushed open the door, shedding his lighter spring cloak and hooking it over one of the open spots near the entrance. He left his boots on, though, sliding past the staff at work until he came upon the door to Leon's room. Commander's privilege, to be granted a space to recover that was at least mostly private. Probably a necessity anyway.

Cyrus knocked twice as a courtesy, but when no one immediately told him to wait, he simply entered instead, a greeting halfway to his tongue when he spotted Asala by the Commander's bedside. Despite himself, that brought him up a little short, forcing him to reorient his demeanor to something a bit more... reserved. Funny: he hadn't even thought of himself as especially relaxed around Leon, but it was clearly so.

“Commander." He greeted his friend with a small nod, then moved his eyes to the healer. “Asala. How's he doing?"

"He is healing, physically at least," Asala answered. She passed her hand, enveloped with a pink magic, over one of his extremities for the last time, as she let the magic fade. "He is stable, and his body is stitching itself back together quite well. I've been balancing magical and his natural healing so as not to put any undue stress on his body," she said, though she still wore a tight frown. "Other than that," she glanced back at Cyrus, "I'm afraid I cannot say."

"I've felt better," Leon added, looking almost amused at being discussed as though he were not present. "But... I've felt worse. And since I never expected that to be true again, I'd say there's some reason for optimism."

Asala simply smiled and offered a comforting, though gentle pat on his leg.

That was... all quite good news, especially the last part. Cyrus felt himself relax, just a little. “Good." Inexpert at hiding his emotions, he could not keep the relief from seeping into his tone. Plenty of reasons for relief, even if the prognosis was still in some ways quite uncertain. “I'd thought if you were feeling up to it, we might head down to the Herald's Rest for something to eat. I'm sure it would reassure some of the others to see you up and about."

He let the question hang implied. If Leon still wasn't mobile enough, they'd have to find something else to do, but that would be no burden on Cyrus.

Leon considered that for a moment, then smiled a little. "Well if you're offering to take a break from hermitage for my sake, I almost can't say no. I think I'd be capable of it, if my healer gives her permission." He glanced at Asala. Unlike some of the others, Leon was actually the kind of patient that listened to the advice of the people treating him. At least usually.

"If you feel that you are up to, then I will not be the one to stop you," she acquiesced with a nod. "The usual still applies however. Take it slow and try not to overexert yourself. And if you feel that something is off, please let me know immediately," she offered.

"Of course." Leon returned the offer with one of his mild smiles, dipping his chin in a nod. "As always, thank you for your help, Miss Asala. We'd be rather lost without it." With a slight sigh, he shifted his attention back to Cyrus. "Could you hand me my cane? I should be able to walk under my own power if I have it."

“Not a problem." It didn't take long for Cyrus to locate the implement, and he handed it off to Leon, remaining where he was in case the Commander needed additional assistance reaching his feet. Even as they made to exit the room, he took care to walk at Leon's side, rather than slightly in front or behind, just in case of any mishaps.

But his concern proved to be unfounded, as the cane really was all he needed to make it down the stairs and then across the bailey. Progress was slow more due to the number of people who stopped to congratulate Leon on his recovery than anything. And Cyrus supposed this was warranted: though he certainly didn't look the picture of health yet, the fact that he was alive at all was something to celebrate. For the Inquisition as an organization... and also for his friends personally. One former Magister's apprentice included.

It struck him that he wanted to express this, but the words that were so quick to form thoughts were slow and heavy to his tongue. He ended up silent until they'd just about reached the tavern, at which point he finally managed to scrape together something to say. “I'm... well, it's sort of stupid to say I'm glad you seem to be doing better, isn't it?" How other people expressed the same sentiments so easily and naturally was beyond him.

Cyrus bit his tongue and pulled open the door to the tavern.

"I don't think so," Leon replied, warmth in his tone. "I can see why you'd think so. It's a bit obvious, as far as declarations go. But sometimes telling people obvious things achieves more than just making the declaration." He half-smiled, passing by Cyrus to enter the Herald's Rest. He leaned heavily on his cane, but even his speed in motion was much improved over a fortnight ago.

He didn't finish the thought until they'd settled down at a corner table, and the cane found itself against the back wall. "I'm happy to be reminded that you cared, even if I'd never forgotten. Here's something else that's obvious: I wouldn't be here if not for you, and you have my deepest gratitude." For all the lightness of the tone he used to speak, Leon's expression conveyed the utmost seriousness, particularly where he held eye contact with Cyrus.

Well. That was... the demonstration had cemented the principle, to be sure. Cyrus almost felt embarrassed by the admission, a slightly-uneasy feeling settling in his chest. The instinct to downplay it was there, to dismiss his usefulness as a matter of luck or little import or something, but it just seemed like the wrong thing to do with such genuine thanks offered. So he tried for the same. Obvious but true.

“You're welcome."

Leon's soft huff, almost a chuckle, seemed to confirm that it was the right answer, so to speak, and they both settled in a little easier, giving their orders to the waitress when she came by and nursing their drinks in the meantime. Leon ordered water rather than alcohol, probably in deference to his condition and Asala's health advice regarding overexertion.

It wasn't long, though, before they once again had company. Corvin and Hissrad had entered the tavern but a moment before, and diverted from their course to greet the commander. The young elf clapped Leon's shoulder, albeit carefully, sparing a lopsided grin for Cyrus as well. "Good to see you up and about, Leon. You had us all on-edge there for a while, eh?"

"I didn't intend it, I swear," Leon replied, a bit of dry humor entering his tone. "I'll do my best not to repeat the performance."

Corvin's grin stretched a little wider, and he nodded once. "Sounds like a good plan to me." He nodded to Hissrad, and they returned to their business.

"You're already starting to look better Commander," Aurora noted. A glance over revealed both her and Donnelly, her arm linked with his. Apparently they had already been in the Tavern when Leon and Cyrus entered, if the seemingly occupied table behind them was theirs. Corvin and Hissrad were probably what drew their attention the the pair.

"Congratulations," Donnelly added. "It's good to have you back. Make sure he doesn't overdo it, okay Cyrus?"

It was all very... congenial. Cyrus nodded, a bit uncomfortably, but then struck upon something to say and relaxed. “Of course. I'll make sure he doesn't go too wild celebrating his returned health." Obviously not actually a risk with Leon, but it seemed fine to joke about, anyway.

Donnelly laughed at that. "Good to hear. Let us know when we need to adjust the drill schedules so you can lead them again, Commander."

"That's a while off," Leon replied, just a touch of melancholy in the words. "But thank you. I will."

At that point, their food arrived, and the others politely took their leave so Leon and Cyrus could eat. Leon did so with enthusiasm, though it would take a lot more to make him lose his oddly-delicate table manners.

That said, not everyone was so polite as Aurora and Donnelly were.

No sooner had the tavern door opened again than a familiar voice was calling their names. “Leon! Cy! Just who I was looking for." Khari, naturally, plunked herself in the chair next to Cyrus without so much as by-your-leave. He'd mostly learned to appreciate her directness, even if it did still occasionally surprise him. Too many years with people who wouldn't have dared, especially if they looked like her.

Reaching into a pocket, she withdrew a pair of objects and paid them down on the table with something of a dramatic flourish. When she lifted her hand away, they proved to be what looked like necklaces—both on thin silverite chains. Of greatest interest, however, was the fact that the pendants were reddish and shiny in a way that seemed vaguely familiar.

“Busted up one of Rubis's talons. Too big for anyone to wear the whole thing, so I figured we could share. Since we did it together, and all." She hooked her thumb around a similar chain at her own neck, lifting another piece of talon out from under her shirt. “No forgetting it now, huh? Already gave Rom and Sev theirs."

Leon had stopped eating as soon as she appeared, and now stared at the necklaces on the table with a faintly gobsmacked look on his face. Clearly, Cyrus wasn't the only one who didn't always know what to say. glancing once at Khari, then back down to the crafted mementos, he reached forward, picking up the nearer one and running his thumb along the surface of it, where she'd smoothed down the jagged edges of whatever break she'd engineered in the claw.

A fond smile eased onto his face, and he expelled a breath from his nose that was almost a laugh. "Which part are we meant to be not forgetting? I do recall an awful lot of injuries and a fair amount of trepidation more than anything else. Nearly being hors d'oeuvre for a dragon's evening meal?"

Cyrus smothered a laugh. Khari didn't bother.

“Well, the 'nearly' bit's pretty important, but I was thinking more along the lines of how great we were. Not just any five-person team can go toe-to-to with a dragon and beat her, you know. That's one for Inquisition legend. And I figure they double as proof, in case anyone tries to call us liars." She grinned, eyes narrowing with the force of it.

Cyrus picked up his own, sliding it over his head without hesitation. Beneath his shirt, it clinked softly against Asvhalla's token. This one, though, he had to say he preferred. Reminder of heavy injuries or not, it was also one he definitely felt he'd earned.

Leon evidently wasn't interested in putting up any sort of fight, either, because he did much the same, the red sliver coming to rest right over his heart. "I suppose I can get behind that." He touched the talon and glanced back at her.

"Thank you, Khari. For everything."

“You're welcome, but thanks are also always accepted in drinks. Just so you're aware."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
The hands of spring touched the mountains last. So far they'd failed to touch this place.

Rom was willing to bet they were higher in altitude here than they were at Skyhold. Emprise du Lion, this place was called, though Orlesian rule was nowhere to be seen. It was a frigid place in the Frostbacks, on the other side of the mountainous spine separating them from Skyhold. They'd needed to travel north and around to the other side to find a road suitable enough for their forces, and their allies.

Many had come to see the end of the Red Templars.

The Inquisition's army was mustered in full, a token garrison left behind to secure Skyhold. A detachment of chevaliers met them on the road, led by Violette Routhier and, unexpectedly, Thédore Blancheflor. They'd brought a pair of trebuchets and a battering ram with them, the siege weapons trundling along behind the main column. No doubt the Emperor had plenty of reason to wish the Red Templars expunged from Orlais.

"Lucien regrets that he can't join the battle himself," Violette explained upon greeting the leadership. "But his Advisory Council is rather insistent that fighting reds weeks before he's due to be married is poor form even for him. He sends his regards."

Kirkwall sent its regards as well, in the form of the Queen's Companions. The cavalry unit was able to make good time around the Waking Sea to join them, led by their bold commander, the Baron William Alston. Rom thought he recalled writing a letter to him once, but in truth the names blended together after a while. He had no idea how Estella seemed to keep them all straight.

Rom doubted the cavalry would be all that useful at first. The Red Templars would know they were coming, if not exactly when, and their defenses weren't going to be accessible to horses. Suledin Fortress was where they'd chosen to occupy, an ancient castle high in the mountains, one that had fallen out of use once the Orlesian Civil War broke out. From what Rom understood, it was going to require quite the siege. That meant they might be here a while.

"It's just up the road," Lia said to the small party that accompanied her. According to her reports there was an opportunity here if they moved with some precision and speed before the bulk of the army arrived.

SĂ©verine let a hand fall near her flail, clearly tempted to draw it. "Should we be expecting trouble?"

Lia shook her head. "I doubt it. There's no one in town but the mistress during the day, and the Reds didn't bother putting a watch on her before, so..."

Alban Poulin was who they were due to meet. An Orlesian noble, the only authority in the town of Sahrnia. More of a village, really. It came into sight around the next snowy bend, on the edge of a lake that was still completely frozen. Suledin Fortress was visible in the distance, but it was too far out for them to risk being seen just yet.

Sahrnia looked abandoned more than anything. Some houses had collapsed entirely, others had merely caved in from the weight of snow on their rooftops, left uncleared all winter long. Here and there were the remains of campfires, cowering in the corners of structures still standing. Pitiful fires burned in a few sparsely placed braziers, barely surviving the wind that occasionally knifed through the streets. But there were still signs of life. Bedrolls and sacks of belongings, scraps of food probably. Signs that at night, people returned here, in their attempts to survive the cold and their captors.

“Well, this place has gone to shit." Khari sounded more concerned than outright rude, though as always, she wasn't too delicate with her words. “You think they make these people work the mine or quarry or whatever?" It was hard not to think about the other captives they'd encountered of the course of the long fight against the Red Templars: sickened, dying people turning pallid and deathly just from exposure to the corrupted lyrium. Some went fast, some went slow, but they all went, in the end.

“I'd hardly be surprised." Cyrus drew his hood a little further up where it had started to fall from the force of the wind. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf around his mouth and nose; he squinted against the brightness of sun off snow. “It wouldn't be hard to keep an operation going even in this weather. Not with the heat that lyrium gives off."

Rilien, apparently unperturbed by the chill despite the fact that his exposed ears were beginning to turn red, shifted his attention to the conversation at that. “The conditions are favorable for the task. The cold suppresses the worst of the effects. Anyone harvesting it would last longer here than in a warmer clime, however unpleasant they might find it."

Asala frowned deeply, the sorrow she felt for these people etched deeply into her flushed features. Her cheeks were reddened due to the cold, but her ears were protected by a piece of leather lined with fur tied across her forehead and the rest of the chill was warded off by a thick cloak, and undoubtedly thick clothing beneath. It was still as odd as ever to see her asymmetrical horns however.

"We need to help these people," she said, her eyes drawn to a particularly lonely flame. She didn't say it as a plea, but rather solidifying it as a fact. There was concern on her face, but a certainty in her eyes.

"That's why I thought we'd leave the army behind for a bit." Lia's expression was settled into hard lines, her demeanor grim. She shook her head. "Reds and their hostages..."

"You've returned!" the words came from a middle-aged woman emerging from the largest of the houses still standing. She wrapped a large fur cloak around her shoulders as she stepped into the cold, shielding her from the wind. She took in the sight of those accompanying Lia with something approaching awe. "I am Mistress Alban Poulin. It's good to finally meet you, Inquisition."

A decorative circlet, made of bronze or some similar metal, rested on her head, but that wasn't what drew Rom's attention. She didn't look well necessarily, but she lacked the signs of red lyrium sickness or corruption that one would expect after so long a period of captivity.

"Knight-Commander SĂ©verine Lacan," the templar greeted her in turn. "I'd introduce the others, but there are a few too many to go through. Rest assured, we're here to help. The army is further back on the road. I understand something can be done about the quarry first, though?"

Poulin nodded, eager to explain. "Yes. The Red Templars take the prisoners there every day to work for them, mining red lyrium. They're there now. Most of the Red Templars have fled back to Suledin, expecting your approach, but they leave a token force to keep the prisoners working. I think they need all the red lyrium they can get." She looked over those present again, no doubt finding some inspiration there. They were formidable, after all. "If you strike the quarry soon, and swiftly, you might be able to save them, and you'll cut off a group of Red Templars from retreat. They won't dare sally out of the fortress, if you have an army with you as you say."

"Do you have any information on the quarry's layout or the specific number of troops in the reduced guard?" Leon sounded like he doubted it, but it was probably worth asking anyway, just in case.

Estella, beside Rilien, exchanged a glance with the spymaster that could have meant anything. It was difficult to say for sure given how good she was at hiding what she was thinking, but something about Poulin appeared to be bothering her.

"Oh, uh..." Poulin hesitated, as though she didn't expect to be asked. "Thirty? Fifty maybe? I can't say for sure. The quarry is very deep by now, they've been blasting deeper into the hillsides for months. I think they were expecting more to join their cause, but they never arrived."

SĂ©verine scoffed. "That's because their last attack was a disaster for them. This battle will be much the same, and this time none of them will escape." She took a cautionary look around, as if she expected the enemy to be watching them at that very moment. "We need to send word back. We'll need more men to take down that many."

Leon nodded, turning immediately to Khari. "Can you run back to the main troop? We're going to need an additional squad. Captain Pavell's, if they're ready to go."

Khari snapped to attention immediately, giving Leon a rather lackadaisical salute. “You got it, Commander. Back in two shakes."

With her departure, the conversation shifted back to Poulin. Estella was the next one to step in, her brow faintly furrowed. "I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, Lady Poulin, but you seem rather... hale, for someone whose entire territory is presently saturated in red lyrium."

It was hard to miss the nervousness that crept into her then. "Ah. Yes, well... I haven't been among the miners, necessarily. Or... in the quarry itself."

Rom had his arms crossed. "You've been here since the Red Templars occupied the region, no?"

Poulin licked her lips, shifting uncomfortably. "Look, I know where this is going. I had no choice. There were no soldiers, no chevaliers, no Inquisition here when the Red Templars came knocking. I was forced to make the best of an absolutely awful situation."

“Which means someone else got the worst of it, I take it." Cyrus didn't sound especially impressed, to say the least.

"What was I supposed to do?" she responded, not trying to avoid being defensive. "If I tried to refuse them, they would simply kill me and take what they wanted anyway."

"They seem to have taken plenty of this place," SĂ©verine noted. "What did you agree to?"

Sighing, Poulin seemed to shrink before them. Not difficult, considering the size of some in the Irregulars. "They paid me to look after the town and its people, including those they brought from other villages. None were allowed to leave, so I had to get by on any supplies they were willing to part with. In exchange for my service, for keeping these people alive as long as I could, they did not force me to work in the quarry."

Not an easy thing to deal with, Rom was certain. Especially for someone with no ability to fight, and the responsibility of leading a town to weigh her down. But it was also a choice that helped supply the Red Templars, and that couldn't be ignored.

"This should be dealt with later," he said. "I imagine she'll be here still, after the siege is done. Right now we have more important things to do."

Another attempt at freeing prisoners held by the Red Templars. With any luck, this would be the last time they had to do this.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The march to the quarry was undertaken mostly in silence, or at least as much silence as the passage of so many people would allow. Their number neared sixty, more than Leon would have preferred to move for a raid this size, but given that their opponents were red templars, having a numbers advantage was all but required for a chance at success. Even if it meant there was little chance of making it all the way there without detection. Since they could not strike quietly, they would have to strike swiftly, and everyone kept a march pace more akin to a jog than anything.

The Irregulars in the number went at the front; they could reliably be depended upon to absorb a great deal more aggression without cracking, and having a strong initial push capable of breaking a red templar line was going to be crucial. The regulars went behind, their captain traveling up and down the column to relay the occasional instruction, or in some cases trade quiet jokes with a few of the particularly-uneasy. It was not an ordinary battle against ordinary men they would be undertaking, after all. Some unease was to be expected from those who faced the strange less frequently than the elite troops in the front.

Leon was beginning to count himself among them again, in a way. It would be many more weeks, perhaps even months, before he regained his former conditioning: his decay had eaten away at too much of his body to be overcome so quickly as this. But he was no longer infirm, and walked, ran and fought under his own power once more. Given that, he couldn't allow himself to miss the opportunity before them.

Though it bothered him less than some, he could already feel the oppressive atmosphere of a massive red lyrium deposit. It warmed the air in a feverish sort of way, coaxing sweat from his skin that sat cold under his layers, sickly and uncomfortable. The air was thick with it, not a smell or a taste exactly, but a weight that almost made breathing a conscious labor instead of the automatic process it was supposed to be. His boots crunched through the snow, the sound refreshingly crisp by comparison, the bite of cold occasionally slicing through the heavy haze, a reminder that it was not nearly so warm and humid as it felt.

It wasn't long until the quarry lay before them: more a sudden absence of more visible snow and slope ahead, as the landscape dipped into a blast-formed crater, rimmed by decrepit, greying wood fencing and the occasional slapdash watchtower, red pennants dropping until picked up and snapped by one of the sharp gusts. None of them looked to be manned. Most likely their arrival was already anticipated.

He stopped, gesturing with a hand for the others to do the same behind him. Listening was difficult over the driving wind, which echoed hollowly in the quarry itself, amplifying the noise. It looked like there were a few different routes down: one was straight ahead, a narrow walkway made of wood and iron sloping downwards until it disappeared from his line of sight. The east side of the quarry had a natural path carved into the side of the crater, worn smooth with the passage of workers' feet. It was even more narrow than the wooden structure. The last was infeasible: another wooden path had been destroyed, a large gap blasted into the middle.

"Seems like they've already holed up further in," he observed. "We're going to have to watch out for traps."

"Wouldn't want them to make it easy for us now." Vesryn's face was concealed behind his helmet, but everything about his mannerisms were a little more tense lately. No doubt a result of the return of his unique troubles. He refused to be left behind, though, even if fighting was going to become steadily more impractical for him over time.

SĂ©verine's flail chain clinked softly, the metal ball at the end of it swaying back and forth with anticipation. "What do you think? Split up, or push together?"

“Seems like the faster we can get more people down there the better." Khari sucked her teeth, squinting ahead at the crater. “But I don't like the chances of too many people managing that ledge. Looks kind of narrow." She shrugged, returning her eyes to Leon. “Hard to say without knowing what they've got set up for us down there."

She had a point—he couldn't deny that. Since the reds had taken refuge further in, there was really no predicting what they were about to encounter, but much longer deliberating about it and they were going to have worse problems. Deciding quickly, Leon moved his attention to Rilien. "Take everyone with ranged weapons and enough grace to negotiate that ledge. Go down that way." At least this way if the rest of them were ambushed, those taking the slower path down would be able to add support from wherever they were.

"The rest of us go down the walkway. Captain Pavell, when we get down there, I want the regulars in squads. Sweep everything and be careful. You and half of them are with us. We're going directly in." It wouldn't be an easy fight by any means, and dividing their strength already was an unfortunate but necessary precaution. The sweeping teams would be able to rejoin in relatively short order if things proved to be clear.

From there, they'd just have to be adaptable.

The orders went down the line, and everyone formed up. Leon tightened his gauntlets, nodding to Khari, Vesryn and SĂ©verine. The four of them, heavily armored and used to taking abuse, would be the very point of the formation. The others would follow just behind.

Though he almost feared sabotage on the walkway itself, there was none to be found; the thunder of armored boots drumming against the wood blended with the creaks of the structure, unused to the strain they were putting it through. It held, however, and Leon's feet touched ground first, crushing more snow beneath them. It was packed down here, though, the prints fresh. It hadn't been long that the reds were drawn in. That was heartening.

Their destination was an inset cave entrance in the side of the quarry, no doubt opening into further mining tunnels and the like. It was currently barred, thick slabs of wood thrown over the entrance to give the Inquisition something to throw themselves against and slow down.

"Asala. Can you do something about that door from here?"

"Hmm," she hummed, taking another inquisitive glance over at the barred door. "It may take more than one pass and it will not be quiet, but it should be doable," she said, before she looked at him expectantly, waiting for the order to begin.

"Quiet's out the window anyway. Do it."

On the order, both hands emerged from beneath her cloak already emanating a pinkish energy. A few gestures of her fingers were all it took to form a barrier roughly the size of the entrance they were attempting to break down. She inhaled once before forcing the barrier forward, crashing into the barricade. There was enough force behind the blow to make the wood scream in protest, but like she predicted it did not bow in the first blow. It subsequently took a series of them to finally splinter the wood enough to allow them passage. With a deep exhale, she glance back to Leon and awaited the next order.

It was an obvious one, requiring no more than the forward motion of his hand. The Inquisition moved, numbers narrowing to push through the cave entrance.

Inside was a system of scaffolding, designed to allow miners access to all heights of the soaring cave walls in the mountainside. Red lyrium crystals protruded at odd angles from large chunks of the wall, but this was no object to the templars that lay in wait.

The arrows fell first. "Shields!" For his own part, Leon ducked his head, grimacing when one rang against the side of his helm but pushing forward anyway. Aside from the archers on the scaffold, there was a clear line of reds across the narrowest point of the room, a shield wall that needed breaking. Of little use against the distant bowmen, Leon charged the line, crashing into the part of it he'd judged most likely to give. He succeeded in forcing two of them to take hard, hasty steps back, before a trio of spears from behind the shield wall forced him away.

Khari was right beside him, a heavy swing of her sword knocking aside one of the spears. It flew harmlessly over his shoulder, nearly torn from the grip of its wielder. But as they always did, the reds recovered quickly, and she was forced to put space between them when a shadow detached itself from the gloom beneath the scaffolding and made to stab her in the back. Her sword met the lyrium arm with a shriek, and Khari rolled to improve her positioning, opening up a spot at Leon's flank for the assault against the line.

Corvin slid in to occupy it, sparing Leon a lopsided grin from beneath his helm—just a momentary flash of teeth through the gap. His longsword had substantially more reach than Leon's arms alone, and he found the poorly protected neck of one of the spearmen, helm warped by a protrusion of lyrium crystals on his shoulder. He fell, and the elf methodically moved on to the next.

Cyrus had elected to begin the hard climb up the scaffolding to deal with the archers, swinging up onto the lowest level just long enough to press himself against the wall as a short volley flew by him. In the time it took the templars to draw again, he was swinging himself up the next ladder, intent on those highest up. Rilien led a small group of the fleeter regulars at the same task on the other side of the room, but in the meantime the arrows fell thick and fast.

They would not have to worry about a particular section of the scaffolding however, as one of Asala's barriers caught a corner and with enough effort and force managed to leverage it free from the wall. It stood freely for a moment, the archers at the top tumbling off before it finally reached the point of no return and the entire structure collapsed to the floor below.

It made her a target almost immediately, something she had been aware would happen, as before the scaffold even hit the ground, a pink dome hovered above her. Arrows plinked harmlessly off of the dome as it provided protection not only to her, but those within range to huddle underneath its protective shadow. She was not satisfied standing still either, as she began to march forward with the rest of the force beneath her shield aiming to get at least most of them to the front lines.

Vesryn smashed into the reds on Leon's left, covering his other flank. If his condition was slowing him down at all, he wasn't showing it. His spear was of limited use in the confined space, but even still he was able to keep it up above the mess, occasionally stabbing cleanly through a red's throat, often one of the back rankers that didn't expect it.

Even with the ferocious strength the red templars arrayed against them possessed, they lacked the numbers to hold the Inquisition's finest for long. They were too well shielded and armored for the arrows to have much effect, and the archers didn't have long before they were being dealt with besides. SĂ©verine was at the point of the spear for their eventual breakthrough, a cluster of red templars giving away and tipping over. Her true templars tore through the line, Inquisition regulars behind them. Rapidly the order of the enemy began to break down, though far fewer of them sought retreat than a conventional enemy would have.

Those that remained, the Inquisition systematically dismantled. A pair of less-warped soldiers fled, their instincts perhaps still intact enough to send them back to the rear chambers for protection. The passage at the back of this room was narrow; no doubt some similar deathtrap awaited them the next time it opened up.

The last of the red templars in the room fallen, Leon counted the number at no more than twenty. It was well short of Poulin's estimate—there had to be more further in. Sparing a moment to glance over the troops, he found several wounded, but few dead. They'd done well.

He considered keeping Asala back on triage, in case any of them were bleeding out, but the standard alchemy provisions they all had should do for now. He trusted someone to mention it if they were in need of more urgent care. "The wounded stay here," he said, gesturing to one of the walls. "Keep to the cover, just in case."

From there, he fixed his attention forward, stepping over the fallen line of red templars and heading towards the passage before them.

It was not barred at the previous one had been, although—it looked like one of the fleeing templars had dropped something as they made their way back. Leon squinted in the relative dark, trying to make out the shape. Was it... sparking?

"Blast charge—get down!" Corvin shoved Leon back and himself forwards in the same motion, acting opposite his own advice and sprinting towards what must have been a lyrium explosive.

Leon dove for what cover was available, putting some scaffolding between himself and the blast. He saw Corvin hit the floor, curling his body around the charge, then heard the unmistakable bang of combustion and the shrill scream of rending metal. The ground beneath them shuddered enough to feel through his limbs, vibrating up into his spine. Pieces of the passage entrance broke off under the force of the charge, and the ceiling above them trembled before holding steady. The blast sent Corvin flying backwards; he landed hard amidst the corpses of the red templar line, and did not move.

"Cor!" Estella was first to her feet, running to her longtime friend and dropping to her knees next to him. It was impossible to see exactly what state he was in from Leon's vantage; the Commander scowled and stood.

His eyes found Rilien's first. “Check for more of those."

"Asala! Asala, please!" Estella looked up, trying to find their healer amidst the room's many familiar faces.

She needn't search for long as Asala had already been on her way. She came to a sliding stop on her knees, the healing magic already alight in her hands. "Stel," she said calmly but firmly, stealing a glance up before continuing to work. "Can you keep him stable?" she asked, her hands going to Cor's midsection, undoubtedly where the most damage had been.

"I—yes." She leaned forward over her friend from the other side, getting promptly to work.

From a better angle, the wounds were grievous. The heavy steel of Corvin's breastplate had been all but shredded beneath the blast, a large hole in the middle surrounded by warped, melted metal. The amount of blood visible suggested damage deep to his internal organs. It was probably only the armor itself that had saved him from being blown apart, and even then... survival might only be a temporary condition.

Leon would simply have to trust that they'd do anything possible. There was little time to stay and worry in this situation, and he ruthlessly quashed his own concern to the extent that he was able. Time enough to consider it all when the quarry was clear and they could stop to breathe. As soon as Rilien had returned word that they were clear of any other unexpected explosives, he gathered the troops, and they pressed on.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Three days after they took the quarry, the siege against Suledin Fortress was well underway. Frankly Khari felt it was kind of dragging, but sieges had a habit of doing that. In a way, it was better than the alternative, at least for the regulars. They'd taken their captains injury pretty hard in morale terms—not surprising. Cor was a likeable guy, and he more than any of the rest of them was the one who'd been among the individual troops, getting to know them and training them and all that. She figured it had to have hit his fellow Lions the hardest, but they were mercenaries, more used to the idea of losing friends and comrades.

But he seemed to be stable, even if healing was inexplicably slow. Asala was good at what she did, though, and pretty much everyone knew that, so the mood was picking up again. Meanwhile, they still wailed away at the fortress with Lucien's trebuchets, and waited for... well, she wasn't sure, exactly. An opportunity, maybe.

At the moment, most of the command team was gathered in one of the large canvas tents they'd set up upon arrival. Khari was actually kind of surprised she'd been invited to participate, strategy training with Leon or not. She still had a sense of her own position in the Inquisition, though, and stood a few feet back from the map table that hosted most of those who were actually in charge. She'd contribute if there was an opportunity to say something useful, but she wasn't going to insist otherwise.

Lia was in the process of walking the others through the situation. "It's a huge fortress, too big for the reds to properly man. They've actually given up a few sections of the wall, here," she pointed to a spot on the map laid out on the table in front of her, "and here. These aren't feasible to attack, the terrain is awful, but here on the east side there's a drain, a hole allowing a stream to pass under. The metal's rusted and weak. Could provide a way in to an undefended area of the fortress, but sending any more than a few would be a huge risk. No easy way out once they're in."

She looked tired. She'd been at work almost nonstop since the siege began, taking only a few hours of rest. No doubt she was taking Cor's injury harder than most. They were both from Kirkwall, after all, and friends since well before the Inquisition was founded.

SĂ©verine seemed to sense it too. Her tone was softer than usual. "And what would a small group hope to do, once inside?"

Lia shrugged. "Well... the north gate has the lightest defense of the ones we'd be able to push through, though it'd be a long trek through some manned parts of the fortress to get there. Could always go after Hawke, too, probably somewhere in the keep."

"Would they stop fighting if we killed him?" Rom asked, arms crossed, brow creased in thought.

SĂ©verine shook her head. "I doubt it. Most are too far gone to lay down their arms. Those that aren't are likely too afraid of the rest to do it. Still, it could throw them into disarray."

Leon was frowning down at the map. He didn't disapprove of the thought—Khari knew him well enough to say that. But he clearly had some reservations nonetheless. "We need something decisive," he said. "If we're going to take the risk, it ought to be for something that has a realistic chance of helping us break the siege."

"But what, though?" Stel replied, a touch of frustration creeping into her tone. The dark circles under her eyes spoke to little rest for her either, probably because she'd been helping Asala keep her friend alive. "Sometimes it seems like they're barely human. They don't seem to eat, I'm not even sure they sleep. I'd say we should destroy their supplies and starve them out, but I don't think there's any such possibility."

“Not for food, perhaps, but I think you've the right idea." Cyrus spoke up from his sister's elbow, glancing around at the others before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “They're very dependent on their lyrium. We could steal it out from under their noses and have them out of the keep in another couple of days maximum, I'd guess."

Khari considered that for a moment, kitting her brows and deciding it was worth piping up. “Or we could kill a lot of birds with one stone castle." She crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “We all know lyrium explodes. Why not blow the stash up instead of just stealing it? Bring the keep down on their heads if we're lucky. I bet Ril or Widget could work up some charges for it."

Rilien considered the idea for several second, then nodded. “That is well within our capabilities, yes. Perhaps destroying the lyrium in combination with slaying their leader would be most effective."

"If that's the plan, we'll need a team." It wasn't too hard to predict what SĂ©verine was going to say next. "I will lead it. If this is where we take down Carver, I'm not sitting out."

"I'm in, too." Ves had been lurking at the edge of the room, listening, but spoke up now, loud and clear. "You'll need more than one shield, if the reds catch on to you."

Stel looked a bit like she'd bitten into something sour for a half-second, before her face smoothed out again. "Much as I'd like to join you," she said quietly, "I probably shouldn't. The last time I was around any quantity of red lyrium, it... didn't go well." Which made sense. Mages were even more sensitive to it than ordinary people.

“I'll go, too." Khari couldn't say she felt any hesitation in volunteering, even. These fuckers had messed with the people she cared about long enough. And she felt like she owed as many of them an asskicking as she could dole out. Revenge for what that damn behemoth had done to her legs.

“You will need someone who can set the charges." Rilien didn't do great around red lyrium either, from what Khari knew, but he had a point, and Widget wasn't exactly a combatant, so he was probably the better choice of the two people who'd know what to do.

"I'll go as well," Leon said after a long moment. "This needs to end, and I can handle more red lyrium exposure than most." He glanced between the Inquisitors. "That would leave the two of you in command of the siege, unless Romulus planned to come as well?"

"I'm better put to use inside those walls than back here." Rom sounded pretty sure of it. He definitely had more practice sneaking than he did giving commands, at any rate. He gave Stel an apologetic look. "Sorry. Feels like I'm leaving you with the hard job."

Stel sighed slightly, a wry smile tilting her mouth. "Who, me? I'm just running an entire siege. Nothing to write home about." There was a touch of genuine uneasiness in the statement, but she shook her head as if to banish it. "I'll be fine. All of you just focus on coming back alive, please."

SĂ©verine took stock of the group that had volunteered. "Six should be more than enough. We'll just have to hope Carver hasn't surrounded himself with knights, hiding in the keep." She turned to Lia. "If we need a quick escape, what's our best option?"

The way Lia hesitated implied there wasn't a good one. She surveyed the map. "If you can lose pursuit, then back the way you came would be best. If not... some of the walls will have deep enough snow on the other side to throw yourself in. Might not break your legs."

"That reassuring." The Knight-Commander didn't seem especially bothered, however. "We'll wait for nightfall before moving in. Don't stop the trebuchet crews, we need to keep them focused on the army. Just... maybe tell them to aim for the walls, and not the interior."

"Duly noted."



Night fell, and as promised, the siege didn't relent. They didn't bother igniting the stones that the trebuchets were lobbing at and over the walls, so now there were just periodic whooshes of heavy objects flying away into the darkness, followed by thunderous booms a few seconds later, when they smashed against the walls or interior structures of the fortress. The walls had to be weak by now, crumbling in places. Still, unless they caved entirely, assaulting them or the gates head on was a violent proposition. The goal was to preserve the lives of their troops, not throw them away.

Occasionally something would come back at them out of the darkness. Spikes of red lyrium, typically. The horrors inside had grown bolder in the darkness, sometimes climbing to the battlements and launching projectiles into the air. They could get some remarkable distance on them, outranging any Inquisition longbow. It only took a few seriously wounded for the Inquisition to learn its lesson, and shift their forward troops back.

The infiltration group left fully geared along a path Lia and the other scouts had watched for them, one that cut low through an icy ravine carved into the mountainside. It wasn't the easiest trek in the dark, but the moon came out halfway through, the light catching on the ice enough that they didn't need torches.

"Here we are." Lia pointed to her left as the path ended and they climbed uphill back into deep snow. She spoke in low tones, for obvious reasons; the east wall of Suledin Fortress was dead ahead. Already they could hear the soft trickling of the stream coming down from the mountain, icy water flowing under the wall.

The grate was as rusted as Lia said it was, but they still needed to get through it. It was a lot quieter here than in the army camp, though the occasional cracks of boulders on stone were much louder now that they were on the receiving end. Hopefully not too close to the receiving end.

They crossed the gap to the base of the wall quickly and quietly, leaving Lia at the end of the cover while they pushed on ahead. SĂ©verine was closest to the stream, and knelt to examine what they were dealing with.

"Not sure what the best way through will be. Romulus, maybe you should—"

She was cut off by Ves's boot smashing against the grate, the thin iron pipes snapping off at their edges. The majority of it fell into the stream, and Ves was quick to fish it out and toss it back into the snow, where it landed with a quiet thud. Wordlessly he lowered himself down and in, sliding his shield to the other side and crawling under to get through.

SĂ©verine shook her head. "Fair enough. Let's move." She pushed in after Ves, disappearing from sight.

Khari was next, finding that her small size made it probably a little easier for her to move around than the others, though it was still nowhere near tall enough for her to stand upright in. Her armor occasionally caught on the stone, scraping softly until she shifted out of the way, and she wrinkled her nose in irritation. Fortunately, her footwear was more than enough to keep the icy water out and away from her skin—this was hypothermia weather. It wasn't often her clan ventured anywhere near here because it tended to stay this way for most of the year.

They emerged on the other side to find what might optimistically be called a copse of trees, except most of them were dead with the cold, closer to petrification than life. A few stubborn conifers held onto their needles, knotty bark defense enough against the harsh chill. Khari took a second to brush herself as free of grit and stone as she was going to get. The area was quiet—no sign of any reds anywhere.

"Stay where the snow's not if you can," Rom advised, for obvious reasons. Snow was a rather loud surface to walk on. They moved under the trees first, where there was at least a little less. After that were pathways that had clearly been tread often, with how much the snow had been either packed down or cleared altogether. The reds weren't actively manning these sections of the fortress, but they were definitely still patrolling them.

They worked their way up, having studied the drawn up layout of the fortress before they made their way inside. It wasn't long before the sounds of voices reached their ears, orders being shouted and received. Quiet the red templars were not, barring those few among them the troops had taken to calling shadows. They were lucky enough not to run into any of them here.

The first patrol they came upon was at the base of the fortress's main keep. The structure itself was massive vertically, extending up along an outcropping of the mountain, several levels they would undoubtedly need to ascend, no doubt with resistance. For now they positioned themselves on either side of an interior gate, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. Two pairs were lighter, normal sounds of boots in the snow, but the third was heavier. A knight.

SĂ©verine commanded silently, gesturing to Rom, Rilien, Leon, and Khari that they'd be on the takedowns. Rom and Rilien for the normal troops, leaving the knight to Leon and Khari. They crouched low at the wall, waiting for the patrol to pass through. Only when both soldiers and the knight had done so did Rom make his move, darting out in unison with the Spymaster and leaping on the soldier on the left of the group. His blade flashed up and found the throat before they were even on the ground. Rilien went low, slashing for the other soldier's knee with a frost-enchanted dagger. The first strike left him hobbled, and the second found his throat, dropping him to the snow.

The swift attack occupied the knight's attention in front of him, leaving Khari and Leon a window of opportunity to strike. She went first, using Inga's superior reach to lash out where he couldn't do the same. The knight raised an arm to block, metal meeting metal with a clang, and he took her blade in both hands, attempting to wrench it from her grip. Khari grinned, and let it go without a fight, throwing him off when he met much less resistance than expected. It would have been a dumb move if she was fighting alone—but she wasn't.

The overbalance turned out to be fatal. Leon, moving in from the knight's blind spot, tripped him, and the heavy treads became a heavier thud as his back hit the ground. A hard stomp liberated Inga from the templar's grip and may well have fractured part of his elbow. It wouldn't matter anyway: Leon picked up Khari's sword in a smooth motion and stabbed it down into the gap between helmet and breastplate, wrenching it to the side before flipping the blade and tossing it back to her hilt-first.

She caught it with raised eyebrows. She'd never actually seen him use a weapon before. Not that she was surprised he knew how. “You've been holding out on us, Leon."

There was a movement under his helmet that might have been a smile. "Only by omission."

SĂ©verine had been watching ahead with Ves while they worked. "Looks like we're still clear. Let's keep moving."

The bodies were quickly dragged to the side of the wall and out of sight, the blood covered with some extra snow. It wouldn't buy them much time if anyone came this way, but every few seconds could count in these sorts of situations. They pushed through the door, keeping a tight formation, and found themselves in what initially looked like it had to be the red lyrium supply. A few seconds more examination showed otherwise.

The red lyrium appeared to be growing out of the walls of the keep on their left side, behind several large caged-in areas. Shards of it were littered too haphazardly around the ground for it to be such a valuable supply. To add to that, there were no guards. Just these cages, all seemingly empty save for the huge chunks of red lyrium inside them.

And then in the last cell, the red lyrium shifted and moved, pieces of it cracking apart almost as though they'd grown into each other over a prolonged period of stillness. A few seconds more and Khari could identify something alive, something massive, the red lyrium growths attached to its very body. There was a foot, red lyrium having replaced the missing toe nails, and the length of the leg it was attached to had to be five times Khari's height, at least. A hand settled down in the snow, shifting the entire figure's body to better face the intruders outside its cage.

And there was its face, wickedly scarred and mutilated from what had to be an old battle wound, criss-crossing across its singular eye. The scarring extended to the eye itself as well, leaving it discolored and somewhat milky, but from the way it eventually settled on them, it had to be able to see, if not particularly well.

“What the—?" There was something familiar about the creature's form, red lyrium aside. Something occasionally glimpsed from a distance through the massive trees of the deeper Graves. Was this really...?

“Red lyrium giant." Rilien's flat tone confirmed her hypothesis. “This one was in Kirkwall." His hands had drifted to the hilts of his knives, but he did not draw them.

Khari's jaw clenched. She didn't really want to fight it, either. Not because of the challenge—everyone knew she lived for those. “Bastards." The word referred to the Red Templars, of course. “Giants aren't normally violent. Just... big. This is..." She grimaced. It was kind of like the feeling of having to fight the dragon, only with even less good reason.

"Wrong." Ves finished the sentence for her. Of everyone in the group he was closest to the bars holding it back. It didn't look like they should be able to keep it there, if it wanted to escape. Khari could even see its massive club on the ground behind it, made all the more deadly by the shards of red lyrium growing in spikes out of it. Maybe there was something with the amount of red lyrium in there, weakening it or making it dormant.

"They're keeping it in reserve," SĂ©verine concluded. "Holding it until we're able to break through, no doubt. I don't want the army fighting this thing, half blind or not."

Rom's eyes were locked on its singular one. Damaged though it was, it was easy to see that it was in some amount of pain. Probably constant. "So what do we do? I don't know if there's an easy way for us to kill it."

"We should free him," Ves proposed, as though it was the obvious thing to do. "Trapped behind bars, twisted into something he isn't, driven to kill from constant pain. Free him, and I'll bet he takes his club to the Reds. If he breaks out of the fortress and runs into the army, at least it's not in a confined space on the enemy's terms."

Leon had been silent up to this point, squinting at the giant, his eyes occasionally moving to the wall behind it. "I think... the lyrium stores may be on the other side of that wall. Perhaps that's why he stays? No doubt withdrawal would be painful, but he would understand that the pain is least here." He did not sound pleased to have figured this out.

“I'd say let him go, too, but... what if he's staying here because they can control him? Then even if we let him out, he'll go straight for the army or something?" This red lyrium stuff was well beyond her. She didn't know the first thing about how it worked, but it seemed like they had to have some way of controlling the giant, or it would be too great a risk to keep him here.

“It is not so direct as that, from what I have observed." Rilien shook his head. “The red templars are wary of fighting close to it. Given that we plan to set explosives on the other side of this wall, the logical thing to do is release it."

That was apparently all Ves needed to hear, as he was already working on unlocking the gate. The entire cell wall seemed to be part of it, the only way they could conceivably fit the giant inside in the first place.

SĂ©verine and Romulus stepped back out of the way as the gate swung open, allowing the giant to exit if he wished. He looked confused at first. No doubt he expected different people to be the ones to eventually let him out, probably in a much more painful process. Eventually, though, a hand slowly reached for the club behind him, grasping the weapon and pulling it to the front. He began to crawl, on hands and knees, away from the red lyrium growths in the wall.

Once he was clear of the gate he actually had room to stand up, and did so, ascending until he towered above all of them. His head lolled down, looking between all of them. If he remembered Rilien at all, he didn't show it, instead seeming to regard all of them as uninteresting. In fact, he didn't seem to have any interest in doing anything besides standing up. Likely he didn't want to stray too far from the lyrium. Still, at least he would be out of the worst of the blast they were about to make.

Khari released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Rilien's observations aside, there was something plenty daunting about facing down the giant without drawing weapons. But it seemed for now at least that it had been a good decision. “O-kay. Let's... maybe get moving now."

It still kind of seemed like a bad idea to wait around for the giant to decide what he wanted to do, and no doubt someone would notice he was out of his cage in short order.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by AugustArria
One last push. That was all that was left.

The traitors had been reduced to this, cowering in a frozen fortress waiting to die, pitifully seeking to take as many with them as they could. SĂ©verine's templars had been reduced to a pitiful number in the south, but after this, all would know that they were still the rightful sword-arm of the Chantry. Still capable of defending the people from horrors like this.

They left the giant behind, wrapping around the edge of Suledin's inner keep towards the entrance. Perhaps there were others they could sneak into, but none would be as close to the supply of red lyrium they needed to destroy. It was about to get bloody, but with any luck the surprise of their attack and their skill in working together would see them through.

Two guards stood at the door, one on either side. More would be inside. Already SĂ©verine could feel her stomach turning from the strength of the lyrium shards inside. She couldn't imagine what Rilien was putting up with. It wasn't like he'd ever complain, though. She glanced back, eyes making contact with the others through the slit of her helmet.

"This is as far as stealth takes us. We get in, secure the supply, set the devices, then we fight our way clear. Understood?" Preferably that way would take them through Carver, but SĂ©verine was resolved not to be picky when these five other lives here were in the balance.

"Sounds like fun," Vesryn said, trying to shake something clear of his head. Some dizziness, perhaps. SĂ©verine had been tempted to request he stay behind, but couldn't find the words. He wanted to fight to make a difference while he was still capable of it. She didn't understand what he was going through, but that much at least make perfect sense to her.

"You take the right, then. I'll take left. Khari, Leon, you're first through the door. We're right behind you."

They rushed out from cover, catching the door guards by surprise. Certainly they weren't expecting a sudden attack from within the fortress, when their enemies seemed to be camped out of range of even their horrors. SĂ©verine's flail smashed into the already dented helmet of the red on the left, taking it clean off. The second pass of her weapon crunched in the man's skull. Vesryn's spear lanced up high, punching through the other's throat. She collapsed, clutching at her neck. Khari and Leon crashed into the double doors and burst them open, falling upon the first red templars they found inside. Romulus and Rilien followed in after them, with SĂ©verine and Vesryn bringing up the rear. She closed the doors behind them for good measure. Might buy them a few seconds.

The lowest level of the keep was a courtyard area, a cobblestone path surrounding frozen dirt in a large rectangle, with stairs leading to the upper levels in the back corners on either side. There was an elaborate multi-tiered fountain in the center, the statue at the top of which had long been destroyed. Already a few enemies had been cut down, but the noise was impossible to hide, and more were coming swiftly down the stairs, archers and one horror setting up to rain projectiles down while the others closed in. They wouldn't want to remain here any longer than they needed to.

Fortunately, Rilien was nothing if not efficient, and he was the one in charge of setting the explosives on the red lyrium. As if by some internal sense for its location, he broke away from the group with purpose, heading into a room on their left. The door was closed but not locked, and he slipped quietly inside, a mere shadow on the wall next to the noise the others were making. No doubt he'd be out as soon as possible.

In the meantime, Khari was already moving forward to engage the oncoming foes. It was easy to see why: the more time they had to settle their positions, the harder it would be to push through them later. Her sword came down hard on one templar's lyrium-encrusted arm, severing it at the elbow. That was enough to give even one of the reds pause, and in her moment of recoil from the pain, the green blade flashed, punched into the soft skin beneath her jaw and withdrawn in a fast, precise single motion.

Leon crashed into the line next to her, fending off another red trying to get at her flank. The first heavy blow knocked the templar's helm right off. The second snapped his head back with such force that his neck broke, and he fell. Leon flexed his fingers once, as if shaking off a twinge, and dove back into the melee.

They were being closed in on too quickly. Thankfully the red templars they were initially faced with lacked organization, and they were easily able to cut them down. The archers were a nuisance they couldn't immediately deal with, but most of them were well-armored enough that the archers needed exceptionally well placed or lucky shots to do much damage. SĂ©verine didn't know what was involved in the process of setting the explosives, but she was willing to bet that Rilien would work quickly.

No sooner did she have the thought than a heavy rumbling reached her ears, and her feet. A red templar behemoth smashed through the railing a floor above them and dropped down into the courtyard, the weight leaving cracks in the stones where it landed. SĂ©verine figured there were more of them somewhere in Suledin, she'd just hoped none would be in the keep itself.

To add to that, a familiar figure stood atop one of the flights of stairs, observing the Inquisition intruders through the narrow slit of a full helm. Carver hefted his red lyrium greatsword in both hands, slowly descending beside his soldiers. This was going to get a lot messier.

"Romulus, Khari, I need you on that behemoth," she ordered. Of all of them, they had the weapons most suited to killing. Her own abilities could help, but if Carver was here, there was simply no way she wouldn't face him. Vesryn could guard Rilien's back well enough until he returned, and Leon could likely float where he was needed.

“You got it!" Khari kicked her latest kill off her sword and reoriented herself. It was hard to say for sure under the helm, but it was a fair bet that she was grinning madly. “Been waiting to kill one of these fuckers." No doubt at this moment the fight in Kirkwall was fresh in her mind—when one of the behemoth's kin had nearly taken her life, and then nearly hobbled her permanently.

She met this one head-on, the blade of her sword squealing against the massive red lyrium spikes making up its left arm. It swung for her with the faster, spearlike limb, but she turned aside, and the blow whiffed by her abdomen instead of connecting. Several heavy, ringing collisions followed, chunks of red lyrium splintering and flying in all directions as she chipped away at it with her enchanted sword. While it survived the blows, she didn't seem to be making much headway.

Romulus didn't have a physical weapon that could do much to the behemoth, but he had his marked hand, which was potentially even better. Of course, he had to get extremely close to use it, and the behemoth wasn't making that easy. It was dangerous to even get close to, especially with how much it was throwing around its great weight, and it periodically caused small bursts of red lyrium shards to uproot from the ground, with only a second's warning. For the moment, the Inquisitor was stuck looking for an opening, and making sure no other red templars threatened Khari's back while she dealt with the behemoth head on.

Carver didn't wait long to engage, and threw himself directly at SĂ©verine, who met his charge in full. His sword smashed into her shield, rattling her arm, but she successfully turned it aside, landing a blow with her flail on his shoulder, which he managed to get in front of his face. It did less than she'd hoped, enabling Carver to spin out of it and bring the pommel of his weapon up into the facemask of her helm. SĂ©verine was jarred back, forced to lift her weapon hand to adjust the helm so she could see again. The time spent was all Carver needed to make another swing, this one crashing heavily onto her shield as she got it up, and forcing SĂ©verine down to a knee under the weight of it.

The weight bearing down on her was lifted when Leon intervened, stepping in close while Carver was distracted to take a swing at him. The Red Templars' leader avoided the strike, but doing so forced him to give up his positioning—and his chance to strike again at SĂ©verine. He aimed a slash for for Leon instead, sword whistling dully through the air. A grating clang—the Commander deflected with the back of one of his heavy gauntlets. The collision still forced him a step back, a soft grunt escaping him as she shored up his feet.

Khari seemed to be attempting to drive the behemoth back in the direction they'd come, but herding something as large as one of those was no easy task. She had to take three steps and three swings for every one of its, and tireless as she was, that was no trivial amount of work. The reckless fury of her initial swings quickly streamlined into something just as brutal, but much more efficient; she worked methodically to draw it into heavy blows, darting around them and striking at whatever weaker parts of itself it left exposed.

One particular effort was especially good: the behemoth stabbed forward for her midsection, but she twisted to the side, and the blade-arm caught in the stone wall, slipping into a gap between slabs and punching right through the mortar. This or something like it must have been part of the plan, because Khari seemed prepared. “Rom, now!"

Romulus threw aside the red templar he'd been killing to take advantage of the opening, going for the behemoth's backside. His mark was already crackling with energy when he got there, and he barely had to place his palm on the monstrosity's lyrium-encrusted lower back before there was a blast of energy. It sent chunks of red lyrium rocks soaring into the air and showering down on their heads, like some kind of red hail. The behemoth roared in what had to be pain and rage, the area on its back now appearing significantly softer and more vulnerable, if it were to be hit.

It wouldn't be held in one spot any longer, though, as it brought its massive club arm down on the other. It was apparently too thoroughly lodged to be removed quickly enough, so the behemoth snapped it off at the end, a grunt of pain the only indication that it was bothered by the now-shortened limb. The arm swiftly came free and whipped around, bludgeoning Romulus away. He skidded on his back across the hard frozen dirt, but didn't appear to be too injured.

SĂ©verine had risen back to her feet, and she charged Carver again, slamming her shield into his side while he was occupied with Leon. The hit knocked Carver flat onto his back, and SĂ©verine followed up with a downward swing of her flail, the weight behind it sending his guard aside with a clang. She descended on him, bringing the rim of her shield down towards his throat, but he abandoned his blade in time to catch it with his bare hands. They were close enough that she could clearly make out his eyes underneath the helmet, red-tinged and focused.

His strength was enough to throw her attempt backwards, and a hard kick caught SĂ©verine in the chest, throwing her onto her own back and giving Carver time to get his sword back in hand. More red templars came in from the side to attack Leon and give their commander time to get to his feet. Vesryn intercepted one of them, but they were appearing faster than they could be killed.

Khari was still working the behemoth backwards, strategically giving ground and getting them both into the hallway beyond. A flash of white could only be Rilien's reappearance. Whatever words they exchanged were too far to hear, but there was little mistaking the way they both broke into a sprint immediately afterwards, diving under the confused creature's arms and rolling to their feet.

The reason was obvious: a moment later, the first tremors shook the floor, a split-second of warning before the first thunderous bang split the air and shook the castle to its foundations. A second followed hard on its heels, and then a third, a massive plume of flame belching from the open doorway into the storage room. It caught the behemoth unprepared, the first explosion taking it to a knee. The second blasted a chunk of masonry into its center mass, and the third bathed it in the fire, which funneled into the hallway, reaching the arch they'd come through and spewing several meters into the courtyard. It looked like the back of Khari's armor was scorched, but fortunately the damage to their allies was no worse than that.

Both of them crashed into the red templar line, falling in with Vesryn to keep the reinforcements off Leon.

The morale of the red templars had been flagging before, and with the utter destruction of their lyrium supply, no few of them simply stopped fighting, looking on at the destruction with expressions that were difficult to read. Not the kind of abject horror SĂ©verine expected... more of an emptiness. No matter what happened here, this was the end.

The roar of rage from outside only cemented that, footfalls heavier than the behemoth's growing quieter as they carried the giant away from the keep. Even from here they could hear the first massive crash of its club coming down on someone unlucky enough to get in its way.

Carver wasn't done, but the timing of the explosion gave SĂ©verine enough time to get back to her feet, and she met him head-on again, her friends cutting through soldiers and horrors and shadows around her. No amount of corruption would overcome her own honed templar abilities, and when Carver's sword met her shield, he found the bulwark white hot and ready to lash out with a righteous fury. There was a flash of blinding light and a crack of metal. When she could see again, SĂ©verine's eyes fell upon the shards of Carver's shattered sword as the pieces scattered around their feet. He stared at them a moment, until her flail redirected his gaze.

Her swing took his helmet right off, sending Carver stumbling back. SĂ©verine barely recognized him. His looks had been boyish once, she remembered, sometime before his sister had been killed. He looked twice his years now, with lyrium lining his facial structure, plates of it over the skin where his cheekbones and jawline were. Half of his hair had fallen out. Some of his teeth as well, though SĂ©verine couldn't be sure it wasn't just her flail that had done that. The sight of him gave her pause. Something about just how tired he looked. Tired or not, he threw himself back at her, attacking with fists now that his sword was gone.

At last, Leon reappeared, free to assist with the intervention of their companions. No doubt Carver's strength was formidable with the enhancement of red lyrium, but Leon wasn't entirely without supernatural assistance himself, and the chunks of lyrium embedded in Carver's skin began to hiss and smoke, the Seeker's particular talent for destroying it manifesting in curls of red-black burnoff and the unpleasant sound of sizzling skin.

Leon blocked a heavy punch, turning it aside with his palm and delivering an uppercut right to Carver's chin, snapping his head back and sending him staggering. He lashed out with a blind haymaker; turning it aside was almost trivial for Leon, who was no doubt exhausted by this point but the much more experienced pugilist. Planting one of his boots at the center of Carver's chestplate, he shoved hard enough to topple the off-balance red templar entirely.

SĂ©verine advanced on him, flail whooshing with each circular pass through the air. Carver was quick to roll onto his feet in a crouch, but he looked as though his head was no longer in the fight. His eyes darted around, to the dead behemoth, to his dying red templars, to SĂ©verine's boots taking slow steps towards him.

His hands pushed off the ground, and he turned and ran, sprinting up the steps three at a time.

"I'm going after him," SĂ©verine declared. The others would have to handle the clean up. Carver was not getting away this time. He was not going to organize anything that would hurt anyone else, ever again. If there was some secret exit to the keep that SĂ©verine wasn't aware of, she was going to follow him there, and make sure he didn't make it out.

She followed him up to the upper levels of the keep, barely hearing sounds of catastrophic destruction in the distance. Stone crumbling and collapsing. The red templars here were in too great of disarray to slow her much; any that did found her shield and subsequently the ground. Carver didn't seem to be making for any exit she could imagine, instead just going up. She caught enough glimpses of him to stay on his trail.

She passed an armory, and outdoor forge, sprinted through another courtyard, maybe a place of worship once upon a time. Still Carver ran up, and SĂ©verine's legs burned from the stairs, hefting the weight of her armor up higher yet. There were no red templars here anymore; all were on the lower levels or the outer area of the fortress. Up here it would've been quiet if not for the sound of armored boots on stone, and the pounding of SĂ©verine's heart in her ears.

She ran through the war room, a familiar map of the fortress and the surrounding areas on the table inside. There was also a gauntlet and a pauldron, crusted with red lyrium, tossed aside on the floor. It was the first thing to make SĂ©verine slow.

"Stop," Carver said, his voice coming from outside, on the balcony. "Just... stop for a minute. It's... it's almost quiet now."

Cautiously she stepped through the door, finding Carver seated with his back against the railing. It was a breaktaking view, the balcony overlooking the entire fortress below. The giant had smashed another of the red templar behemoths and destroyed the entire front gate, leaving a gaping hole in the defenses. The defenders were in a disorganized panic, still trying to recover from the giant fighting its way free. SĂ©verine couldn't see it anymore, but she felt it was safe to say it had fled, away from both armies and into the mountains. The Inquisition was coming, the Queen's Companions leading the charge through the breach into the fortress. Chevaliers and templars and Inquisition regulars moved in behind them.

"This is what we've been reduced to," Carver said. "Mindless beasts, slaves addicted to our own chains." He swallowed thickly. "It takes everything, piece by piece. Your hands fight for the Elder One. Your legs take you to his enemies. Your mind can only think of what might please him. Your tongue forgets all words but his."

"Don't act like this wasn't your doing," SĂ©verine spat back at him. "Like Kirkwall wasn't your crusade. You chose this."

He was silent for a long moment, and then he nodded once. "I chose it once. For Bethany, you know? Do you know how she died?"

She studied him, still expecting him to make a sudden move, maybe try to throw her over the railing. The fall would certainly kill her. "She died the night the mage rebellion began, didn't she?"

"Yes." Whatever else the corruption did to him, it didn't stop tears, as one slid down the side of his face. "Not by a templar's hand. It was the First Enchanter himself. Killed her in part of some blood-magic fueled madness before he could be put down. Her body couldn't be recovered because it had become... part of him." Even seeing what she had of the Red Templars, the thought made her shudder. She was fortunate to have only heard of the First Enchanter's fate, and not to have seen it herself.

"I had nothing left," he continued. "And I let myself believe a lie, that the red could make the Order stronger than ever before, strong enough to contain the mages, protect them from themselves. Then there was only the song. The lyrium enslaved us to his will. Whatever our ideals were before... it doesn't matter. Those were the first things the red stripped from us."

He unbuckled his chestpiece, pulling off his armor as best he was able. For a moment SĂ©verine thought to help him, but still she couldn't manage to make herself move within arm's reach of him. Corrupted though he was, he'd looked impressive at the head of his army in Kirkwall. Here, now... he was broken. It was plain to see, even with how twisted his eyes were.

"Sometimes," Carver said, barely above a whisper, "Sometimes, at night, in the cold and the quiet, I can remember who I was. What I believed in. But then the morning comes, and the sun and the song burn it all away." SĂ©verine had to imagine right now was one of those moments. When the will to fight for Corypheus melted away.

He met her eyes. "I'm... I'm sorry about Cullen. He was a good man. Gave me more chances than I deserved."

She wasn't sure where the tears had come from, but there was a hot sting in SĂ©verine's eyes. She pulled her helmet off, blinking them away. "He did the same for me."

They were still for a moment, Cullen letting his head rest against the stone railing, SĂ©verine standing still as a statue, debating putting an end to him. The handle of her flail was heavy in her hand, and it seemed like it would take a monumental effort to swing it down. She didn't want to believe him, to believe that the red lyrium had enslaved the very thoughts of all these templars, many of whom had experienced such horrors at the hands of magic. So many of them were not so different from her, wanting, really believing that if they just did something a little different, a little more brave, they could make a difference. Without people like Cullen, without Leon, SĂ©verine could see a path that led to her sitting here, defeated and broken and corrupted, instead of Carver.

"Come back with me," she said, not knowing the words had been in her. "Come back to the world and we'll face this like honest templars. If justice for you turns out to be death, then... face it standing up."

He considered that for a moment, and then he did stand, though it took him great effort, and the leverage provided by gripping his hand against the railing. A cold breeze came in over the balcony. It seemed to give him some relief.

"Thank you," he said, "but there can be no coming back from this. Bethany would never forgive me for what I've become. The man I was would never forgive me."

She nodded, understanding that much. Even the things she'd done for Meredith still haunted her, years later. She would never dream of trivializing them, but compared to Carver's acts they could only ever seem minor. She didn't know what to do or say to Carver here; she only knew that the fire she'd had was out. The burning need to be the one to end his life. She no longer cared for it.

He understood that, too. "Thank you, SĂ©verine. For putting an end to it."

He threw himself over the railing.

SĂ©verine's eyes shut as he disappeared, but the sound of his body hitting the ground far below was unmistakable. She didn't need to look to know he was dead. A shaky breath escaped her. Her flail fell from her hand. She sank into a nearby chair, letting her shield slide off her arm, running her other hand over her face. The night air seemed to give Carver relief, but to her it simply felt cold.

It was done, dealt with. The goal she'd striven for for so long. Cullen was avenged, the Red Templars crushed. Why did she feel so empty?

A heavy sigh, amplified by the interior of a helmet, alerted her to Leon's presence in the doorway. It was hard to say how long he'd been there. Long enough to see Carver jump, it seemed, because he didn't ask what had happened, instead lifting his own helm off his head and setting it aside. He regarded the lyrium encrusted gauntlet on the floor for a long moment before turning his eyes to her. They looked sunken in the light, evidence perhaps of the toll the last four days had taken on him, still not fully recovered from his ordeals. But they were also clear, bright, evidence that he was no longer staring down the end of his life. At least not any more than the rest of them were.

"This is when the real work begins," he observed, shifting his attention over her shoulder to the view. His brow knit. "Not to belittle what we've done so far, or what it cost, but for the templars, for the Chantry—this is the beginning of the ordeal, not the end." It would take more than the elimination of the reds and their lyrium supply to restore the faith that had been lost. In them, and even in what they stood for. If it could be restored.

"Perhaps that's why it seems so unsatisfying." It sounded like a personal musing, but he could just as easily have been talking to her, from the words alone.

"I wanted to think of them like demons." She wasn't surprised to find that Leon had followed her, nor that he'd made it up here so quickly behind her. "Consumed by their red lyrium, made into monsters. Gone. To be forced to see the people underneath still there, fighting a battle they can't win..." She was reminded of the young red templar that had helped them in Kirkwall, only to succumb to the song in the end. It was horrifying knowledge, the thought that every red templar they'd fought against might have had a good person trapped inside. Someone that could've helped them rebuild after all this.

"Whatever they became, they were still our brothers and sisters. We had conflicts over magic, but none of them ever wanted to serve Corypheus. And yet they did, without even knowing his name." Below, the battle was concluding. The last of the red templars fell. SĂ©verine could only hope those that managed to surrender could recover from the poisonous lyrium. That not all who fell to this were lost forever.

"I won't let anything like this happen again," she resolved. "Not while I have the power to do something about it."

Leon smiled a little at that, an expression that did not reach his eyes, which were obviously melancholy. "I believe that," he said quietly. "I believe you can do it. And I'll do everything in my power to help. Whether that's as Commander of the Inquisition, or Lord Seeker, or just a friend of yours. Seems as good a way as any to spend a life I didn't think I'd have." He expelled a heavy breath.

"So... don't forget to count on me sometimes, if you can manage it."

"You can count on that. I think I'll need all three." It was a terrifying thought to acknowledge what was next. That this would, in all likelihood, be the last battle she fought. That her entire life was about to change again, and that the responsibilities would only become greater.

She'd risen to every challenge so far. She'd rise to this one as well.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Well, this was it.

Cyrus had always supposed he'd be one of those people who faced the possibility of death as an intellectual curiosity and little more. He'd learned to cultivate a certain detachment from it—everyone who fought battles like the Inquisition's on a regular basis had to. But his had been even older than that, shaped into him in part because he'd seldom valued anything so much as to fear losing it. Certainly not his life.

But now—now his hands were trembling where he pressed them into the fabric of his tunic, down at his legs to try and hide the fact. From his audience, from himself—it wasn't clear. And the trembling moved up into his chest, settling there as a constriction, a tightness that wouldn't let his breath move quite the way it usually did, wouldn't let up on his heart. He tried not to let the fear manifest in any obvious way, but no doubt they could see it regardless. Or just read it off the stiff way he held himself, loose-limbed ease chased away by a foreign rigidity.

Whatever happened today... it was already done, really. He just had to gather the courage to face it. To face himself, in a mirror he'd not be able to look away from.

Wetting his lips with his tongue, he took a deep breath, pushing past the ache in his lungs and facing the assembled. Harellan would be doing most of the magic, and he already knew what it involved, but he'd suggested the presence of two others improved their chances of holding the spell steady, so Cyrus had asked Stellulam and Astraia to help him. Few of the Inquisition's other mages had the balance of power and control required between them, and honestly he wouldn't have felt comfortable asking any of them for something so... personal.

He didn't even really feel comfortable asking the two of them, exactly, but he had. Leon was there because a Seeker was necessary. He was probably the one person who'd be in the room who could directly guide the spirit once it was found without risking drawing it to himself instead of its intended target. He was also here for one very important secondary purpose, something Cyrus would have to ask him about in a moment.

For now, though... “I don't foresee any complications with your part of the process." He said this to all of them, but looked at Astraia in particular when he did. He knew she wasn't confident in her control yet, but he wasn't worried about it, and he thought it might help her to know that. “Mostly it will only be following Harellan's instructions. Stellulam's Anchor will help destabilize the Veil, and then the two of you will need to hold open the tear long enough to draw the spirit through. Harellan and Leon will see to that." He wasn't particularly worried about that part either.

All of it had been done successfully by generation upon generation of Seekers, after all. The only difference between those times and this one was him. And that was where it all had the potential to fall apart. Catastrophically enough that he'd insisted on carrying the whole thing out rather far from Skyhold, in the small cavern usually used for Astraia's training. It would fence him in if the worst occurred, giving them an opportunity to do what must be done.

Astraia was obviously nervous, and obviously trying to hide it. Deception wasn't her strong suit. That said, she'd said she still felt nervous when using her magic to heal people, and that skill came most naturally to her. She'd been practicing her role with Stellulam as much as she could. It wasn't like they could destabilize the Veil on a daily basis and be safe about it, but there were other ways to practice.

She nodded to indicate her own readiness, choosing to keep herself silenced for the moment.

Stellulam was a bit more demonstrative, not unexpectedly, of course. Stepping up to him, she arched both brows and placed her bare hands at either side of his face. "And then you'll meet whatever spirit comes through the Veil, and you will be fine," she said, her tone a low murmur. The reassurance was meant only for him, even if perhaps it carried just enough for the others to hear. "I believe in you, Cyrus. We all do, or we wouldn't be here." With a last soft smile, she dropped her hands and stepped back, nodding to Astraia so they could go prepare for their part of the task alongside where Harellan was already preparing.

That left him momentarily alone with Leon, whose health was continuing to improve after his own brush with death. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, and he tilted his head at Cyrus with a certain sense of knowing to him. "Something on your mind?" he asked. His tone suggested that the question was a formality—he knew there was, and what he really wanted to know was what.

It wasn't exactly an easy request to make, and it would probably be more difficult to agree to. But Cyrus needed the guarantee, and there was no one else here he was comfortable asking it from. He didn't trust Harellan enough. Didn't know Astraia well enough, and Stellulam... he just couldn't put this on her shoulders. “I've not... been a mage for a while now." He swallowed, the cartilage in his throat working. “But I suspect that if I am possessed, it will be because that's no longer true. If that happens..."

Mages were all taught the danger of possession. Even in Tevinter, where deals with demons were not so frowned upon as in other parts of the world. But none were taught the lesson more harshly than somniari, because of the damage they could do if they dropped their guards for even a moment. “If it even looks like it's happening—I need you to promise you'll kill me. If you hesitate even a moment, it might be enough to—" He couldn't finish the thought, but he trusted that Leon was smart enough to figure it out.

“You're the only person I can ask for this. Please."

Leon looked immediately like he'd swallowed something sour; a line appeared above his nose and he grimaced tightly. "That's..." he seemed about to protest, but then lapsed into silence, studying Cyrus intently for a moment. Several heartbeats later, he sighed. "I doubt very much that any such thing will be necessary, but if it will reassure you to know, then yes. If the worst happens, I promise you I won't let you hurt anyone." He didn't say the words, but the tone of the proclamation left no doubt: if what that took was ending Cyrus's life, the commander would do it.

It did reassure him to know. Not only that Leon would in fact do it, but that there was someone he could rely on for this. It wasn't the kind of burden that just any friend or family member could bear. Wasn't one that most of them should bear. But maybe more necessary than Cyrus would have thought before. “Thank you."

There wasn't time to say much more; by design Cyrus had made sure all of the preparations were taken care of in advance of the event itself. All the less time to be in this limbo state, between where he'd been this morning and that indeterminate future. The one where he was more—or nothing at all.

Harellan stood, indicating that the preparations were complete, and Cyrus let out a breath he hadn't quite realized he was holding, crossing to where the other three were and dropping into a crosslegged position. Leon remembered little of what had happened to him when he'd been through this, and Cyrus had a sneaking suspicion that this was because it involved falling unconscious at some point, something he'd much prefer to take sitting down, so to speak. “Let's get this over with, then."

He couldn't stand the waiting much longer either way.

His uncle didn't seem to lack for confidence that this would go well. Of everyone Cyrus had consulted on the matter, he in fact seemed to be the most strongly in favor of attempting it, though it was hard to imagine why he cared so much about this. Not that it mattered now. As soon as Cyrus settled in his spot and met eyes with him, Harellan nodded, withdrawing a short blade from his belt and laying it across his wrist. The blade flashed; a thin line of blood trickled onto the runes Harellan had drawn into the snow.

He couldn't feel the Veil grow thinner—that sensitivity had waned to nothing when his magic had. But it wasn't hard to imagine what it would feel like if he could, and soon there was a visual cue as well: a patch of air roughly the side of Skyhold's main entrance began to shimmer like they were under the desert sun, warping and distorting his perception of what lay beyond. The tear was unstable, and Harellan turned to Stellulam and Astraia. "Go ahead—try to hold it at this size."

An echoing crack signaled Stellulam's use of her mark, and the edges of the distortion took on the same sickly green light as a rift, save that it was a little cleaner, bereft of the traces of murky black that always drifted in those. She physically held her hands toward the tear, face pulled into a grim cast of effort.

Astraia took up a balanced stance, her staff held firmly in both hands. Magic energy flowed from the end of it in waves. It was directed at stabilizing and helping keep open the tear that Stellulam and Harellan were forcing, and for the moment was more than adequate.

When the tear was comfortably stable, Leon stepped towards it, a thin haze of light limning his body. He stared directly into the distortion, which now shifted and occasionally imparted glimpses of the fade beyond, the world overlaying the world. For what seemed like interminable minutes, he simply stared hard into the distortion, as though searching for something that could not be seen. But he must have found it, because he stepped back and to the side a moment later, leaving nothing between the tear and Cyrus himself but a few feet of empty space.

It didn't take long for Cyrus to understand why. Almost as soon as Leon had stepped back, something followed him out. He had the vague impression of a blue-purple light, and a humanoid shape, and then a hand reaching towards him. The light filled his vision, whiting out the field of his perception so abruptly it was painful. For a moment, it felt as though someone had cleaved into his skull with an axe, and then all was blissfully quiet, his consciousness gone before his body had even fallen backwards onto the ground.

Cyrus cracked his eyes open, and found himself somewhere completely different.

The smell hit him first, the familiar bouquet that belonged to nearly every place that had ever become his, however temporary: the thick scent of parchment mingled with the sharper note of ink, cedar and wood varnish, the pungent blend of dried alchemical reagents, and fresh air, filtering in from somewhere. It was hard to say where, for the room he stood in was quite the grand library, shelves ordered neatly and extending almost all the way to the vaulted ceiling. It reminded him of what he imagined the Shattered Library would have been, were it still whole, though he lacked the image to compare it to. He'd not been able to dream in Arlathan, after all.

Shafts of light pierced the space, lighting up the dust motes in the air and painting the entire chamber in a mellow golden color that suggested sunset, though he had the sense that the time of day could just as easily have been sunrise, and that it didn't matter anyway.

Curious, he peered at the nearest shelf, unsurprised to find the titles familiar, and traced his fingers along the spines as he started forward, his footsteps noiseless against the plush carpet runner on the floor. Indigo, with silver accents. Something about the scent was still bothering him—there was something additional to it, but he couldn't place what it was. Couldn't even decide what type of thing it might be.

At the end of the stack, he came to a familiar-looking desk, papers strewn across the surface in just the way he was wont to do in the middle of a project. Cyrus smoothed his fingertips over a bent corner, sliding into the chair at the desk as though it were the most natural, habitual thing in the world. He tilted his head down at the handwriting, blinking a few times to be sure of what he saw. Some of it was his, but... slightly different somehow. A little neater, a little less haphazard. Like he'd made the notes for someone else to read as well. Other pages were in a different hand entirely, and his own had made notes in the margins. An active conversation, then. Debate, even. Who...?

As if summoned by the mere thought of someone else, a pair of hands came to rest on his shoulders, before the person to whom they belonged leaned forward and down, sliding their fingers over his chest and settling their chin on his shoulder. He stiffened a moment, but found himself relaxing again almost immediately. The fingers of his right hand twitched; he felt the sudden desire to... card them through someone's hair. It felt—

"I thought I might find you up here." He could hear the words, but as with the scent, he could not recognize any characteristics of the tone of them. Not even as little as the gender of the speaker. "The others are waiting for you, you know."

Cyrus shifted his head, peering over and down at the same time, but just as he suspected, he looked at the person without seeing them. Or saw them without noticing them. No details presented themselves to his mind, even at the same time as he was nearly overrun by a strange sentiment. A quietude, one that sat in his chest with unfamiliar ease. “What others?" He took one of their hands in his own. Smaller, he thought, but he couldn't focus enough to tell by how much. The will to do it kept slipping away, like water, sliding back into the warm pool of contentment right at the center of him.

They smiled at him, and the one thing that came through clearly was the feeling in it. A feeling he'd seen in others before, but never directed at himself. "All of them, of course. Our friends and family. Your students. They're waiting for you downstairs. Well. Waiting for us, now."

He almost wanted to ask why 'they' were all waiting for him, but he knew there was no answer. His aspirations were too vague of late. His brows furrowed, and he forced himself to concentrate. The scene shimmered, and he grimaced. “Please. Stop."

The figure wavered, too, and then they were a soft blue, still no more determinately anything else. The spirit took a step away, releasing him from its hold. "Why?" It sounded genuinely puzzled. Spirits were simple in certain ways. "Is this not what you want?"

Abandoning the chair, Cyrus stood. Understanding exactly what he was looking at made the traces of the fade all the more obvious. The sunshine was weaker now, greyed out and indistinct, and the smell had faded to something more like a memory. Or a wish. “Not like this." Not with a faceless spirit-puppet in one role and an incomplete version of himself in the other.

"It's so strong." The spirit apparently took his reason at face value, for it did not argue. Its features were still blurry, shifting every time he looked back at it. Sometimes it wore his sister's face for the blink of an eye, or the face of one of his friends, but never well. As though none of the guises were quite the one it wanted. "But it's very vague, isn't it?"

Cyrus dropped his eyes, biting his tongue. “It's what's left, I suppose." The strongest thing left, or at least the most corruptible one. He'd let go of his bitterness and his resentment as well as he could, and he could recognize that the traces of them were weaker in him than they used to be. There were plenty of other negative things still to be found, if it went digging: suspicion, loneliness, lingering despair. But this—this he wanted. And he wasn't sure what kind of want it was.

"It's lovely," the spirit assured him. Now that it no longer wore the guise of part of the dream, much of the warmth in its expression was gone, but not all of it. "Not easy to get, though. Not for you."

“And that's why it's you and not someone else."

The spirit inclined its head. "No one needs me for the easy things." It stepped forward, reaching a hand up to touch his brow. "And I think you're going to need all the help you can get."

He felt himself leaving the fade in a much gentler way than he'd entered it, like a slow succumb to sleep rather than an abrupt loss of consciousness. When Cyrus next opened his eyes, it was to find Harellan looking down at him, though he could sense the others nearby.

"I do believe it worked." The elf observed this with poorly-contained interest. "Try giving us a light, perhaps?"

Cyrus grunted, pushing himself into a seated position. He could probably make a remark about rushing here, but the truth was the words had jolted him like a bolt of lightning, and he wanted desperately to know whether his uncle was right.

The spell was old to his hands and his mind, and with nothing more than the barest whisper of thought, a melon-sized sphere of light erupted from his palm, streaking up towards the stone-rimmed circle of sky overhead. Grinning for what felt like the first time in years, Cyrus closed his fist over, and the orb exploded, showering the clearing in harmless sparks. Apparently control was going to take a bit more practice yet. He couldn't bring himself to care.

It was back.

He was whole again.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Rom had to remind himself that he wasn't here to torture anyone.

He was here as the Lord Inquisitor, and the Lord Inquisitor wasn't allowed to torture anyone. Even high-ranking Venatori that wanted them all dead. They did things differently than their enemies. They tried to be better.

It didn't change the fact that Amalia, Cyrus, Lia, and Rilien had brought back a woman in chains, and deposited her in a dark room of the Skyhold dungeons, and that Rom among other people would be going in to speak with her. She had much to answer for, including an attempted assassination on Cyrus back when she'd been an infiltrator in their ranks. But right now she needed to give them information about her master and the Venatori, information that could give the Inquisition the confrontation they sought. A chance to destroy their enemies before any more harm could be done.

He found Amalia, Ithilian, and Lia outside the dungeons, speaking amonst themselves. He imagined this was a big moment for them. Perhaps too big for any of them to risk setting foot in the room with Leta. Rom gave them a respectful nod as he made his way down the stairs to the dungeons. They followed him inside soon after.

The others awaited him at the bottom, in the entryway of the dungeons. Leon was present, looking better and stronger by the day. With him were Lady Marceline, and Cyrus, who knew their prisoner the best. Between them, they'd have to find a way to get Leta to divulge something valuable. And trustworthy enough to act upon.

"What's her mindset?" Rom asked, directing the question to Cyrus. "Anything we can take advantage of?"

Cyrus offered a half-smile, the expression almost slightly pained. He'd been looking especially happy since the return of his magic, but that was gone now, masked by the dark circles under his eyes and the uncomfortable way he held his shoulders. “She hates me." He shrugged, clearly trying to downplay the fact that this did not sit especially well with him. “And I don't mean she considers me a rival or wants to punch me in the face. I mean she went out of her way to kill me in a manner that could have jeopardized her mission—just about the most painful way she could think of, I might add. When it didn't work, she at least had the consolation of knowing I didn't have my magic anymore. And now she knows even that didn't stick. There's probably an advantage in how angry that makes her, but... I don't know. I'm not sure it would be a good idea for me to be in there. Not unless nothing else works." Reminding her of just how much she wanted to resist them, after all, was not likely the best way to secure her cooperation.

“More generally... it's hard to say. I knew her so long ago. We were both different people then. I wouldn't be surprised if she was devoted to Marcus. There weren't a lot of chances for someone like her, and he gave her one. Might be tough to drive a wedge in there, but powerful if you can."

"All right." He wondered what form that devotion would take, if indeed her loyalty to Marcus could be described that way. Not likely earned from love, he thought. He turned and stepped to the side, allowing Amalia, Ithilian, and Lia into the circle. "And what about Marcus? Do you think he would even take her back under his wing, after we've captured her?" The last Venatori they'd captured had led them into a difficult trap to escape from, after all. As it turned out, he'd been disposed of to begin with, and he didn't even know it. Somehow Rom was willing to guess this situation was different. Leta had fought at Marcus's side that day, after all. Not a small honor.

Amalia contemplated that for a while, arms crossed. "Maybe," she said at last, sounding dissatisfied with her own answer. "Marcus is cold enough to discard that which is no longer useful to him. But his personality is also... obsessive. He tends to sink much of his effort into relatively few things. Training an apprentice to this degree would have had to be one of those things. Relinquishing her is not a sacrifice he would make easily. But also not one I think he'd be unwilling to make if he felt he had to." Her brows knit. "You might get somewhere, if you remind her of that. She strikes me as someone who has her own aims, ultimately. Devoted or not, there is a breaking point somewhere. A place where her own ambitions could unmoor her from his."

Rom nodded, considering that. Leta's aims were undoubtedly not going to be the Inquisition's aims, but if they were separate from Marcus's, they could potentially pull them apart that way. He looked to Marceline next. "If it comes to it, how much would we be willing to offer her? We can't let her go, obviously, but there must still be some flexibility in her fate here."

Lady Marceline thought for a moment, her arms crossed and her chin resting on the ball of her first. When she spoke, her hand moved away from her face, "We can take execution and hard labor off of the table, but like you said, her freedom is out of the question," she agreed, though even she didn't seem convinced the effect these would have on her. "Moving on, we could also offer her better living conditions than a dank prison," she continued to offer, though like the others, this one still didn't seem to convince her.

Rom doubted it would enough to sway her much, but it was something. Leta had to be thinking, too. She would know that if she didn't cooperate at all, she'd be spending a very long time rotting in a cell. Perhaps she was willing to face that. There was only one way to find out.

"Let's see what she has to say, then. Maybe just Leon, Marceline, and myself to start." Others could always enter if they needed a change of pace.

Leta was considerably smaller than some of the other people who'd sat in that chair, but perhaps no less proud. The last few days imprisoned hadn't worn on her in any way she was allowing herself to show. Though her hair was unwashed, she'd pinned it up meticulously, and the dirt on her robes was minimal. A healing abrasion remained on her cheek where Amalia had planted her in the dirt, as the story went, but it didn't look to be bothering her. She sat with straight-backed posture, wary dark eyes tracking them as they entered. Her face gave away little by way of clues to her thoughts—it remained hard and impassive even as they took up their places in front of her.

Leon spoke first, adopting what Rom now recognized easily as his preferred opening tack in interrogations: courtesy. "I understand you're a captain within the Venatori. Captain Leta, I am Commander Albrecht, and this is Lord Inquisitor Romulus, and Lady Marceline Benoüt, though I suspect you knew all of that already." Leon pulled out one of the chairs across the table from where Leta was chained and sat in it, bracing his forearms on the edge of the wood. "We've no intention of insulting your intelligence. You already know what we will—and won't—do to get the information we need. And you have a better sense than we do how far you're willing to go to keep your silence. This doesn't have to be any more antagonistic than it already has been."

From the way Leta's eyes came to rest on him, she was listening, but the silence after Leon spoke stretched much too long for the exchange to remain polite. Her face remained stony. She flicked her eyes to Lady Marceline next, as though anticipating the next words to come from her.

Unwilling to disappoint, she spoke. "We are willing to offer you a number of concessions for your aid," she began. She stood still and calm by Leon's side, her arms still crossed and her face impassive. It appeared that she was going to continue with his polite method. "We will help you, but only if you help us," she stated.

"Concessions?" Leta's lip curled, but she smoothed her expression back out quickly. "And what would those be?"

"We will take hard labor rebuilding what this war has destroyed off of the table, for one," she started, putting a subtle emphasis on 'destroyed.' "We will also ensure that you remain more comfortable than the cold hard stones of our dungeons would offer. Depending on what you tell us, we may even be able to work out something more." she added. The girl wasn't foolish however, and she had to have known that the Inquisition would not simply offer her freedom back to her.

The chains dangling from the cuffs on Leta's wrists clinked as she raised her hand, just enough to run the pad of her thumb over her lower lip. "Or... I could endure your dungeons for the mere weeks it will take this castle to be overrun by my master, and taste freedom once more without having given you a damn thing." Her tone was a mockery of the civility both Marceline and Leon had used, light with false humor.

Leon's brows furrowed, though probably not because she was mocking them. "Your master," he repeated flatly. "Marcus. Not Corypheus." If that was true, it had to mean that Marcus was alarmingly close to his goal of overthrowing the darkspawn Magister—but then again, they had no particular reason to believe what Leta said.

"Very good, Commander. You might almost be as clever as you are large." Leta inclined her head, still entirely unperturbed.

"Weeks, is it?" Leta's choice of words seemed specific and certain enough to have meaning for Rom. Quite possibly a slip. "So something big is happening, and soon. Has to be somewhere you'd be able to return to with your escort in time, to report back to Marcus whatever you went into the Deep Roads for." Some of the others knew more about Marcus's specific aims than he did, but Rom didn't really need to for this.

"We'd know if you were preparing for something big in Ferelden. Our scouts caught you and your band moving through the woods, they wouldn't miss something bigger than that. Every Marcher city state is on full alert since your red lyrium-addled friends attacked Kirkwall. That leaves Orlais." Unfortunately, Orlais was a very big place, but there were still ways to narrow it down. "We have too many eyes and too many friends in the cities. Would have to be somewhere remote..."

He leaned his weight back against the wall near the door and crossed his arms. "Am I on the right track here?"

"Oh, getting very warm, yes." It might have been confidence that kept Leta looking so untroubled, even though it was hard to imagine that she'd meant to give them all that information with what little she'd actually said. "A remote Orlesian somewhere. Really, you don't need anything from me, with all that." Irony laced the words; she sat back and let her hands fall into her lap with a jangling of metal.

Her eyes shifted to the wall behind them, narrowing slightly. "Just a little while longer, and everything will be as it should."

Leon ignored her for the moment, or at least pretended to, clearing his throat slightly and glancing between Rom and Lady Marceline. "Not any remote somewhere, I should think. History is telling: Marcus has spent years traversing elven ruins, something we now know was part of his plan to usurp Corypheus. It stands to reason that since his spell was still incomplete last we saw his notes, he'd have continued interest in such sites. Not too many with enough history this far south, I think."

For the first time, Leta showed a hint of frustration, glaring hard at the wall and sucking her teeth. It took only a moment more for her to speak unprompted. "You want a location? Fine. It's no great secret. But unless you wish to flounder in the dark through every ruin between here and the Tirashan... I want an actual room. With a window. You can bar it if it suits you, but I hardly have the resources to survive this godsforsaken mountain anyway."

Marceline nodded in agreement. "That can be arranged," she said glancing at Leon. "We will see to it that it is comfortable as well," She spoke with an even tone, unperturbed by Leta's previous goading.

"Provided what you tell us is true, of course."

"The Arbor Wilds." Leta parted with the words in a way that conveyed a little more reluctance than her umbrage suggested moments ago. Clearly the effort to contain her emotions was beginning to wear. "And may the crows there feast on you all."

"We'll make sure your room has a nice view of the main gate," Rom promised her. "Wouldn't want you to miss our return." Their scouts would have to confirm that the Venatori were indeed there before any reward would be given to Leta, but he was confident she was telling the truth. What wasn't included was exactly what Marcus and perhaps Corypheus were after there, and where exactly in the Arbor Wilds they could be found. It was a large place, as far as Rom knew.

Thankfully, they had some experts on these things that could be consulted. And they had an army that had been itching to take the fight to the Venatori for a long, long time.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Disappointment. Paranoia.

It was an all-consuming fear, in this dream. Vesryn walked the halls of an ancient place he'd only recently learned of. A temple Saraya had dared not return to, even so long after it had certainly become a ruin. Barren and devoid of the life he saw here, walking alongside him. Other elves, tall and proud, even in the face of undeniable defeat. Vesryn knew a little of why she wouldn't want to return here. The feelings associated with this place were immense.

Already she'd been contacted, he knew. Given the offer, enticed into betrayal so she could save her family. She'd yet to meet with them, but she already knew she would. How could she refuse, when this was the alternative? This was not living, not when it was compared to the way they used to exist.

"The work is finished," the elf beside her said. "All has been laid out as planned. The greatest enemy of the shemlen is time. Here, we will use it once more."

Vesryn was not Saraya, and could not speak Saraya's words. But he could feel what she felt in this moment, and he could try. This elf was a friend, he knew. She'd known him for hundreds of years, if not more. She feared him learning her secret, more than any of the others she passed by.

"And what of those that don't last that long?" he asked. "Is time not our greatest enemy now as well?"

"Their knowledge will feed into the Vir'abelasan. In that way, those who toiled in Mythal's favor as we have will be preserved. It is far more than those who died in battle can say."

And yet, it was so little. The Well of Sorrows. That was the translation. The dream was not perfect; Saraya's memory of this place was strong, but she'd only been here a few times, as the end drew near. It was a temple of Mythal, buried away in the Arbor Wilds deep in the south. A place she felt was better left undisturbed. They had no choice now.

The Well was a pool. How fitting, Vesryn thought. If Saraya could be stored in a vial, how many elves, how many uncountable years could they filter into a pool? And what would happen to anyone who claimed such a treasure? For surely that was what Corypheus intended. Surely somewhere in the depths of the knowledge of the ancients would be the way to tear open Heaven and claim it for himself.

"You should stay, Marellanas," the elf urged him. His face was in part shrouded by a hood, but he could see his amber eyes, the vallaslin for Mythal marked upon his forehead and brow. Perhaps they'd served together, Saraya and this man. It was not enough to stop Saraya's betrayal, but it was enough to make her feel wretched for it. For looking him in the eye and telling him lies.

"I won't," he answered. "I won't accept that this is all that's left to us. And you know it cannot last. A hundred years, a thousand? What difference does it make?"

"Have you really lost so much faith?"

Faith... "Our gods are dead or gone. Either way, lost to us." He needed to leave, to flee. To escape this place, and save who he still could. "We must all do what we can on our own now. What we think is best."

The elf stared at him, locking eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment. Perhaps he knew, but would not say anything. Perhaps their friendship was worth that much. Vesryn couldn't say.

"So we must.



Vesryn woke to a world of agony, rolling over and falling out of the bed. His head felt like it was split open by an axe, and the room was spinning. For a moment he thought he might vomit, but the feeling thankfully passed quickly. Something about the forced sleep, perhaps. It wasn't difficult for the mages in the Inquisition to lull him into a slumber, and Stel could dull the pain enough until he was out. They needed information about where the Venatori were going to strike, and he knew right away that Saraya could help.

That was about all he was capable of anymore. He was deteriorating much more quickly this time, despite his best efforts to shrug it off. There were some things toughness could not fight. He hated the effect it was having on Stel by proximity, but there was nothing to be done for it. She would be there for him until the very end, he knew that. He wouldn't have it any other way.

But the end appeared to be approaching quickly. The least he could do was try to help stop Corypheus before it came. Staggering to his feet, he wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow before he staggered towards the door. He could hear others beyond in Stel's office, discussing something, their words muted either by the door or by grogginess or by his decaying mental state, it was hard to say.

He reached out for the door, and too late he found it already slightly open. It gave way and he spilled through, collapsing into the room on his side with a pained groan. For a brief moment, the conversation was silenced as all eyes turned on his clumsy entrance.

"Ves!" Stel, unsurprisingly, was the first to react, crouching by his side and assisting him to his feet. From there, the sofa wasn't more than half a dozen steps, and she went with him to sit, letting her hands fall away only when he was stable. "You... have something?" Maybe it was a guess, but likely not a difficult one.

"Yes... hopefully." The seat was a relief, even if the pain he was in didn't go away just because he was off his feet. "There's a temple of Mythal deep in the Arbor Wilds, hidden there. It was altered after Arlathan's Fall, to... preserve, I think, the guardians of that place. Sentinels. Some kind of magic bound to the temple itself." Saraya didn't happen to think it was all that important. As she understood it the magic likely wore off long ago, any elves remaining in there forced to flee into the woods and live as the other survivors did. But despite everything she gave Tevinter, she never led them to that place. That much he knew.

"Corypheus wants the Vir'abelasan, the Well of Sorrows," he continued, still breathing as though he'd just run here from the Hinterlands. "It's... a nexus of elven knowledge, of servants of Mythal that passed."

Though reactions varied, Harellan looked strikingly unsurprised by the news, almost as if it was exactly what he'd been expecting to hear. His brows knit slightly, and he gripped his upper arms in either hand. "I cannot emphasize enough the fact that he must not gain access to the Well." He shook his head faintly. "The knowledge in it—in some hands it would only be incomprehensible whispers. But if Corypheus or this Venatori man Marcus drank of it... I've little doubt they'd crush you. And the rest of Thedas after." The fact that the words were delivered flatly was almost worse than if they'd been given more gravitas. They didn't need the emphasis.

Cyrus frowned outright, narrowing his eyes at his uncle. “You knew of this and said nothing?"

A soft breath left Harellan; he pursed his lips. "It wasn't relevant before now. I'd hoped to never speak of it at all. But if Corypheus knows of it, there is no longer any choice."

"If it's that serious," Leon said gravely, "we may well need to mobilize the whole army. I doubt Corypheus risks himself now by bringing only a token force."

"We should leave as soon..." Vesryn winced at a sudden and sharp pain. "As soon as we can. We're lucky they don't have it already." Especially considering all the time they had to look for it. But maybe it was hidden better than other ruins. Maybe some of the old magic survived, and was keeping it safe. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be safe for much longer.

"If that's settled, there might be one more thing to discuss. A selfish one, nothing to do with armies or saving the world." He didn't consider saving Saraya to be selfish, but he'd be saving himself too if this was possible, and requiring them to go out of their way on an important mission. Of course, if the Venatori could be dealt with the extra time spent in the temple might not matter. "The magic used on that place... do you think any of it might still be lingering? They were planning to use it to stave off death. Could it be useful, in my case?"

He asked Harellan, who seemed most likely to know. Saraya's immediate reaction to his guess was hard to discern, but he didn't find any disagreement, and that was encouraging.

The other elf's eyes narrowed in thought; he smoothed over the knuckle of his thumb with his index finger. "That would be... very hard to say from here. I'd have to know what condition that magic was in now, if indeed any was left. Whether it's directly applicable to your case in the first place—I'd have to get a sense of it to know. It might work, but... don't place too much weight on the might." The last came out with a note of apology and a smile that was more of a grimace. "I would that I could say something more encouraging, but..."

“Sounds like it's worth a try to me." Cyrus leaned back against the wall with an obvious frown, eyes moving between the others. “We specialize in slim chances around here."

"Whatever the chances..." Vesryn paused, both to take a breath and to let another wave of discomfort pass from his head. "I'm going. To the Arbor Wilds, and to the temple. I may not be much of a fighter anymore in this state, but you'll need a guide. We can't settle for following Corypheus inside, and Saraya knows the way. It was one of the last places she visited, before... well." Before she was no longer welcome among her own kind.

"And with how fast this is progressing... we may not have any more time to lose." If they left without him... they might return to find him dead already.

It was clearly a sobering thought for the rest of the room, given the grim expressions all around. Stel's hand found his knee; she squeezed firmly and addressed the general company. "Well... that's settled then. Commander, please begin making preparations for the deployment. I'll speak with Romulus and the others."

Leon nodded promptly—an advisor accepting the Lady Inquisitor's orders. As he left, though, he turned back over his shoulder just briefly. "Take care of yourself, Vesryn." For a moment, he was clearly contemplating something further, but with a slight shake of his head, he resumed his exit instead.

“I'm going to dig up anything I can find about that magic." Cyrus hesitated for only a moment, then shifted his eyes to Harellan. “Teach me?"

His uncle looked surprised to be asked, but recovered quickly. "Of course. We'll prepare as much as we can." The farewells were perfunctory—now that they all had something to aim themselves towards, it seemed they were eager to set themselves to it. Or at least felt the urgency.

So it was settled, then, and the others filtered out of the room until only he and Stel remained. There was something, where there had been nothing before. Only waiting, looming death for the both of them. He still wasn't sure how Saraya felt. Maybe it was too unfair, to use this place that she'd never believed in before to save them. This place that she'd chosen to hide, when she could've easily given it to the Imperium. Perhaps she'd known that the Well of Sorrows simply couldn't be lost to people like them. Or some loyalty to Mythal yet remained.

He didn't want to pry anymore. He didn't really want to think about it. It was strange, facing what seemed to be his last days. More than likely he wouldn't live to see the fall. It had to be even stranger for Saraya. To exist so long, and only now find that the end was approaching rapidly, too fast to have ever been predicted.

He sighed, leaning back and resting his hand atop Stel's. "This should be interesting." It wouldn't be a boring end he faced, that much was certain. "There's probably lots of preparing to do, but... have you eaten? It's been a hectic day." He felt tired enough to sleep already, but was it even the afternoon yet? He wasn't sure.

"Not yet," she admitted, turning her hand over so she could press her palm to his and lace their fingers together. She made no move to rise or rectify the situation, though, instead releasing a breath and letting herself ease backward as he had done, tilting her head to rest it softly against his arm. "How about you? Did you want to eat, or sleep maybe?" She tucked her free hand into the crook of his elbow, working herself in about as close as she could without requiring him to take any of her weight.

"Hmm... is there time for both?" Truthfully, he didn't think he could eat much. But he hoped to make sure she did. If they were going to cut off Corypheus from this, then it was far more important for her to succeed than him. Even if he wasn't just one man, he was still small in the grand scheme of things.

Stel tilted her head up, considering his face for a long moment. Whether she read his intentions or not, she nodded slightly; he could hear her swallow thickly. "Yeah," she murmured. "Yeah, there's time." She stood slowly, keeping their hands linked so she'd be able to help him do the same.

"Let's go spend a little with our friends."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by AugustArria
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And as the black clouds came upon them,
They looked on what pride had wrought,
And despaired.
-Canticle of Threnodies 7:10
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Ithilian marched with the army, though he would yet again not be fighting.

He was never going to get used to this, he imagined. It was the same as sailing to Kirkwall, that wretched feeling of knowing those he loved would be throwing themselves into the worst kind of danger, and all he could do was wait and hope that they returned to him alive and whole. His own daughter, trying to chase down the man that took his arm, the man that had scarred Amalia in so many different ways.

No, he would never get used to that thought.

They marched quickly, heading west around the mountains. There was little time for calling allies. They'd been notified and would send help, but the bulk of the fighting here would be the Inquisition's alone. It was growing warmer even at Skyhold, and here on the road it was comfortable. The heat of the sun was perhaps even a little annoying, for those making the trip in armor.

It felt different this time. This was the Venatori's play, their most aggressive move with the most to gain and the most risk. If it paid off for them the Inquisition could well be destroyed in a month's time. If not, the opposite could be true. Either way, this was going to come to an end. Ithilian had to believe that was true of their personal conflict as well. Someone was not going to survive. It was inevitable.

"Not much farther now," Lia pointed out. They were heading south now, making straight for the Arbor Wilds. Normally Lia would be with the scouts ranging ahead, and there she would remain for the battle. This time she'd requested a special assignment, to remain with Amalia and be among the Irregulars that would be the Inquisition's fist in the fight. The place most likely to cross paths with Marcus.

"Not much farther," he agreed. Amalia had been quiet, but that was not unusual for her. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

She turned slightly at the question, meeting his eye with both of hers. He could read the answer fairly easily in that moment, but she said the words as well. There were times when that was important. "This will be the last time," she said quietly. "I cannot say how I know this, only that I do." Perhaps it was that it had to be—though she was still strong, still capable, the prolonged fight was more difficult on her mind than her body, he knew, and for all her sturdiness of character, even Amalia had a breaking point.

The dragonhide gauntlets she wore creaked softly as she tightened her grip on the reins of her borrowed horse. Like many of their number, she'd geared up preemptively, now that their destination was within a day's march. "One way or another, it will end here."

He nodded. It was hard not to think of what would happen if the another came to pass. The idea of the Venatori winning wasn't even the most frightening one. If the worst happened, and Amalia and Lia and all the others died in battle, and the Inquisition's army was broken and Corypheus victorious, then he would soon join them, and really nothing would matter then. But if the Inquisition should win, and they were still taken from him... he did not know what he would become. What there would be left to him. He had friends besides them, it was true, but... some pieces simply could not be replaced, and this loss would be one loss too many.

His arm, he could live without. His soul, his reason for continuing... that he could not.

"This feels too big," Lia admitted, lowering her tone. "Too big for someone like me. I wasn't even strong enough to hold a sword when this started, and now I'm trying to finish it." She fell silent for a long moment, and then made sure to pull her horse up alongside Amalia's.

"Trying to help you finish it, rather." It wasn't Lia's fight, not really. She'd never even seen Marcus in person. She'd simply chosen the fight after how much she'd seen it take from the two she cared most about. After her father could fight it no more. "When it comes to a fight... what would you have me do? How can I help you the most?"

"The most important thing is that I be able to handle Marcus without distraction," Amalia replied immediately. "He is clever, and powerful, and even one slip could spell the end of it." Her features hardened, jawline tight; perhaps some memory overtook her in the moment, of some previous battle or slip or wound. Perhaps she was thinking of the last time they'd fought. But whatever it was, it passed, and she clarified. "It would serve best, I think, if you kept your distance. He is not powerless at range, but the greatest danger is when he is close. If you can fire at him freely, do, but it is most important that, even if the fighting is thick, I only need fight him. The more distractions you can eliminate, the better."

All true, no doubt, but also no doubt agreeable to Amalia because it minimized the risk to Lia. There was no way to prevent any risk at all, and even ranged support was in danger of catching the wrong end of Marcus's formidable magic, but as they had both long discovered, it was when that magic was blended with the once-Magister's physical capabilities that it was most potent and effective.

Lia was no doubt aware of Amalia's motives, but they happened to line up with the realities of the situation. She was best put to use from a distance, regardless of what position would be safest for her. Ithilian could tell that it was something she wanted to protest, but could find no reason to. It was understandable; she'd always looked up to Amalia at least as much as she did to him. She wanted to be her equal, but had the self-awareness to know that she was not, and could not occupy the same role in this fight.

"I'll try to keep my distance, then, if the field allows for it." Ithilian had heard the Deep Roads were not accommodating, and that she'd adapted reasonably well to it. Thankfully others had been able to take care of Leta. Lia had been training with Amalia almost every day for months now, ever since their discussion in Kirkwall, but there was no fight quite like one against Marcus. No real way to prepare for that, other than to survive it.

"There was one more thing I was hoping to ask," she said, almost tentatively. "Something we never really covered at Skyhold. When things go wrong... what do you do? What do you use to push through pain, more than you should be able to?" She had to know she was asking the foremost authority on such things. Ithilian had never known anyone able to endure quite so much so evenly, especially without the added benefits of something like berserker training or alchemical effects. But it was obviously something that had to be learned the hard way. Something that Marcus had taught her, indirectly.

"I think..." Amalia trailed off, pushing a loose strand of wheat-gold hair behind an ear. The motion made the scar on her cheek obvious, a white slash, pale against the deep tan of her skin. "The answer to that is different for everyone who must find out." She paused, regarding Lia solemnly. "I hope that you never have to." It went without saying that the amount of agony required for that to happen was not something she'd wish upon most enemies, let alone someone she cared about.

"As for me..." Amalia inhaled; slow, controlled. "There came a time when the prospect of more pain was no longer something I feared. It took... it took time, and suffering, but I came to understand that all pain is temporary. But death is permanent—and to give up on life because of pain is a fool's bargain. I understood that if I did so, I would be defeating myself." She pushed the rest of the breath out, shaking her head as if the words were unsatisfying to her, but then she offered the both of them the tiniest of smiles.

"And there are some things about living that are worth any amount of pain. I try always to think of these, and nothing else."

Lia did not answer immediately, instead remaining silent and thinking on Amalia's words. She didn't get nervous easily, Ithilian knew. From what he'd heard she jumped at the chance to lead the Inquisition's scouts, just as she'd jumped at the chance to join Lucien's Argent Lions, or leave Kirkwall behind for a strange and daunting new city. She didn't hesitate at the prospect of facing red templars or corrupted dragons. But Marcus... she'd seen what the man had done to the two of them. She was nervous about that, there was no hiding it.

"It's a kind of endurance to be admired," he said, breaking the silence, "but maybe not aspired to. If you ever are forced to suffer that much, then Amalia and I will have both failed you as teachers."

"Right, yeah," she agreed, quietly. "Better to just avoid it."

The march continued without interruption, though reports did from in from returning scouts that Venatori had been sighted. Scouts of their own, no doubt reporting to their main force that the Inquisition was coming in full force. It wasn't the best sign. The enemy was ahead of them. They picked up the pace into a forced march, and by the mid-afternoon they'd reached the outskirts of the Arbor Wilds.

The trees were not as massive here as they were in the Emerald Graves, but the Wilds were without a doubt the thicker forest, green and lush with the heat and sunlight of summer. Every few minutes they encountered another stream, and the general denseness of the forest made it difficult to find an appropriate place to make a base camp.

When they did find a suitable clearing, the soldiers worked quickly to set everything up, clearly still possessed of the energy they'd need for the fight. The day's march wasn't going to stop them from facing the Venatori, who had no doubt been hurried as well. Ithilian left his horse alongside Lia and Amalia's two; no doubt they wouldn't be needing them as they moved further into the woods. The Irregulars were called to meet with the Commander in the main tent, to receive their final reports and mission objectives before the battle.

The tent, large as it was, had been the first one erected, and was now nearly full, between the Irregulars, the few like Lia and Amalia who were not usually among that number but had been pulled in for particular reasons—including, it seemed, the elf who called himself Harellan and the little Dalish mage, Astraia—and the command support staff. Still, there was enough room for everyone to at least sort of see the map laid out over the table, and no one would ever have difficulty spotting the Commander, towering over everyone else as he did.

He had the kind of voice that could reach over noise, too, and he put it to use now. Apparently, the three of them were the last people he needed to get the strategy discussion going. "The Venatori are massing deeper in," he said without preamble. "We've had a few independent sightings of Corypheus, so we're proceeding on the assumption that he is in fact here. Their progress is slow—Scout-Lieutenant Signy believes that they've encountered some traps, perhaps defense mechanisms connected to the temple itself. We'll want to be cautious of the same, but I don't think we'll have quite the same level of difficulty." He glanced once at Vesryn, then turned his attention back to the map.

Vesryn looked sickly, though he still wore his armor and carried his bardiche axe. By now everyone in the Inquisition knew of his deteriorating health, though most were still unaware of the cause, Ithilian included. All he knew was that Vesryn intended to continue fighting, until he could fight no more. That alone was inspirational to many of the soldiers.

"Traps or no traps," he said. "We need to find a way inside that temple ahead of Corypheus. We can't settle for chasing him in." He looked to their leaders again. "What's the plan of attack?"

A little surprisingly, it was Khari who answered the question. In sharp contrast to Vesryn, she'd never looked in better health, the prospect of a long, hard battle ahead seeming to invigorate her more than anything. Her armor was polished to a shine, as was the hilt of the enchanted sword just visible over her left shoulder.

“Okay, so. Here's the thing: these trees mean we don't get a conventional battlefield. It's going to be a lot of grappling for space, and positioning will be easier to hold than to gain. So we gotta move fast." She picked up a token and set it down on what seemed to be a very specific spot on the map, some distance to the east of the temple. “This is our high ground. We stage from here. To make sure we can do that, there's already an advance party on the way there to secure it as fast as they can. We're going to be taking all the space we can get vertically, too: archers in trees. Mages, too, if their aim's good enough. Once that point's ours, it's literally downhill from there: we fall on Corypheus's army from that spot and try to punch our way through to the temple." She drew a line with her finger from the token to what looked like a bridge on the east side.

“After we've made a gap, we send the Irregulars through to deal with the actual temple bit, and the rest are going to use the hole in Corypheus's line as a wedge, and separate his people into two halves. Everyone not needed on the hill or below is going to go flank the smaller half so we can get rid of them fast, and then everyone pushes together against the bigger half. If it works... no more Venatori."

"This seems sound, for the Venatori," Amalia noted, crossing her arms and looking down at the map. "But what of the particularly dangerous among them? Corypheus himself, or that dragon he commands?" It went without saying, at least to Ithilian and anyone who knew her well enough, that she considered Marcus just as dangerous—but it was also quite clear to probably everyone in the room what the plan was for dealing with him.

"Corypheus wants the Well of Sorrows, inside the temple." Harellan sounded absolutely certain of it. "He will not waste any time fighting anyone he does not have to in order to get to it. The trick will be stopping his progress, and that, I think, is best left to those who enter the grounds in any case."

“The army's been training a lot, but he'd thresh them." Khari's agreement was sober. “As for the dragon... no one's seen it yet, so it's hard to know exactly what to do. If it comes, we'll need to throw some of our best at it, for sure, even if it's not ideal to split us up."

Leon nodded there, taking over for Khari and addressing the assembled. "The forest is hardly the ideal location for the dragon anyway. If it does appear, we'll have quite a lot of cover to make use of. It's important to maintain our flexibility as much as possible, since it's likely that there will be complications along the way. But as a general strategy, this seems to be the best option. The important thing—more important than anything else we do—is stopping Corypheus or Marcus from getting what is in that Well. If things come to a choice, choose that, regardless of the other option."

"Best of luck, everyone." The quiet encouragement came from the Lady Inquisitor, standing next to her counterpart. She had a face that was difficult to read, but anyone could see the tension there now.

The group dispersed. They had a few moments to prepare before they would be moving out into battle. Ithilian felt... naked, perhaps, was the right word. No bow on his back. No dagger on his chest. No armor protecting him. He carried his old Dalish blade on a hip, but it would be of little use to him in a fight against Venatori in their prime. He couldn't move nearly as well as he used to, even before the lack of arm was considered. Too many old wounds. He doubted even Nostariel could've held him together, had she been with him the whole time.

"I know I'm wasting my breath," Lia said, as the three of them exited the tent. "But try not to worry too much, okay? Everything's going to be fine."

"You're right." His words were soft, almost lost in the camp activity all around them. "You are wasting your breath."

She rolled her eyes, and hugged him tightly. He tried to be prepared for that, but somehow it still surprised him. Every time. He hugged her back as best he could. "Go. Prepare. Focus on the task."

She broke the hug, offering a brief nod to Amalia before she left them to group up with the others. Ithilian watched her go. He hoped it would not be for the last time. But hope was all he could do, and that would never not be painful.

"There is nothing to say that has not already been said." He looked back to Amalia, and settled his hand on her shoulder. "End him, and come back alive."

Amalia's eyes fell shut for a brief moment; her hand found his own on her shoulder, and she squeezed firmly. Not firmly enough that he couldn't detect the slightest of tremors in her fingers. A bracing breath helped her still the shake, and she cracked her eyes open again to meet his own.

"I will." The words might have been a statement, but the way she said them made them something much more deliberate. They were a promise.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The vantage point she'd chosen in consultation with Leon had proven its worth already.

As it turned out, Cor's advance party had reached it in just enough time; they'd been holding off Venatori since, picking them off as they tried to ascend the hill. The only significant losses to the Inquisition so far had been from magical bombardment, and even then, the trees had proven to be effective shelter from the worst of what the mages threw their way. The arrows and spells that rained down in retaliation kept larger advances at bay, the Inquisition's vanguard able to choose their targets with greater precision.

And now that the main body of the force had arrived to back them up, morale was high. Khari could sure feel it; her blood was practically singing in her bones, the low simmer before the boiling-over that would take hold when she found herself in the thick of it. Crazy as it might have been—crazy as she knew some people had to think her for it—she could hardly wait.

But for now she could keep a cool head. The Venatori were trying one last charge up the hill, in greater numbers this time, not yet aware that the Inquisition had reached the battleground in full. so she and some of the other melee fighters in the group lay in wait, for those lucky enough not to get cut down by the death-dealers in the trees above.

Red-feathered arrows sailed overhead and thunked solidly into exposed fleshy-bits, causing their intended target to falter long enough to catch a blade to the belly or be pushed aside by the front ranks closing in on the Venatori. Those particular arrows belonged to none other than the wild-haired captain herself, choosing garishly colored feathers that struck a harsh contrast against their woodland surroundings.

Easier to find, she’d said. Besides, it looked a lot like Khari’s hair, and she’d figured that it would be a little nod to her leading them into the fray. A stupid, foolish sentiment, but one that’d drawn Zee’s telltale grin into a full-sail.

She’d positioned herself on the hilltop with the other archers and magic wielders, fingers deftly plucking arrows from the quiver strapped to her back. With a cursory glance, Khari could tell that she was grinning wide, hands affixed to the shiny new bow she’d been gifted. An unusual swirl of onyx and a deeper purple. Like holding darkness in her hands.

Another arrow hissed through the air, catching a man just below the notch of his helmet. Left cheekbone. He stopped mid-stride, eyelids fluttering wide, until blood bubbled and poured down his neckline, staining tunic and chainmail alike. Part of his face seemed to sag and distort. Skin puckering and pulling downwards, sloughing off. Poison. Or acid. Something she’d most likely acquired from Ril.

On either side of the arrows' paths pinkish barriers sprung up between the trees. Many of the Venatori found themselves running headlong into a sturdy wall, and those that didn't backed up and reevaluated their routes. Strategically placed amongst the trees were openings to allow the Venatori to funnel in. Asala's hands were alight with magic, and her eyes darted and forth between the length of her magically walls. Undoubtedly constantly controlling the ebb and flow of power to the shields, siphoning power away from the ones with less activity to the ones with more.

The bottleneck allowed the archers and mages to concentrate their fire, meaning they almost had to work to miss. At one point, two tiny, rapid balls of light went careening past Khari, landing in the middle of the advancing column. The explosion that followed burst across her eardrums at the same moment as fire bloomed over her vision, punching a hole in the procession of Venatori and leaving the ones in the front dazed as they continued to stumble ahead.

A quick glance backwards was enough to confirm that Cyrus and Harellan were responsible; they both ducked behind cover a moment later, just in time for another volley of arrows to streak down the hill. But the volume of Corypheus's army was great, and despite all the things putting them down, the sheer number of the darkspawn's forces meant that it was only a matter of time before enough of them pushed up the hill to threaten the archers.

Closer, closer... “Now!" Khari was first out of cover, catching a red-robed swordsman by surprise and sinking her blade into his belly. There was a layer of leather under the robe; not near enough to halt Inga's punch. Dark blood glinted off the blade as she pulled it out again, casting the corpse off with a foot and cleaving into the next.

Leon settled in beside her at the very front of the defense, shoring up Khari's left flank—her weak side. The months he'd spent nearly-dead were behind him now, and the surety of his movement made it clear. His punches and kicks were as precise as they'd ever been, and he felled two soldiers in quick succession before resetting to his place so they could bear down the hill together. She could see the flash of white in the gaps of his helmet: a grim smile.

Amalia slipped between the trees nearby, deftly avoiding the routes Asala had blocked off and picking off any enemies who thought themselves clever enough to try an alternate route through the magical blockade. She was never more than a flash of motion or a whisper of sound, the pitch-black dragon scales of her armor blending seamlessly with the deep shade cast by the canopy above. Lia kept pace with her, using her bow at short range and picking her targets carefully.

A war cry signaled Ves's entrance into the fight. He rammed the pommel of his axe into a Venatori's helmet, brutally smashing the helmet off and spinning the warrior around. A heavy swing followed, cleaving the man at the base of the neck down into his chest. Ves's movements were heavy, deliberate, even a little sluggish. It was a sure sign that he was fighting on his own, without Saraya's help, likely the only way he was capable of it right now. He was sticking close to Stel, whose magic was almost certainly working constantly to keep him up.

Rom picked a spot on Khari's right to carve into, taking on multiple Venatori. He settled for hitting or wounding them before he moved on, leaving the weakened enemies to be finished by the soldiers at his back. The Venatori were quickly realizing the strength of the enemy they were coming up against here, recognizing the Irregulars at the forefront. It wouldn't be long before it led into a retreat, in search of a more favorable location to engage.

To their credit, it didn't take much longer for them to organize it, a horn sounding out from the back ranks. At the sound of it, the rest of them fell back in as organized a fashion as they could. The Inquisition pursued, cutting down many more from behind in pursuit.

But the terrain advantage was lost to them at the bottom of the hill, and more Venatori and soldiers awaited. Khari crashed into the first cluster of them she saw, swinging Inga in a wide arc. She didn't manage to do much more than force several of them back, but it threw off their balance enough for the others to step in and begin the process of carving their path through the defenders.

Leon, still keeping pace, caught one of the Venatori as she stumbled backwards, using their combined momentum to twist her arm out of its socket. She went down, losing her grip on her sword, and he left her there for the soldiers behind, focusing on putting them on the ground or otherwise disabling them long enough to allow the regulars easier targets.

Free of the Inquisition-imposed maze, Amalia hung one row back, quickly ending those left in the wakes of the very front line, and occasionally sliding into a gap to shore up defense, or even to thwart attempts to flank one of her allies. In either case, she stuck close to Lia, working effectively in tandem with the elf's arrows. Further to the left, Estella covered Vesryn's back, letting him choose the path they took through the enemy ranks, the occasional flash of her enchanted sword making her presence easy to track for Khari, who knew it well.

Their progress, rapid down the hill, slowed dramatically on the flat ground, against the full body of Corypheus's forces, or what had to be close to all of them. But slowly they pushed in, the Irregulars at the tip of the spear, fending off enemies on more than one side so as to split their opponents in half.

A cluster of heavily armored Venatori had gathered at the natural chokepoint in the path, intending to put a halt to the advance of the Inquisition's forces. Several spells flew in at them from behind Khari, but they were either caught by magical barriers or dispelled in the air. There were skilled Venatori mages behind the formation it seemed, protecting the otherwise clustered enemies from being disrupted by Inquisition magic.

"Hold up!" Rom called, loud enough that their forces immediately around him could hear him. Those were the ones most likely to charge into that cluster and try to break them up, at least. The reason became clear soon enough; Rom's mark crackled violently as he let the power in it surge to his palm, and a moment later he thrust out his hand, up and towards the Venatori.

With a loud crack a rift opened above the Venatori formation, forcefully pulling everything around it in, effectively wiping it from existence. That included most of the Venatori caught in its grasp, along with a few smaller trees weak enough to be uprooted from the ground. Bark flew off the surfaces of others on the edge, on the sides facing the rift. It was a chaotic, violent display that nearly brought a halt to the fighting as everyone around it observed the effects.

But within moments it was over, and where a wall of Venatori had once been, now there was a gaping hole in the defenses, and the Inquisition jumped on the advantage, rushing in to further cleave the Venatori formation in two. The use of his mark clearly drained Rom a lot, so he was more than willing to allow a few others to go ahead before he pushed himself forward.

Even as the archers and magic users descended the hill, it certainly hadn’t dampened their accuracy. Or the ferocity of their attacks. They swept down and brought up the rear. The press of trees at their sides provided ample room to duck behind should they need to avoid enemy arrows or grab one of their own, steadying themselves for another volley. Another crackle of lightning. They only halted in their steps when Rom called for it—though compared to those elbowing at the front, they were still far enough not to be in the way.

As soon as the whooshing stopped and the sickly green dissipated from view: chaos ensued. Zee approached less like a deliberate, mindful archer, and more like she, too, was carrying a hefty blade in her hands. She’d never been careful, even when she should have been. Awful qualities for an archer, but so it went. She closed in behind Rom and pulled another arrow close to her cheekbone, loosing it into an oncoming Venatori.

It bit deep into his ribs and drooled something foul down his leathers. Greenish liquid. The same bubbling hiss, drowned out by clattering steel and the shouts of men and women at their sides. This time, the Venatori’s desperate shrieks accompanied it, before being abruptly cut off by the sharp end of a blade. She kept close to him, her presence evidence enough that she intended to provide support if needed.

With their opening made, The Inquisition was almost mechanical in their efficiency. At least on the large scale, since people like Zee and Khari were anything but mechanical in their fighting style. It didn't hinder their progress forward, the Irregulars sweeping into the gap Rom had opened and beginning to form the point of the formation into a wedge.

The plan was working just about perfectly, which Khari figured should have been her first clue that it was all about to go to shit. She only caught a glimmer out of the corner of her eye before she reacted, yelping and dragging Zee down by the shoulder. A massive fireball careened over their heads, crashing into the main line still forming up behind them.

Swiftly regaining her feet, Khari deflected an incoming blow almost without seeing it, trying to get a sense of what had caused the disturbance. It took a second, but she could see a black-robed figure receding, and then next to him—

“Corypheus!" She bellowed the name at maximum volume, trying to ensure she'd be heard by everyone who needed to hear her, and thrust out an arm to point in the right direction. They were almost to the temple, but unless someone dealt with him now, he'd have several minutes free and clear head start on them.

Leon obviously heard, barking orders in his much more resonant voice almost immediately. "Romulus, Khari, Asala!" Amalia and Lia had already materialized just behind him—chances were good that guy in the robes was the one they were after. "To me!" His intention was clear—to make a direct assault on Corypheus, and in so doing, buy time for the other Irregulars to infiltrate the temple first.

Even Khari had to admit it was going to be a hell of a thing to try and do. The last time she'd faced Corypheus down, she'd nearly died—and all but one of the people who'd done it with her had died. But this was a thing that needed doing, and damn if she was gonna start being a coward now. Hefting her sword, she fell in next to Leon, sucking in a hard, deep breath.

“Let's do it."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
They were so close to the Temple of Mythal now. Rom could see the walls through the trees from here, across a large gap that had to be a river, a natural barrier to entry.

That meant Corypheus could see it too, and Marcus. A single bridge on a far side of a clearing was their only easy way across to the temple, excellently constructed out of stone and wide enough for at least ten soldiers in full gear to stand side by side. It looked to be in remarkably good shape for something so old, but Rom had far greater concerns at the moment than the architecture.

It was a race to the bridge entryway, one that the Inquisition won. They formed up on their Commander, putting together a wall of shields and bodies between the path across the river and Corypheus. It allowed the rest of the Irregulars to make their way across the bridge while they could. Vesryn looked about to collapse, but managed to make it across with the help of Estella and Cyrus. Astraia, Harellan, and Zee were at their backs, and before long they were clear of the fighting.

Rom turned to find the self-proclaimed god at the head of his Venatori soldiers. There were others at his side, as well. A few surviving red templars and even some Grey Wardens, all slaves to his will. Corypheus hadn't lost any height since the last time they saw each other, still standing at least ten feet tall. "You waste my time, pretender," he said, a fire spell of some sort already lit in his hand. His words were directed at Rom. "Your deaths will not keep me from the Well of Sorrows."

"You couldn't kill us at Haven. You won't kill us now. You're the one dying today." He hadn't been able to find his voice when Haven fell. But thanks to all he'd been through since then, he could find it now.

Corypheus did not seem to care. "Death is a mere trifle to a god. Yet another impossibility I have conquered." He hurled the fire at their formation, and the battle began.

It was a familiar scene for Rom and Khari both: Corypheus hurling powerful spells and taunting them—thinking them powerless. No doubt it rankled her just as much now as it had then, and just as before, she charged to meet the darkspawn head-on. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be, not right away, anyhow. One of the red templars moved to intercept her, and she was forced to draw up short, a frustrated noise loud enough to reach him emerging from behind her helm. The templar nearly caught her with a lyrium spike, the protrusion scraping heavily against the armor protecting her side, but Khari turned her body and the plates held.

It allowed her to bring her sword around for the counterstrike, aimed between shoulder and chin. But the templar turned into the blow as well, and the blade left a dent in his pauldron, but no more. Pulling back, Khari tried again, thrusting forward this time for his less-protected armpit and finding it—but not before a Venatori mage caught her with a chain lightning spell, one that arced over her armor and sped towards the others too.

It did not spread too far before it was killed off by a wall of pink. With the other bodies cut off from its path, the lightning fizzled and just as quickly as it appeared, the wall dropped, Asala's full attention drawn elsewhere. She had a deep-set frown on her lips-- perhaps the closest she could possibly come to a snarl. Her hands danced in the air, alight in magic and conducting a symphony of barriers behind the main line of fighting. Corypheus's fire spells could not connect in full with the formation, the brunt of them fizzling against pink barriers where both flame and shield erased the other.

Between warding off spells, other barriers sprung up in Corypheus's own formation, in an attempt to split his group and single out opponents for their forces to capitalize her. For her part, Asala kept enough wits about herself to stay with the rest of her group so that she did not leave herself defenseless. Her attention was split a great many ways, but by the way her head tilted and her eyes kept watching, she was doing a well enough job of managing.

The mage himself who'd slung the chain lightning suddenly seized up with a shriek, rendered unable to move or cast in what was a dimly-familiar way to Rom. Sure enough, Leon stepped in not a moment later, laying hands on either side of his head and wrenching, cutting off the suffering of burning lyrium in his blood.

Unfortunately, the maneuver left his back temporarily vulnerable, and though there were few weapons he really had to worry about in as much armor as he was wearing, hammers were decidedly one of them. The clang of one colliding with his platemail was followed swiftly by a creaking whine as the metal protested the impact. Leon whirled—there was a distinct crater in the armor at his back, but it didn't look to have quite split or broken at least. When the hammer came in for his head the second time, he caught it in both hands, attempting to wrench it free of the red templar knight who held it. He couldn't manage it, and both men pulled against one another, locked in a struggle that left each of them vulnerable.

Amalia ended the contest before it could drag out too long, leaping onto the templar's back and dragging her knife across his throat. She pushed herself away as he collapsed, landing lightly and ducking back into the fray. No doubt she was trying to get at Marcus, but she seemed patient enough not to foolishly risk herself for an extra few feet of ground.

The Venatori mages were hampered by Asala's barriers, but Corypheus was not delayed long. The next fire spell he unleashed seemed designed for shattering defenses, and exploded against her barrier with a deafening crack, sending shards of the molten magic raining down on friend and foe alike. He pushed through the opening alongside many of his best; Corypheus did not charge necessarily, but the stalking strides of his unnaturally long legs carried him forward swiftly all the same.

Rom went to meet him. He was the one who had to face him, after all, or so he felt. He would do it with Khari and with Asala and Leon if he could, but there was no other enemy on this field that concerned him more than the darkspawn magister leading them. A bolt of lightning flashed past his shoulder, leaving the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up, the heat still almost burning on his cheek even a few moments after it had gone. He closed the distance.

With a claw-like hand Corypheus slashed down at Rom, forcing him to roll underneath the attack and out of the way. He brought his blade around in a backwards stab when he came back to his feet, and it found the back of the Elder One's calf, biting through robe and flesh alike. Honestly, he hadn't expected to be able to wound him that simply, but there it was.

Corypheus hardly seemed to feel the hit, though, and his next slash was too quick to dodge. Rom got his shield up in time, but the force of the blow nearly cracked it, and was enough to toss him aside, skidding across stone and earth until he came to a stop at Leon's feet.

The Commander was quick to bend down and help him to his feet, effectively picking him up by the back of his armor's collar and setting him to rights more quickly than he'd have been able to get to his feet on his own. Leon had to fend off another incoming attack in the process, this one from one of the thralled Wardens; he grimaced and kicked back against the woman's chestplate, releasing Rom and following up with a series of heavier punches.

Once she was down, he took several more hard steps forward, pushing through the line and leaving just enough room for some of the others to do the same in his wake. It was slow, hard going even for him, but finally—finally—they broke through the defenses and set upon Corypheus.

Khari tried first, springing forward with both hands on her sword, the enchantment glowing a pulsing, dark green as if with its own heartbeat. There was nothing subtle about their approach, and Corypheus noticed immediately, loosing his next spell on her instead of the whole group of them. A pair of too-long fingers hovered near his temple, the telekinetic blast lifting her right off her feet despite her best efforts and throwing her backwards into the others. She crashed into Leon, only her awareness of space keeping her sword from landing anywhere unfortunate on either of them.

But there was a moment where Corypheus recovered from the spell, where he was just a little more vulnerable to assault.

Whatever moment they had was ruined by the unmistakable screech of a dragon, one that was all too familiar to Rom. They had one wing-beat on the wind of warning before it swooped overhead, making straight for the temple. Rom looked back to see the group almost at the door, and then they disappeared behind the wall of flames the dragon bellowed down on them, which was enough to leave the entire bridge engulfed.

It wasn't clear if they'd made it inside, but Rom had to believe they did. The dragon carried on into the distance; no doubt it would come around for another pass soon. At least there was no real decent landing spot for it here. It would have to keep to the skies, and there it could only do minimal damage to them. He pulled himself back together, shaking off the hit Corypheus had dealt him, and threw himself back into the fray.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
Asala panted heavily as she stole the moment to wipe the sweat accumulating on her brow. On either side of her were the dead of both sides, Inquisition and Venatori alike, yet the fight still raged around them. Corypheus and Marcus both still stood, but as did they. She wanted to toss a glance to the temple behind them, to see if she could see any sign of the others, but that was not a moment she could spare. A Venatori rushed her with a flame spell, one she snuffed out with an ordinary blue barrier, and as soon as she let that spell go, another took its place, a smaller barrier tearing across and smashing the offender in the side of the head, grounding him. He squirmed, but did not rise again.

She inhaled deeply, and then exhaled quickly, stepping forward closer to the others and the battle with Corypheus.

Though Khari was hardly the type to let her injuries slow her down, she was accumulating an awful lot of them, mostly because she insisted on repeatedly engaging with Corypheus, returning to the fracas every time she was wounded or knocked away or he simply evaded her. One of her pauldrons had been blasted away by a concussive spell, and she was bleeding from the shoulder underneath, ribbons of it running down her chestplate. More of it coated her sword, at least some the brackish, too-dark color belonging to the darkspawn magister. She'd scored a light hit on one side of his ribcage, tearing his robes and flaying open the skin to the bone, not that it much mattered. Corypheus seemed to move and live outside of the normal laws about things like anatomy and pain, as if he were more sustained by magic than anything. Most likely that was true, though it was no magic Asala was familiar with.

The elf charged again, barely avoiding getting her legs taken out from underneath her by a well-aimed burst of frost. It did catch on one of her feet, though, and she let out a frustrated growl, stymied just long enough for Corypheus to move backwards, flinging another blast from both hands.

Leon stepped in to cover her, which for him meant taking up the charge in her stead. He was not so easily stopped, and though the brunt of the magic hit him, he stumbled backwards instead of being thrown away in quite the same manner as Khari had been previously. When he recovered, he took several more long strides, winding back to strike at Corypheus.

The darkspawn shifted back, narrowly escaping a grab as Leon adjusted. But more wardens moved in to defend him, and Leon set to work dismantling the line instead.

Not too far to the left, Marcus too was keeping several of the Inquisition's best at bay, primarily fighting from range and striking opportunistically: hobbling a soldier here, firing a spell into someone's exposed back there. He seemed almost lazy in his motions, like he wasn't especially interested by any of the goings-on, though from Asala's vantage she could tell that he was doing a very good job of preventing Amalia and Lia from reaching him. But the way he did it... it was almost like he thought of the whole battle as a game. One that, for now at least, wasn't even that important to him.

Lia's arrows were the only thing occasionally able to reach him, but the lack of effort required on Marcus's part to defend himself from those was minimal while he was undistracted, and it was serving only to frustrate Lia.

"Asala," Romulus was out of breath at her side, retreated momentarily from the fighting. "I have an idea. You see that statue?" He pointed to one at the entrance to the bridge, at least twenty feet of solid stone in the shape of a spear and shield wielding guard, worn down over time but still standing firmly. "If we can get him over there, you think you can bring that down on top of him?"

Asala followed Rom's indication and ran the scenario through her head quickly. Suddenly nodding she looked back at him. "I can, but be careful," she stated. She would have to weaken the legs first, but her barriers could shove it over once they were. With that, she slowly began to back away from the fight, but kept her eye on it just in case.

"No promises." He took off again, shooting down a Venatori soldier with his crossbow on his way over to Khari. He placed a hand on her shoulder, momentarily keeping her from the fight while he leaned in close to speak, likely telling her where they needed to attempt to force Corypheus's positioning. Once he was finished he separated from her, carving his way towards the mouth of the bridge. The fighting was becoming scrambled, allowing a few of the Venatori to slip through, but Corypheus was receiving far too much attention to escape from the fight.

The very same scramble, though, let Khari push her way past the Venatori line without stopping to fight every single person in her way, and then she was making a beeline for Corypheus again. She took a different approach this time, though, evading the spells thrown at her even when they cost her time. Rather than desperately trying to get a good hit in before she was thrown away, she seemed to focus on not losing ground, and sure enough, Corypheus kept space between them, allowing Khari to slowly herd him towards the bridge in fits and starts.

At one point, she was nearly smothered by another large fireball, but managed to drop to the ground just before it cooked her in her armor. The scorch marks along the back of her armor and helmet were obvious, and it couldn't be comfortable wearing it, but still she regained her feet, pressing forward with the same dogged ferocity as before, feinting for the darkspawn in a very convincing manner that kept him backing up.

Romulus was able to get the flank on him this time, Corypheus leaving his back wide open for the dagger that plunged into it. His marked hand lit up and reached higher, mere inches from the darkspawn's corrupted flesh when he was suddenly thrown back across the grounds. Corypheus lashed out with ice magic, spikes of it sprouting from the ground and stabbing out and up at Khari. It was wide enough to skewer some Inquisition regulars and even Venatori as well, so at the very least it would take Khari time to work around it.

"Pathetic," Corypheus said, his tone little more than a murmur but somehow carrying across the chaotic battlefield. The mark on Romulus's hand was crackling aggressively and causing him significant pain. The source became clear soon enough, as the Elder One carried that orb in his hand, using its power to dominate Romulus and keep him downed through his mark. He stalked towards him with quick, purposeful steps, but they carried him right beneath the shadow of the statue.

A pink barrier ignited under the statue, expanding outwardly until it crashed against its spread legs hard enough to send spiderweb cracks through its ankles and calves. Just as quick, Asala killed that barrier and summoned another, this higher and one across the stone's back. She winced and grunted as she pushed it with her all. The cracks along the things legs protested and widened until finall they just snapped. Even so, she did not let the barrier go, and guided it down onto the Magister, using her shield to give it even more force.

The statue fell spear first onto Corypheus, the stone weapon being the first to strike the darkspawn. The loud crack of stone breaking had garnered his attention, but it was already too late as the spear pierced his shoulder on its path to the ground. It carried the magister with it, and pinned him to the dirt beneath it and the shield it wielded. As a precaution, Asala gave one last push on the statue, causing the spear to dig deeper in both Corypheus's shoulder and the ground beneath.

Even with the extra push, Corypheus was incredibly strong, and it was a matter of seconds before he was extricating himself, the statue splitting with a series of heavy, resounding cracks before it all but blew apart, chunks falling away and allowing the darkspawn to regain his feet.

But the seconds presented an opportunity, and Leon was close enough to capitalize, leaping over a fragment of the stone and landing solidly right in front of Corypheus. Before the former magister could separate them with more magic, Leon's hand lashed out and up, closing around his throat, and a punch landed hard on his cheek, Leon's metal gauntlet flaking off one of the red lyrium protrusions on Corypheus's face. The darkspawn's hands immediately seized Leon's shoulders, fire hissing at his fingers, and he curled them into the Commander's armor, warping and twisting the metal. Leon managed to land a second hit, crunching in what would have been the darkspawn's nose if he really had one anymore, the side of one thumb finding an eye socket and pressing, the sucking squelch faintly audible even from Asala's distance.

But then Corypheus's fingers melted the rest of the way through Leon's armor and into his skin with a sizzle. His grip loosened, and with a massive shove and a telekinetic burst, the Commander was hurled away, landing right in the middle of a knot of Venatori and Wardens. Corypheus, blackish fluid oozing from his mangled eye socket, drew himself at last back up to his full height, face twisted in rage.

He wasn't the only one angry, though. With an audible shout, Khari lunged for him, narrowly missing to the left when he leaped out of the way. Clearly frustrated with being thwarted in such a way, though, she pursued. It was clear that she'd begun to learn his movement patterns, because each attempt to evade was less successful, until she finally got him, catching his already-injured shoulder in a downward stroke that dragged the tip of her sword over corrupted flesh. Only the red lyrium stopped it from going much further; the sword caught and skittered over a ridge beneath his tattered robe.

But Khari had done what she needed to. The blade had sliced into one of his tendons, and even if he couldn't feel pain, Corypheus could be surprised by the inability to move his arm, and it clearly stymied him now, giving her a short window in which she feared no magic.

It was plenty. She reset her feet and drove forward with a snarl, plunging her sword into Corypheus's belly and driving upwards with monumental effort. The sword erupted from his back, streaked in dark ichor that caught the light of the sun. When she wrenched the blade back out, what was left of Corypheus's rotted intestines came partway out, too, more fluid spattering to the stone beneath them.

He collapsed sideways into a puddle of his own blood, the vacant stare from his eyes evidence that he was certainly dead. It lasted only a moment before his body seemed to rapidly decompose into that black ichor, bubbling and hissing and causing Romulus to back away a step, the smell obviously unpleasant.

Many of the Inquisition soldiers around them roared a victorious cheer at their greatest enemy's death, but curiously the Venatori fought on like nothing had occurred, taking a few by surprise. It became clear that something was amiss a few seconds later, when nothing remained of Corypheus save for that black liquid seeping into the ancient stones.

One of the corrupted Wardens dropped to his knees and unleashed an unearthly howl, his sword and shield falling to the ground. It sounded not unlike a mage forcibly being possessed by a demon, and the awful transformation that occurred immediately after, but this Warden had shown no signs of having any magic previously. He seemed to darken from within, veins pumping black blood through him, until his skin as well turned black, and then he began to shift shapes. Fingers elongated, limbs as well, until it became clear that he was taking on a very familiar form, one that they'd only just dispatched. Venatori fought viciously to establish a defensive circle around Corypheus until he could return, if that was indeed what he was doing.

Asala's shoulders slumped in despair as Corypheus began to reform himself once again. How could they defeat an enemy that could come back like that? She shook her head at the thought and steeled herself, forcing herself to square her shoulders. They'd find a way, they had to. They always did figure something out in the end. She inhaled deeply one more time, and summoned the spells to her hands, preparing herself for the second go.

A screech in the distance paused her for a moment, and she swung around to catch a glimpse of the corrupted dragon coming back around. A pang of fury shot through her head before she calmed herself and looked back toward the battlefield. Leon was still lost in the grouping of Venatori and Warden fighters, and she hissed a bit in frustration. The dragon was bearing down on them, and she did not have the time to go find him. Instead, she did what she could and moved forward quickly, grabbing Romulus's arm as she closed the distance between them and Khari.

"Get down!" she ordered both of them, throwing an arm over Khari's shoulder and falling to a knee to present an even smaller target. The massive wing beats were upon them by the time Asala threw up a tight pink dome around them. With the smaller size, she hoped she'd be able to feed it enough magic to weather the storm that was surely coming. Moments after the barrier formed, the temperature around them shot up dramatically, as the corrupted dragon breathed its tainted flames on them.

Asala's barrier held beneath the fire, but just barely. Cracks formed in it, allowing some of the flames and heat to seep in, and she could feel them licking at her exposed arms and back. She hissed in pain, but concentrated on the barrier until the dragon passed, where she finally released the spell. The exhaustion hit her all at once and she found herself now leaning heavily on Khari.

"Everyone okay?" she asked the two of them.

Khari groaned softly; she'd accumulated quite the litany of injury over the course of the fight, and however necessary the duck-and-cover had been, it probably hadn't helped. Still, she was remarkably steady under Asala's weight. “Everyone's probably a stretch." She was looking out at the rest of the field as she said it, and it didn't take Asala long to figure out why.

The ranks had been devastated, in no small part by the dragon but also just by the fierceness of the Venatori, surviving Red Templars, and the possessed Wardens. The line was broken and scattered on all sides, but among the corpses the Inquisition's russet and gold was much more common than the enemies' red and black. The smell of burnt flesh hit them like a wall, many of the corpses still aflame. No doubt the blow had been almost as heavy to morale as it was to their bodies: Corypheus instantaneous resurrection and the overwhelming strength of the forces at his disposal... very few of them had gone in expecting anything like this.

To make matters seemingly worse, the Venatori man with the pearl-white mask—Marcus, if what the others had told her was right—had broken away from the main battle entirely, and was now striding swiftly over the bridge. Amalia and Lia appeared to have taken notice, and were now giving chase, but they had to fight much harder to free themselves from the soldiers surrounding them, and he had a considerable head start.

Corypheus's forces entering the temple was exactly what this whole battle was meant to prevent, but in the condition their army was in, it seemed unlikely that they had much of a chance at this point.

"Fall back!" Even Leon's bellowing sounded rougher and more strained than usual. No doubt it was a difficult call to make, but it was also clearly the only option left, unless they wanted to break their entire force on Corypheus's army. It meant all but abandoning those inside the temple to their fates, hoping that they would be able to save themselves and find their own way back to the rest.

Romulus wasted no time in getting back to his feet, his eyes locked on the still-reviving Corypheus. Whatever desire he had to fight him again he clearly snuffed out, as he helped carve a path to the flanks rather than to the enemy.

"Come on, Asala!" he called back to her. "There's nothing more we can do!"

"But..." she muttered as she tossed her gaze to the temple behind them. They'd be leaving the others behind, but a glance around revealed that Romulus was right. There was nothing else they could do. She winced and shook her head, but relented. In a futile effort to feel like she was doing something, anything she lit a spell in her hand and pressed it into Khari's chest, allowing the spirit healing to do what it could for her friend.

She'd have to trust Estella and the others to find a way out on their own.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Cyrus breathed in great, heaving gasps, fingers curling into the grass beneath his hands, knees pulled in to his chest. This—coming out of it—was the worst part of the whole thing. The magic was not familiar to him, not the kind of thing he'd ever tried to do before. His entire body ached, deep and throbbing in a way different from all the other stupid things he'd done or had done to him. The red lyrium had burned, savaged his insides. The blow to his chest from Faraji had lanced, flared too bright before mercifully allowing him to black out.

He choked in another gasp, rolling to his knees and retching. The taste of bile filled his mouth, but the heaves were dry—not eating before this was a lesson he'd learned the first time. The voices in his head were loud, all sure they knew what he needed to do, and all of them probably wrong. With a groan, he shifted, falling back down onto his shoulder and sprawling out onto his back. He felt like someone had jammed his entire body into a mold too small for it and left him there for ages, until the press of it was just intolerable.

Like he'd found out his soul was a whole lot bigger than the vessel it used to rest comfortably in.

Lifting one shaking arm to wipe the back of his hand over his mouth, he stared for some interminable time at the circle of sky above. Better to practice this here, he'd thought, where no one would see the result and panic. Or see what became of him after, when he trembled and ached like this. Weakness, some old vestige thought, and whether it was one of them or just a fragment of himself hardly mattered.

He blocked out the still-foreign thoughts—he was getting a little better at that now. For a while, he was blessedly alone, and he used the time to stare at the clouds drifting by, waiting for the ache to subside to some more manageable level. Today's pain had brought with it something he'd been seeking; some good news. It wasn't often he was responsible for that. Cyrus tried not to read into it—more often than not he was still telling people things they didn't want to hear, but... maybe if he could do this, he'd finally have that feeling he'd been seeking for so long. Like he'd really done good here. Like all the risks taken on his behalf, all the trust placed in him that he'd never thought to ask for, all of it was justified.

People believed in him now.

He wanted so badly for them to be right.

The summer sun filtered down into the little cavern, warming him where he lay. The pain was translating into exhaustion now, adrenaline no longer keeping him alert, and for a moment he thought of how sweet it would be, to let himself drift for a while. Dream for a while, as he had so often here. There wouldn't even been many other people dreaming, at this time of day; he could wander the places they'd made without interruption, explore the ever-changing contours of the fade around Skyhold.

But this was surely a sign that he was recovered enough to move, and so instead he pushed himself up, standing on slightly wobbly feet and stretching himself out a bit before he tried to walk forward. The ache was still there, but it was fading now, and he could ignore it the same way he was learning to ignore the whispers. Sometimes he wondered if Vesryn had ever felt like this, when Saraya had first entered his head and pushed him past his physical limitations. It seemed like an inappropriate question to ask, though. Perhaps in a year or so, when Corypheus was dead and the pain had passed, or at least settled, and grief would be lesser than the softer kinds of nostalgia.

Somehow he doubted it, though. Saraya had sounded a lot more distinct and... close, than the things that whispered at him. Not to mention she'd been nonverbal over the connection. Cyrus could barely feel anything from his passengers, but he could certainly hear them.

The trek back to Skyhold he passed in their company, untangling the unhelpful rebukes from the possibly-useful advice, and those from expressions of sympathy and those few particularly-strident voices that were still expressing their affront at being forced into the head of a human-blooded shemlen whelp. He had the sense that when and if he finally mastered the information he'd been given, the whispers themselves would go away. Frankly, he had plenty of motivation to try.

The climb to Leon's tower was spent organizing his thoughts somewhat more explicitly, a more difficult task against this background than it had previously been. But fortunately, the information he had to impart, while certainly arcane and esoteric, was relatively straightforward in terms of practical use. Cyrus knocked, waiting until the Commander bid him enter before opening the door and stepping in.

Only then did he consider what he might look like: hair askew, clothes rumpled, and probably vaguely like he'd just recently had a fever, pallid and a bit gaunt. Oh well.

Fortunately, Romulus was also present, which saved him from needing to impart this information a second time. “Ah, excellent. You're both here. I have information. About Corypheus."

"Hello, Cyrus," Romulus greeted him. "You're looking, ah... worse than usual. No offense." They looked to have been going over either scouting reports or the state of Skyhold's defenses themselves, judging by the maps laid out on the table between them. That would make sense; Cassius had recently finished work implementing magical siege defenses that would need placement on the walls somewhere. If they were going to be firing ballista bolts of arcane energy at their enemies, they needed to be able to hit them first.

But Romulus stepped away from the maps for a moment. "What's this about Corypheus?"

Cyrus laughed softly, almost under his breath, reaching up to push some of his hair back in something like order. “Ah. Yes. About that. I believe I've figured out—or rather, the vir'abelasan has provided—the secret to his immortality. That thing he does through the bodies of Grey Wardens? It's the lyrium dragon. It makes the transfer possible, somehow. The details are... less clear, as of right now, but the important thing is that killing the dragon first should make Corypheus vulnerable, too."

He'd have to figure out exactly how that connection worked at some point. No doubt the taint had something to do with it: Archdemons resurrected through the bodies of other darkspawn unless a Warden killed them. The mechanism had to be based in the same thing even if not identical. But for once the intellectual puzzle this presented was less important than the practical implications.

Leon leaned back in his chair, gesturing to another in invitation before folding his hands together under his chin. "That's... good to know. But if Corypheus behaves according to pattern, he won't risk the dragon dying. It'll fly overhead a few times, burn a great deal of our people and equipment, and then retreat again. I don't see us being able to force it out of the sky so we might have a chance with it." His eyes narrowed. "At least not until the battle is already well underway. By then it's hard to know how capable we'd be of killing it." No doubt he was thinking of the battle at the Arbor Wilds—as Cyrus had heard it told, they'd had to work almost past the breaking point to kill Corypheus once, and even if the dragon hadn't been as useful with all the trees in the way, it had also never been in any real danger. A disheartening truth, considered in this new light.

Cyrus, meanwhile, had settled into one of the chairs, draping his arms over the rests and trying not to wince at the residual jabs of his earlier pain. “If someone could bring it down, though, early in the fight maybe. Do you think that would be enough?"

Leon gave the question due consideration; though no doubt he was curious about the proposed method for achieving this aim, he'd been asked whether it would make a difference. A very different matter to ponder. He smoothed a thumb over one of the pages in front of him. Some kind of diagram of one of Cassius's machines, no doubt. The notes looked to be in different handwriting, though—perhaps additional modifications from either Rilien or the little dwarven engineer they employed.

"I'd say it would give us a real chance," he replied at last. "Which is more than we'd probably have without."

"How are we to do that, though?" Romulus asked, posing the question Leon had undoubtedly been thinking of. "No matter where the battle takes place, we can't afford to be shooting at the sky with our siege engines. Same with our mages. For the army to have any chance to hold, they'll need those groups targeting the ground troops. The dragon simply takes too many resources to deal with. The army would cut us to ribbons by the time we brought it down."

The funny thing was, a few years ago he'd have reveled in this, the ability to do something that would otherwise take siege engines or multiple mages to achieve. Now, though, Cyrus almost didn't want to mention it, because there was a very real chance he'd fail and then whatever disaster followed could be laid squarely at his feet. Not something he really wanted to risk, but there was hardly much choice this time.

“Well, the method is still... in progress, but I think I could do it. Perhaps I and one or two other people, for good measure. Mages, ideally, or at least someone with a ranged weapon. You'd just have to make sure not to shoot at me, as the magic would involve shapeshifting. Getting into the air with the dragon."

"I should probably be surprised, but at this point I think I've lost the ability," Leon said wryly, shrugging his broad shoulders. "I think I'll let you choose your associates for this; it's important enough that you can have anyone who isn't me or one of the Inquisitors, and it doesn't sound like we'd be ideal choices anyway." He arched an eyebrow. "Did you have someone in mind already?"

“I need a mage of considerable power who isn't afraid of heights or dragons. My options are limited." That said, he hadn't come here without giving it a bit of thought already. He'd briefly considered both Aurora and Asala, but neither had magic well-suited for this: Asala would be much more useful on the ground, and Aurora's best magic was within melee range. Besides, he didn't honestly feel comfortable enough with either of them for it. He didn't know that they were capable, psychologically in the one case and magically in the other, of doing what would be required.

Harellan he didn't trust enough. Stellulam would obviously be needed elsewhere. It left him with one real option, and while he was still a bit... concerned about the violence involved, he could at least ask. “I was planning to ask Astraia. If she's unwilling, I suppose it will have to be Harellan."

Romulus seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble following all of this, judging by the perplexed expression on his face. "So... you're going to be shapeshifting into something that can keep up with Corypheus's dragon, and somehow carrying one of our least-experienced mages to help you fight it." He fell silent for a moment, taking a seat on the edge of Leon's desk. "That sounds crazy enough to be one of our plans, sure. What, uh... what was in that water you drank again?"

Cyrus cackled, the laughter bubbling up and spilling out of him before he'd really had a chance to stop it. It wasn't that funny even, but so spot-on that he couldn't help himself. Incisive, even. “I promise I'm not any crazier than I've ever been." He paused, still smiling, then amended. “Ah, wait—not comforting. Let me try again: I'm fully aware of how insane this sounds. I wouldn't even be suggesting it if we had anything else that could do the job without leaving us too weakly-defended. And you don't have to worry about her, at least. Inexperienced she may be, but hitting large targets with powerful spells is something she does very well."

That much, at least, he was quite serious about. The choice was actually quite a rational one, from a strategic perspective.

"Considering our track record with your crazy plans in particular, I'm willing to take the chance." Leon was grinning as well, shaking his head faintly at the same time. "You know, some of what we've done is entirely textbook strategy. Other times... I feel like everything I ever learned about winning battles was entirely useless. Just add dragons."

Add dragons, indeed.

“Good." Cyrus expelled a sigh, his smile fading. “If anyone comes up with anything more sane in the meantime, please let me know. I'd be happy to cede the floor, so to speak."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Image

And So is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.
-Canticle of Threnodies 8.13
Image

Apparently Corypheus wasn’t above retribution if the bugling dragon outside their doors was anything to go by.

Most likely, he’d been stewing since their little dalliance in the Mythal’s halls. That scream Zahra remembered so clearly hounding their steps as they disappeared through the eluvian came to mind; pure, unadulterated rage. A fury that she’d thought funny at the time. Appropriate, given all the heartache he’d caused them. But now, it made sense. He wouldn’t roll over. He wouldn’t cease his assault. If anything, his efforts seemed desperate. Frenzied. A man who’d lost what he seemed to think he deserved. A God’s ire, raining down on them. He’d try to tear the entire world down if it meant their destruction—of that, she was sure.

Didn’t mean they’d just roll over and just let him has his way, either. It wasn’t their style. This sure as hell wasn’t Haven. They’d grown since then; they were made of tougher stuff now, and she knew well enough that they would all rather die then see him smug with victory. Fuck that. She could hear the sound of running outside; people crying out to each other, assembling in a clatter of steel and grit. Accompanied by that damned dragon’s shrieks crackling through the sky like thunder. From what she could hear, it was causing a ruckus. Slamming into the walls of Skyhold and sending brickwork raining down. There’d be fire, too.

What she wouldn’t give to see that thing plummeting to the ground.

Zahra swung her bow over her shoulder and filled her quiver with arrows. More like than not she’d end up running out. Who knew what Corypheus had up his sleeves this time. She set several vials into the slots on her belt and readjusted herself, making sure that everything was stoppered properly. It wouldn’t do her any good if she rolled out of the way and emptied acid on herself. An embarrassing way to go. She patted her hip and headed for the door, cracking it open a little so that she could see out into the yard. Chaos was an understatement. The beast looked as if it had smashed itself bodily into Leon’s tower, the remnants baring itself to the open sky. She swore she could see books from where she was, midst the rubble. She hoped


Taking a deep breath in through her nose, Zahra steadied herself, tightening her hands into fists. She looked over her shoulder at Asala, who’d been prepping as well. “There’s just no rest for us, is there?” she tried to smooth the pinched expression to her face, but only managed a curt smile. Strained. “Let’s find the others.”

They didn't have to look long before one of the others found them. Khari, already fully armored, looked to be missing only her helmet, but there probably wasn't any time to find it, when they were being actively bombarded like this. “Zee, Asala!" She was audible from almost halfway across the bailey, despite the chaos around them. Oddly, Khari seemed cooler than most of the frantic people running about around her, trying to find cover or armor or shelter in the case of the non-soldiers among them.

“Come on! We've got to get up to the wall and turn the catapult on the dragon!" She pointed to a spot on the battlements, where one of the siege engines was half-covered in rubble from Leon's tower. From a distance, it was hard to tell if it would even work, but Khari seemed to think it would.

Zahra snapped her head to the side. Khari was easy to spot even if she hadn’t acquired a military voice as of late, capable of cutting through the ruckus just as surely as the dragon. Her fiery hair, a banner. She wasn’t ready to argue with her. It was something at least. More of an idea than she had. Though, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen those things operational. This would be as good a time as any to find out. Cannons and catapults were two very different beasts—and besides, this one looked like it was little more than rubble. She hustled across the yard and passed soldiers in varying stages of dress; roaring to each other to ready themselves.

Another shriek cracked through the sky. She couldn’t be sure where it was coming from until cries were heard in the distance. A moment later and the flapping of wings sounded overhead, the beasts’ shadow slipping over the ground and disappearing past the wall once more. She made sure that Asala was still dogging her heels before crossing towards the wall Khari had been pointing towards. It didn’t take them long to clamber up the stairs and find themselves hustling towards the lone catapult. She hadn’t expected to find Leon heaving great slabs of stone off the wooden slats, face ashen with dust and debris. So, he had been in the tower, after all. A mercy he hadn’t been crushed. It was hard to tell if he was injured at all, with the amount of stone-grime stuck to his skin.

He was alive, that’s all that mattered.

“Leon!” she closed the distance between them and set herself to removing a chunk of rock from its neck, tossing them to the side. If she were being honest
 the mechanism didn’t look promising. Hitting a dragon in mid-flight? An impressive, if not staggeringly difficult feat. One she didn’t have much faith in. But they had to try. Her eyes lit up, mouth tightening into a line. “We’re here to help. How do we get this thing working?” As if it’d known what they were up to, the dragon’s roar boomed closer, raising the hair on her arms. It’s outline shifted behind the clouds; soaring in a wide arc.

Closer.

Leon looked momentarily relieved to see them, though it didn't last long when the shadow of the dragon passed over them. Too high above to attack for now, but it was clearly wheeling back for another pass, and they probably needed to have the catapult operational before that happened. "Help me get the rest of these rocks off. Khari, you know how to work one—find something to load it with and get it set." He paused to heave another large stone over the wall. "We need to keep it from destroying too much until Cyrus and Astraia are ready—and then we need to get back down to the bailey to meet up with the others."

"Right," Asala answered with a determined nod. Her barriers sprung to her hands, and then began insert themselves into the gaps in the rocks, leveraging and wrenching the stone off of them with quick upward swipes.

While the other three worked to clear away the stone, Khari was picking through them for one to load the catapult with. It took her a few tries to get something of about the right size for the bucket. She set it on the crenelations and checked the ropes, springs, and frame, re-securing the restraints just to be sure. By the time the last of the debris came away, she was hefting the payload in. “Wanna eyeball the aim for me here, Zee? You're the archer."

“My arrows are a wee bit smaller than this,” Even so, she rolled out her shoulders and took her place at Khari’s side, hands planted on the base of the catapult so that she could see straight ahead of her. The trajectory of the catapult. Zahra’s eyes were her strength. Her timing was precise, even if the intended target was a huge, fire-breathing dragon bearing down on them like a boulder being thrown through the open skies. Would it try to blast them with fire? Or would it come down with its claws and weight, hoping to crush them?

It only mattered what direction it came in and whether or not it tried to veer off in another direction. From what she’d seen of dragons so far, as strong as they were, they couldn’t just deviate once it began its descent towards them. Not a dragon as large and heavy as this one. They were smart creatures; but she wasn’t sure it’d expect them to try to anchor it to the ground by pelting it with a catapult. That, at least, worked in their favor. Surprise, dragon. Unfortunately
 this also meant they didn’t have many chances; if it noticed them, it would most likely try to disable the threat immediately.

“It’s coming back around.” The flap of wings. It’s bugle, shrieking down at them. A terror with wings. She’d be impressed if she hadn’t seen what it could do. If it wasn’t so damned ugly. Pock-marked and rippled with ridges. Far different than the one’s spotted on the Storm Coast. “It sees us.” Whatever had been distracting it before no longer did. It was baring towards them now. Intentionally so. Striking through the clouds like a sword and descending lower, passing over the opposing wall. “It’s gonna pass over us—we’ll get a shot. I’ll tell you when.”

She fucking hoped so. The timing was imperative, and if it decided to do anything different
 she wasn’t sure what the outcome would be.

The tension held for several seconds, Khari ready to release the catapult on Zahra's mark. They had to wait for it to get right over them if this was going to stand a chance, but not so close that it could cook all of them and the catapult where they stood. Slowly, it resolved into view, and when its underbelly was in just the right spot, Zahra called it.

Khari released, and the projectile flew in a ponderous arc. The trajectory was just a little off, but despite aiming for the dragon's wing and missing, they still managed to strike it in the chest, heavy stone breaking apart against its red lyrium scales with a crack and raining back down over the bailey.

The dragon screeched, changing direction to pull out of its descent. “If we're buying time, this is what we got; let's go!" Khari was the first to abandon the catapult and sprint back along the wall for the stairs.

The rest of them followed, no longer needing to push so much through crows of running people. The time they'd spent on the wall was apparently enough for just about everyone to get geared up, and though several more chunks of Skyhold were missing, the dragon had not managed to drop anymore towers, at least.

As they headed towards the main gate, Zahra could spot Rom, Stel, and several of the others massing nearby. Lia had just come in with a couple scouts, and the iron portcullis shut abruptly behind them. Leon looked to her first. "Captain. You've a report?" He wiped only somewhat effectively at the stone grit and dust on his face, but his only aim seemed to be clearing it away from his eyes, which worked well enough. He had donned no armor—quite possibly his set was in the rubble of his quarters, and no ordinary spare plate could possibly fit his dimensions, meaning he'd have to go without.

Lia was out of breath, having clearly just ran at full sprint from wherever she'd been posted in the mountains back to Skyhold. She also looked a little in shock at the state of their fortress, but she pulled herself together quickly. "Corypheus is coming. Bringing... everything. Couldn't get a sense of their numbers, but it has to be everything." A last ditch attack, it seemed. No more games, no more maneuvering in the shadows. Corypheus was forcing the issue. "Shit, I should've had something set up to warn against the dragon, I didn't think he'd—"

Leon shook his head. "It's fine. We've got measures in place to deal with it, but we're going to need to prepare for what happens when it comes down." Scanning the assembled faces, he found Cyrus's first. "If you can, try to bring it down near the lake. That should keep things far enough away from the fight at the gates that you won't have to deal with any interference." He took a deep breath, then nodded, almost to himself. "Asala, Captain Pavell, Rilien—the four of us will head down to the lake now and prepare to face it. The rest of you will have to hold the gates and find a way to reach Corypheus."

Bringing down the dragon was a stretch, in her mind. An impossibility given its stature; its lyrium-embued hide. But the Inquisition was all about facing the impossible, so she supposed this wouldn’t be any different. Besides, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice. The dragon was too much of a threat to allow it to cause anymore damage. Zahra wasn’t sure how they’d manage to ground it permanently, but Leon seemed to have some idea—or else, Cyrus did. She didn’t doubt that they had something up their sleeves. Something that’d make sure they could pit themselves on fairer terms. Or else, keep it anchored on the ground. She crossed her arms over her chest and scanned their faces once more, mouth easing into a smile.

She was glad to see them here, alive. A small relief for what they were about to face, but still. It was enough. A small allowance before they’d have another helluva fight on their hands. One that she hoped would end all of this once and for all. A pirate could hope, couldn’t she? If this was Corypheus’ last ditch effort to tear the world down around them
 then they’d make sure to give him all they had. Make him remember who the Inquisition was, and how he’d made a mistake facing them in the first place.

Slapping a hand onto Cyrus’ shoulder, she rounded towards them and grinned wide. Sweat had already stuck her wild curls to her face, whether from the exertion of trying to get the catapult in order, or the sheer suspense of having the dragon bear down on them and coming out unscathed, was anyone’s guess. A mix of the two, probably. “I’m not gonna say any mushy stuff,” she knuckled at her nose, and arched an eyebrow, “but I bloody well better see all of you at the end of this.” A cough, clearing her throat of any lump that might threaten to choke her up. “Let’s kick Corypheus’ arse this time. Make sure he doesn’t get up again.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
There was so much for her to be worried about, but if Asala gave it a moment to register in her mind, she'd be stricken with inaction. Instead, she shoved it all the way to the back until it was a simple itch in her head. The others would be okay, Zee would be okay, and Cyrus and Astraia would be okay. The last part, she would see to herself. But first they would have to get around the lake.

Leon had led Rilien, Cor, and herself to the lakeside, however when it became clear that Cyrus and the dragon would land on the other side, they'd quickly tried to make it around as fast as they could. Still, that left precious moments where Cyrus was alone with the dragon. "Hurry," she murmured to herself, though she was loud enough for the others to hear as well. The moment they stepped into range, Asala had already pulled her magic into her hands, and without breaking stride she reared back and tossed a barrier, a completely spherical pink bubble, toward the dragon. It struck with enough force to echo off of its scales, and then shatter, the shards hopefully cutting into what exposed flesh they could find.

Asala slowed after that, she'd seen Astraia get thrown into a tree nearby, and that was on her mind at the moment. She spared one last glare at the dragon before she slowed. "I am sorry, I will be back. Help him," she said, though unnecessarily. With that, she peeled off from the others and went to Astraia, where she quickly dropped and began to check the girl's pulse.

"She's alive!" Asala called for anyone still listening. She then went to work quickly, to make sure she stayed that way.

The noise of battle faded behind her while she concentrated on her task, but a few of the pieces of what must have been going on were too loud to disappear completely. A sword rang free from a sheath close by—probably Captain Pavell's, since Rilien carried knives and Leon used no weapons at all. The rush of heavy footsteps thudding over the ground, Leon's booming "get down!" and the unmistakable sizzle of the dragon's fire breath after.

Something or someone singed, the smell thick in her nose as the wind shifted, but there were no too-loud cries of pain at least. The dragon at one point jumped, audible only as the hard impact when it landed, the earth trembling beneath her knees, but it seemed to have landed further away rather than closer, the others no doubt trying to give her room enough to work.

The din settled almost into a rhythm, occasional shakes in the ground indicating a violent reposition by the dragon, clangs of metal weapons and gauntlets against its lyrium-encased scales, and the familiar nausea that the red kind brought with it. Some indeterminate time later, she heard quick footsteps approaching, and Rilien appeared at her side, Cyrus supported beside him, one arm flung over the tranquil's shoulder.

Rilien helped him lower himself down next to the tree, then nodded once at her and took off again, presumably back to the fight. Cyrus held a hand to a spot just beneath and to the right of his heart, but it wasn't large enough to cover the seeping tear the dragon's claws had rent new in his skin. He shifted just long enough to tear his own sleeve off and press it to the wound, hissing when it made contact but applying pressure enough to pale the skin of his hands nonetheless.

His eyes fell to Astraia, but he did not dare interrupt the healing process, the only sound from his presence the irregular heft and push of his breathing. His head tipped back to hit the bark of the tree behind him, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Asala hissed to herself but focused on Astraia's healing first. The pinkish light in her hand intensified for a moment before she tapered it off. Once more, Asala pressed a finger against Astraia's neck and registered the regular heartbeat, before pressing her ear lightly against her chest. It was soft, but unlabored. "I'll be back, I promise," Asala whispered to her, squeezing her shoulder before shuffling on her knees to face Cyrus.

"Let's stop the bleeding first," she told Cyrus, the spell already in her hand.

He shook his head immediately, though he blinked afterwards, looking vaguely disoriented. “Her first. Finish that—I'll keep." As if to prove it, Cyrus knitted his brow, clenching his teeth and trying to shift where he sat. Blue light lit his fingertips, then guttered out. With a sound halfway between frustration and pain, he did it again, pulling away his mangled sleeve and making a clear attempt to stop his own bleeding. To still be capable of even so little after all of that was a sign of deep reserves of magic, but the spell was weak, and healing had never been his strong suit, besides.

She glanced at Astraia and winced. She felt stretched thin, she needed to stabilize them both, but at the same time... She started to look toward the others, but stopped herself and shook her head. Later. She had to focus now. Asala pulled the satchel off of herself and tossed it nearby where Cyrus sat. "Take a few potions now, do what you can. I'll be there in moment," she said, healing spells back in her hands before she could even finish her sentence.

His free hand shoved the flap of the satchel aside, then tipped it upside down, several vials and other bottles spilling out onto the grass. He picked up a red one, taking the cork out with his teeth, and swallowed it in three gulps. It was one of the pearlescent ones—Rilien's. A few of those tended to make it into any of the healers' emergency kits. The relief was immediate. He picked up another, mostly ignoring the light blue lyrium potions in the mix, though he did nudge one closer to him. She'd never known him to use them, but this wasn't exactly a normal situation.

“This will be enough." He turned his eyes out towards the field, wincing at something she could not see.

She didn't turn to see what he was looking at, not immediately. Instead she focused on finishing Astraia's healing. She put all of the mana she could afford into it, and quickly. She had to get to the fight as soon as she could. Eventually, Asala judged her stable, at least for long enough for them to deal with the dragon. With that, she jerked her head toward Cyrus, and the vial rolling around on the ground beside him. She leaned over and took a couple of potions, a red and a blue. With her potions, she looked at Cyrus and gave him an empty smile. "Wish us luck," she stated, tossing a healing spell at his chest.

She stood and turned toward the battle at hand. The dragon was injured, but far from out of the fight. There was still enough life in its limbs to give the other considerable trouble. Leon had lost his armor at some point during it, and one arm was bleeding heavily. Rilien's arm wasn't bleeding, but it looked no better, his sleeve having been burned off and the skin beneath fiery red and blistering. He was missing a knife, but a look at the dragon revealed where he lost it, as it remained embedded in the claw marks on its side. Captain Pavell seemed to have escaped the worst of it, suffering only a missing helmet and a gash across his temple.

She frowned and downed the mana potion, but didn't hesitate after that, crossing the field quickly to get into the fight herself. "Leon!" she called, tossing the healing potion in his direction. "Where do you need me!?"

Fortunately, the dragon was at that moment distracted by the young captain, who fended off one of its claws with the large claymore he carried. Irritated, it lashed its tail, but Leon grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back with him fast enough that it just missed, air rushing by them with a heavy whistle.

"Keep back," he said, pausing a second to quaff the potion. "I don't think a barrier will hold up against it, but if you can use them to slow it down when it looks like it's trying to hit something, that will make it easier for us to keep clear." He released his hold, flexing his gauntlets, the only pieces of armor he'd been able to grab before his tower collapsed.

Stepping several paces away, he charged for the dragon's flank. The three of them seemed to have adopted a strategy of staying spread out, drawing the creature's attention in turns to let their allies get in at its sides and rear, though the tail obviously made the last a gamble at best. All of them were close range fighters, but they were staying mobile. The dragon, on the other hand, seemed unable to decide on a target, switching to whomever had most recently caused it the most pain like the wounded animal it was.

Leon jumped when he reached it, thrusting his entire arm into one of the wounds in its right wing—lightning burns, by the look of it. A spray of blood doused him when he physically rent the more delicate skin there, gripping the scaly edge tightly in one hand and pulling with a heave.

It was much too large for him to fell, but the move did ease the pressure on Captain Pavell, and the dragon turned to face Leon, rearing up on its haunches and attempting to pounce on him.

Asala could just barely see Rilien on the other side, using the opportunity to bury his second dagger beside the first in one of the open wounds. It left a spreading swath of frost behind, not enough to seriously hamper the dragon's movement, but no doubt enough to cause it even more pain. When Leon didn't end up under its claws, it shrieked and jumped away—dragging Rilien along for the ride. His daggers slid out about halfway there, still gripped in his hands, and though he fell more softly than most people would have in that situation, the ground he hit was hard and rocky, and he did not immediately stir.

The dragon whirled when it landed, holding its injured and bleeding wings high and away from its body.

It gave Asala an easier target. A spear-shaped barrier materialized near one of its injuries, and jammed harshly into one of the dragon's open wouds. The spear sunk in deep, but that wasn't her main focus. The dragon killed her brother-- she had not forgotten. The anger had been welling up inside her as they'd fought it, but she kept it in check, careful not to let it consume her. She'd be better focused without rage or vengeance clouding her mind. Better to make sure that the dragon wouldn't kill any more of her friends.

The spear began to grow as she pumped more mana into it, until it was less a spear and more of a thick column, spreading and rending the wound even more until blood poured from the wound. Pops could even be heard as muscle and sinew began to separate from bone. It did not come without consequence however, the dragon turning its pained attention on her. When it reared its head back, Asala immediately let go of the spear and tossed up a quick shield before she turned tail and ran.

There was no foliage to hide behind, none that would stand against the breath of the dragon, but there was the lake. She just had to be fast enough to reach it. She could here the dragon inhale behind her, and she reached the edge of the water just as she reached the lake shore. The flames must have shattered the barrier immediately, the flames licked at her back, and it was almost too intense to bear as she dove into the water. There was a splash and instant relief as the cool water comforted what had to be burns on her back. Even the icy water of the lake couldn't stand against the dragon's flame, and the water around her heated up. Fortunately, the dragon ran out of breath before it could boil her and she quickly stood, pushing her head out of the water and wiping it from her eyes.

Captain Pavell stepped in front of it, perhaps to prevent it from coming after her, as it now bled heavily from the wound in its side, in addition to the other myriad cuts, slashes and burns on its body, both old and new, and in contrast to all those fighting it, more worn down by the second, its anger seemed only to be increasing. And it lashed out with its neck, closing its jaws around him, sword and all, and lifting him from the ground, a fate likely to have befallen Asala had he not interceded.

Leon, trying to pick Rilien up off the ground, set the Tranquil quickly back down on his feet and sprinted to the spot, but the air was already filled with the grinding sound of its teeth against the Captain's plate armor, where it had him by the sword-arm and shoulder.

Clearly not one to give up, he was using his free hand to punch at it, trying to reach for something vulnerable, but it had taken few hits to the face, and would not be dissuaded, not even when Leon slammed bodily into its chest, pummeling the injury left by the catapult what seemed like hours ago. The captain yelped, the sound cutting off when something—probably his arm—snapped.

What happened next didn't exactly make sense. The dragon shook its head, worrying the elf's body like a dog would a rag-toy. But then there was a bright burst of blue light; it looked like nothing quite so much as what SĂ©verine's templars could do, but... raw somehow. There was a crack, and the Captain flew from the dragon's maw, crashing into the lake next to her, where he began to sink.

The dragon, for its part, was now missing several more teeth, a nasty burn having torn away most of its upper lip on the left side, and when it shrieked, the noise was roughened, like perhaps the throat and tongue had burned as well.

She didn't wait to see if he would reemerge on his own. Asala dove back into the water and swam toward where she saw him drop. The burns on her back screamed in protest, though by the grace of the cool water she was able to push through it to reach him. She hooked both arms underneath his and lift, pulling both their heads out of the water, where she began the arduous process of dragging them both out of the water. Against the fresh air, it felt like the burns on her back were on fire again, but she pushed through it, and began to work on the captain, careful to keep tossing cautious gazes back toward the dragon, in case she needed to take them both and roll back into the water.

But the dragon was reeling; it didn't take more than a few more heavy body-blows from Leon to bring it down. It crashed to the ground, thrashing, but characteristic cold efficiency, Rilien picked one of his knives up off the ground and stalked to its head, reaching up and burying the blade up to the hilt in its right eye.

The dragon stilled.

Asala finally exhaled several moments later, letting the air she wasn't aware she'd pent up escape. Finally, she thought, leaning forward until her forehead touched the captain's chest. Finally. It felt like some weight was lifted off of her soul, and she found herself hoping that Meraad was finally at peace. However, there wasn't any time to truly savor the victory. She pushed herself back up carefully to avoid agitating the burns on her back, and continued stabilizing the captain. There was work still to be done.

She had injured to care for.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
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"World-making Glory," I cried out in sorrow,
"How shall your children apology make?
We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling,
Only a Light in this darken'd time breaks.
Call to Your children, teach us Your greatness.
What has been forgotten has not yet been lost.”
-Canticle of Andraste 1:13
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It'd been a few months after their resounding defeat of Corypheus, Skyhold had entered the crisp, chilly autumn months of the Frostbacks. With their main goal accomplished, some of the Inquisition's forces had began filter out, to return to their previous duties, or attempt to find new ones. Zahra had set off to sea once more, and had taken their healer with them. Lady Marceline had to admit, without the Captain the Inquisition felt a lot smaller as a whole. She hadn't been the only one either. The majority of the mage forces had departed, including their Captain, Aurora, and her second, Sparrow. Few had remained with the Inquisition.

However, that did not mean their jobs were done. Not yet. The Inquisition still had all of its advisors, for now, and both Inquisitors. Lady Marceline had convened a meeting with them, along with a few others including Astraia, who'd been promoted to the Inquisition's lead medical officer after the departure of Asala. They had met in the war room, which, Marceline felt misnamed as of late, with no real war going on.

Even the table in the middle of the floor was rendered relatively bare. It still held a map, yes, but all the tokens, mission reports, and all other materials had been wiped off and put away, leaving only the most recent correspondence as the centerpiece. A letter from their very own Divine Galatea herself. It was... one of the reasons why the session was decided to be held.

Lady Marceline didn't decide to wait too long after the last person arrived to begin. "We have received a request, of sorts, by the Divine."

"She wishes to convene a meeting consisting of delegates from the Inquisition, Orlais, and... Ferelden in order to discuss outstanding issues and to discuss the Inquisition moving forward," she stated. Their relationship with Orlais was more positive than negative, having a personal friend on the throne tended to help with that, though there of course were others in the country that still did not like the Inquisition. Ferelden... less so. Not only did they not have many allies in the kingdom, but technically, Skyhold was inside their borders.

“The Fereldan delegation will be headed by Arl Teagan, the King's uncle." Rilien's voice was toneless as always, though it was possible there was the slightest hint of something in it. A hint that this wasn't excellent news for them. “The Arl of Redcliffe in particular. I do not think I have to specify that our previous activities there have made him less than supportive of our endeavors in general. Ferelden is expected to demand the Inquisition's full and immediate disbandment."

"Orlais is less likely to push for anything like that," Leon added, "but even the Emperor will have to be careful in this setting. We're on Fereldan land, and so the amount of say he really has is minimal. While I'm certain the Arl will take him seriously, he'll want to be careful not to look like he's encroaching on Fereldan sovereignty. The war for independence isn't fifty years gone yet; some of the people who fought it still live." Marceline knew well that the Emperor's own father had stood across battlefields from King Maric, too—that kind of history was not easily left behind. Relations had been cordial recently, but cordial and warm were not the same thing, and it remained to be seen if Lucien would be able to do anything about that.

"Disbandment, though? Really?" Estella looked vaguely perturbed. "That's pushing their authority a bit far, I think. I wouldn't want an army at my border, necessarily, but it's not as though they urgently need Skyhold back—it was lost to history when we found it. A ruin."

Leon expelled a heavy breath. "Unfortunately we've legally never been any more than squatters here. We've little recourse if they insist except to try and convince them of our worth. And our lack of threat. They'll see how well we get on with Orlais and wonder if we aren't just an arm of the Empire."

"So what's the plan?" Romulus looked somewhat uncomfortable, standing almost tensely holding one arm at the wrist in front of him. He still hadn't grown relaxed at these sorts of meetings, though he was significantly better off than when he was first named Lord Inquisitor. It seemed to be something more putting him on edge today. "We're not disbanding, right? Corypheus hasn't been gone more than a few months. We can't lower our guard yet, but... if we have to change, how much are we willing to?"

"It will be difficult for them to force our outright disbandment. The Inquisition stretches further than Ferelden alone and there are many more opinions to consider than just theirs," Marceline stated. In truth, she the decision laid more on the Inquisitors' shoulders than their advisors, but she was careful not to lay that all at his feet at the moment. "However, Leon is correct. If they insist that we concede Skyhold, I fear we do not have much in the way of options," she said with a frown, and then a acknowledging tip of her head. "That being said, the Inquisition is more than just one castle, and will still survive so long as you two are still at its head," she said, pointing toward Estella and Romulus. "We will just have to adapt."

"Yes, but to what?" Estella pursed her lips. "We're not the arm of any country, we're not the Chantry, nor the Wardens... and considering how that went, I doubt anyone's feeling too excited about the idea of an independent organization with its own power. Its own army. Maybe we should hear them out before we decide anything important. If it's all just posturing then we don't have to do any more than the minimum. But maybe someone with a bigger view of Thedas than we have has some kind of idea of where we'd best fit in it."

The point came from a place of humility, but no longer the same debilitating lack of self-esteem as before. It was worth acknowledging that neither she nor Romulus had been raised and trained to lead anything with a global reach. Of course some of the finer points of it would be outside their grasps. She seemed to think it was worth seeing more of the lay of things before deciding, at least.

She might have said more, but a soft cracking sound issued into the war room, followed by her sharp gasp. She closed her right hand over into a fist, face contorted into a grimace. "Sorry, it's—I think it's getting worse." She glanced towards Romulus, as if to ask if he shared the thought.

He nodded, looking none too happy about it. "I've had the same. Started noticing it a few weeks ago, thought it would pass but... it seems to be just getting worse." It was easy to see now that he was holding his marked hand at the wrist likely for that very reason. Romulus had the tolerance for pain necessary to hide such things, so it was possibly even worse than he was letting on.

“And there is no obvious cause?" Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves. “They have given no signs of slowing?" It was at best incredibly inconvenient timing, with the two people who might have known the most about the marks no longer present, nor their once-full contingent of healers to manage the symptoms. The worst might well be much worse.

Estella shook her head, shaking out her hand and loosening the fist to let it fall back to her side. "The worst is intermittent, but it... aches. Almost all the time now." She exhaled, reaching across her body to rub her palm with her other hand. "They got kind of like this, sometimes, but usually Cy would—" She cut herself off, clearing her throat. It was sometimes easy to forget that the experts the Inquisition was missing were her family members; she did a good job of maintaining her professionalism, at least in front of Marceline.

"Anyway, I don't really know what's been going on. Astraia's been helping with them, but—I don't know, do you have any thoughts?" She looked back at the young elf in question, clearly inviting her to share any insights she might have with the group at large.

"Um." Astraia seemed surprised to be addressed, though the fact that Estella had done so must've diminished that somewhat. "I'm no expert in any of this, but from what I've studied of the marks, I don't know that this is going to get better, or go away. Before they almost seemed like wounds that wouldn't heal, but now it's like they're opening up." She glanced nervously between the two Inquisitors. "I don't know what to do about it, though. I don't know what kind of magic would be safe to try using on them, what would even have a chance of fixing them."

She shrugged, somewhat poor posture making her look even smaller than she was. "I don't know. Harellan might know, he knows so much old magic, and he..." She gestured halfway up to her face, clear of the vallaslin that had originally adorned it when the Inquisition first met her. "He might know what to do."

“The eluvian has been reconfigured." Rilien broke the silence that followed. No doubt this was new information to some of those present, but definitely not all of them. “This lends credence to the theory that one or both of them departed through it. Unfortunately it also means that there is no good way to track them. I have deployed agents to all of the other known eluvian locations, and there is nothing to be found there, either." He paused; Marceline swore she could see a muscle in his jaw jump. No doubt even his limited emotional repertoire was strained with the news that his protegĂ©e was in this much danger, and the people who might be able to do something about it had vanished.

“I will keep looking."

That did not sound good, but Marceline knew even less of the marks. "Unfortunate," Marceline said with a taut frown, "That he decided to take his leave so soon then." She shook her head and her eyes fell back to the Divine's letter. It was just another thing to worry about in the coming days, but the marks was not something that it sounded like they were equipped to deal with now, as much she wished it was. "Astraia, you'll keep looking into this?" She asked, "And I assume you'll help," she added with a glance toward Rilien. It wasn't really a question she needed an answer to.

"The rest of us will prepare for the meeting."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella had known this was going to be a headache, but she hadn't precisely anticipated the actual pounding in her head. She was fairly sure even that was only derivative on the terrible lancing pains shooting up her arm into her shoulder, though. The mark was not cooperating with her need to focus, which was really only making the entire situation unbearable.

Not that Arl Teagan wasn't doing an admirable job of that on his own. "The Inquisition established an armed presence in Ferelden territory. You outright seized Caer Bronach in Crestwood!"

Fortunately, Leon to her left wasn't currently in the middle of trying not to look like he was in excruciating pain. She wasn't sure she could form the words for an answer at right this moment. "Caer Bronach was under the control of bandits prior to our use of it, my lord. I hardly think the change a net negative, even for Ferelden." Though he kept his tone mild, there was a certain gravitas that his size and bass pitch couldn't help but add to what might have sounded downright snarky if someone else had said it instead, however true it was.

Teagan, however, didn't much seem to care either way. "And your help was appreciated at the time, High Seeker. But now order is restored, Corypheus is dead, and yet you remain. Invading under the pretext of restoring order is exactly what the Grey Wardens did to us centuries ago, and we exiled them! Now the Inquisition is doing the same thing, and expecting different results!"

"The Inquisition are not the Grey Wardens, Arl Teagan." Lucien's words perhaps carried the most weight of all, which was no doubt why he used so few of them. "The comparison is unwarranted. Better to speak of them on their own terms and merits."

"Of course Orlais tolerates the Inquisition's interference. They did a clean job knocking out the two people standing between you and that throne, didn't they, Emperor Lucien?"

Lucien's expression hardened fractionally. He did not, however, rise to the obvious bait. "It is in our interest as much as Ferelden's to ensure that no other regional power oversteps its bounds, the Inquisition included. But it isn't helpful to continue to berate them for what were, at worst, the well-intentioned mistakes of a foundling organization, acting in service of us all."

Estella pulled in a deep breath, her smooth visage starting to crack under the strain of the mark. It felt like her hand was splitting apart at the seams, echoes of the same cracking up through the long bones of her arm. She couldn't quite avoid the need to push her chair back a little, trying to adjust it without drawing attention to herself.

"An organization in need of a guiding hand. Yours, no doubt. You've already been quite the guide to one of the Inquisitors personally, have you not?"

Several eyes in the room were drawn near to Estella's side, where an elf had appeared. Brand, Rilien's aide. He'd approached silently, though he was obviously aware of the attention he unavoidably drew by moving to the Lady Inquisitor's side in the center of the room. He bent at the waist to speak such that only the Inquisition leaders would be able to hear him. "Terribly sorry about this, Lady Inquisitor, but Rilien needs to speak with you. It's rather urgent."

Next to Estella, Romulus was clutching at his wrist, trying to suppress the pain in his own mark no doubt. It seemed to subside at least a little for him, and while he obviously didn't think Brand was bringing them good news, he tilted his head, gesturing for Estella to go. "I can manage this. I think. Just try to make it quick."

It was a bit of an awkward spot to be put in, having to make her excuses to the likes of royalty and the kin of royalty, to say nothing of the Divine herself, but if Rilien had sent Brand to interrupt something this important, then she knew that whatever he was interrupting with had to be even moreso. So she made her excuses, trying not to flinch under Arl Teagan's withering glare, and took her leave swiftly and quietly from the council chamber.

She didn't ask Brand to explain, instead letting him lead her to wherever it was that they were supposed to be meeting. Around one side of the palace were the same gardens some of their number had explored parts of years ago, and in the light of day she could tell that there were several small outbuildings, guest-houses, and other such freestanding structures as well. It was to one of these—that looked to be nothing more illustrious than an extra storage space for unused portraits, that Brand led her.

Rilien was already waiting outside the door, but of equal interest to Estella at the moment was the large bloodstain on the threshold. "Rilien? What's wrong? Has someone been hurt?"

“Yes." Her teacher did not, as ever, soften the truth. “Furthermore, the same individual was killed. Of greater interest is who they were and how they were slain." Gesturing for her to follow, he stepped back into the room, over the drying blood and the threshold both.

Inside, propped up against one wall, was a Qunari. The design of the armor was not unfamiliar to her from days long past, when the northern wars were not so far away—the man could only have been a member of the Antaam, with gear that heavy. His sword, coated not in the blood of an enemy but rivulets of his own from the arm still gripping it, lay bare beside him; his head was lolled to one side, horn caught slightly on the wooden windowsill just above him.

"Didn't think I'd ever see one of these big guys again," Brand commented, stepping lightly over the blood so as to avoid getting it on his shoes. "Tempted to ask Lady C if she had anything to do with this, but somehow I imagine she's not looking for trouble here."

"She's no fool, so I expect you're right about that." Starting trouble in Orlais would be just about the worst thing Chryseis could do, from the perspective of self-interest. Among others.

Estella inhaled, finding that though musty, the air smelled only faintly of copper. There was more blood underneath him, but not nearly enough to suggest that he'd been wounded here. Taking a few steps closer, Estella crouched a respectful distance from the corpse, peering at his wounds.

The largest looked to be the one at the center of his chest, a very clean, well-defined entrance wound from what looked to have been a blade. A broad one, though, something made more for slashing than what it had done here—though clearly effective enough turned to this purpose as well. She squinted; there was a faint discoloration at the edges of the injury. His grey skin had darkened, almost to black.

"A burn?" she murmured.

Behind her, she heard the rustling of fabric as Rilien moved. “A very localized one." A pause. “Everburn leaves similar marks, but this blade was much too small to be a two-handed weapon. You should lift his arm as well."

She didn't bother asking why—Estella shifted forward enough to gently grasp the warrior by the bracer, shifting his arm away from his body. Immediately, she hissed in sympathy, not that it would do him any good. That was a definite scorch mark, right at his side and slightly towards his back. The size suggested a full lightning bolt, perhaps from a chain spell, but the placement was more like what she'd expect of one of the cascaded strikes that followed after. But if that was true...

Estella knew few people capable of such power. She knew even fewer who could also stab with such accuracy, and using a weapon that would leave small burns at the edges of its wounds. She swallowed, standing and letting out a hard breath. No doubt Rilien had wanted her to reach the obvious conclusion herself. "You don't think...?"

Why? Why would they concern themselves with Qunari? Why was a Qunari here, of all the places?

And perhaps the worst question of all: did that mean they'd been nearby the entire time?

"Where did he come from?" she asked instead, turning to face Rilien and Brand. "The fight couldn't have been here; someone would have heard it, and there would be others around." To say nothing of the property damage.

Rilien shook his head. “We do not yet know. I sent for you as soon as he was found. I do not think his origin will be difficult to track, however." His eyes fell to the bloodstain in the doorway. “He was bleeding heavily. No doubt we can follow it to his entrance."

Loosing a sigh, Estella nodded. "Then I suppose we had better." She didn't know who this Qunari was or where he'd come from, but the wounds were too unique to dismiss out of hand. And even if they hadn't been, the presence of a member of the Antaam at the Winter Palace was much too irregular not to figure out. The Qunari didn't use their army for diplomatic outreach, or even for spying—if he was here, violence was probably not far behind.

At first, the trail was simple enough to follow. No doubt the soldier had had other things on his mind besides concealing his trail, and spatters of blood dotted the lawn alongside the storage building. But then they took a turn into an alcove, one with a small inset fountain at the end and white-painted trellises flush with the walls, covered in the lush ivy and wisteria that the palace's gardeners seemed to favor. There was no other egress but the way she'd come, unless...

"What on earth?" A droplet of something, warm and sticky, landed atop her head. Reflexively reaching up, Estella touched two fingertips to it and pulled them away, eyes widening at the obvious red color. Stepping back several paces, she tilted her head up.

Sure enough, one of the railings above was coated in enough blood to suggest that the Qunari soldier had gone over it, perhaps not entirely voluntarily. The quickest way up was to climb the trellis.

"Um... maybe make sure no one comes down this way for a few minutes? Lucien's pretty understanding, but I don't know if the sight of the Lady Inquisitor climbing the walls of the Winter Palace is one I want anyone remembering."

“Be careful." Rilien said no more, turning his back to her and facing the entrance. Quiet footsteps carried him to the corner; no doubt he and Brand would be more than capable of distracting anyone who got too close. Subtlety was something they both did rather well, after all.

Flexing her hands, Estella winced at the sharp sting in her right. She'd just have to deal with it. Her clothing, chosen with diplomatic meetings in mind, was hardly the best for attempting a climb, but her boots were sturdy, at least, and she wouldn't have too much trouble climbing a trellis. It wasn't as though it were a naked stone wall or anything.

Reaching up, she chose a pair of handholds before lifting one foot and slotting it in. A moment to be thankful for relatively small feet, she supposed. With a slight jump from her back foot, she started up the wall, scaling quickly for fear of being spotted. It was about fifteen feet up to the balcony she wanted, and she shifted over a foot or so in order to leave plenty of room between herself and the blood before using the stone rail to pull herself up and over the balcony's edge.

It wasn't terribly different from any of the others adorning the Winter Palace, about the same size and floored in dark blue slate tiles. Obviously out of place was yet more blood—she had to wonder if the solider would have survived with healing or if he'd been doomed to his death the moment he took the injury. Probably the latter, but it seemed to have been unfortunately slow. Pausing for a moment to make sure she wasn't missing anything obvious, Estella pushed some loose hair back out of her face and headed inside.

"Oh." One look through the door was all it took. The bright piece of oblong glass could be nothing else, crystalline blue light shimmering across the surface. An active eluvian. Here.

"Oh no."

Biting her tongue, she mentally apologized to Rom. There was no resolving this one quickly.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by AugustArria
Vesryn liked to think he knew pain pretty well. It was easy for him to identify how much pain Stel was in.

She carried it admirably, probably better than he did, but it still slipped through cracks like the light escaping from her marked hand. The two were related, of course, but there was more than just physical pain for her to deal with. This business with the Exalted Council was complicated enough without outside interference. Now of all things they had Qunari to deal with, and by the looks of it... Harellan, and possibly Cyrus, too. It was impossible to know what to make out of it, when all they had was a dead Qunari soldier and an eluvian to go off of, but if one thing was painfully obvious, it was that they needed to take action.

"You're sure about this, Skygirl?" He paused, waiting for her response before donning his helmet. The eluvian awaited them, ready to put them on a trail that would take them to parts unknown. Astraia had insisted on going with them, and busied herself fastening leather bracers.

"I'm sure. If they're somewhere through the mirror, I'm going to help you find them." Her expression hardened at Vesryn's concern. "You don't have to look out for me, Ves. I'll be fine." He supposed she had a point. Dragon-rider that she was.

They wouldn't be going alone, though. The Lord Inquisitor had escaped his meeting to join them. The talks had been inconclusive anyway and would resume later. Hopefully they would have this resolved before their absence became conspicuous. Leon would be joining Vesryn at the front of any conflict they ran into, and Asala could contribute her magic from afar. They had no idea what they would encounter, but with luck they'd be ready for anything.

"How're you two holding up?" he asked of the Inquisitors. Romulus was clearly in just as much physical pain as Stel was dealing with. It had the effect of hardening his face into even grumpier lines than usual.

"Fine," Romulus answered. Vesryn had a feeling he wasn't going to get any more than that from him.

"Stel?"

"It's getting bigger." Stel had paused in the act of sliding on the thick leather glove that customarily hid her mark, but now she was staring down at her palm, anxiety marring her features. "An inch or two, maybe, but... it's definitely bigger than it was this morning." She tilted her hand so he could see it, too. The Anchor, the glowing green scar that had been there for as long as he'd known her, was indeed longer than it had been last he saw it, cutting down into the heel of her hand towards her wrist.

Stel pushed out a breath, grimacing and drawing the glove the rest of the way over her hand. "We've other things to worry about. This first." She didn't say it, but it wasn't hard to imagine that she hoped both problems could be solved the same way. Finding Cyrus and Harellan would also be finding the two people most likely to be able to do something about the Anchors.

It seemed that for now, that would be the last word on the subject, and everyone finished gearing up swiftly. For all they knew, their quarry was long gone by now, and it was hard to know what to expect with the Qunari in the mix.

The mirror itself was freestanding just to his left, against the wall in a room apparently dedicated to spare furniture, which at once made sense and was sort of ridiculous, considering just how different the shimmering portal was from any mere looking-glass.

Stepping through the eluvian whited out his vision for a moment, but on the other side, the Crossroads looked essentially as it always did. Saturated color, as far as the eye could see, pathways made of jagged volcanic stone climbing, crossing, and breaking apart seemingly at random. They must have found a rather remote corner of it, though: the path they stood on seemed to proceed straight forward, and then fork once. The left side ascended, high enough that Vesryn couldn't see where the path eventually led. But the right fork remained mostly level, and bore the signs of recent use. There was another eluvian at the end of it, but Vesryn could tell immediately that something was off about it: the surface had a flat, dark red color to it, lacking the light even now shining at their backs.

Beside him, Romulus made a quiet noise of discomfort. Vesryn imagined that in addition to the physical pain of the mark he was dealing, he was now also dealing with the effects of lacking elf-blood and existing in the Crossroads, which was a unique sort of unpleasant, as far as he understood. No doubt Leon and Asala were going through the same, though the latter of those two had at least made this sort of journey once before.

"Best to follow the trail of activity, I think." Vesryn led the way forward, walking alongside the steady bloodstains spaced out along the right path. Astraia followed in his wake, her staff always held in both hands.

"That eluvian doesn't look like the others we've seen. I don't know if it's safe to pass through... or if we even can."

"It doesn't seem broken," Leon said, squinting at it with an uncomfortable grimace. "Though I admit everything's a little blurry. Some of these are keyed to passwords, aren't they?"

Estella hummed, taking a few steps forward and placing her hand flat on the glass. It didn't give. She studied it, brushing her fingers along the length until she could look behind as well. "I've never seen a red one like this, but... I think you're right. It's not broken, just inoperable. Clearly our unfortunate soldier came through it from the other side, so it has to work for something." No doubt hers and Asala's understanding of Qunlat would not be much help; not until they had a better idea of who'd set the password.

"I suppose we head up the other way then. If these are really a network, it's possible there's some workaround."

There was only one way to go for now, which simplified things nicely. The ascending path was a little less stable than the other, large chunks of it missing and forcing the group to proceed single-file in places. Much better not to look down, too—there was nothing below but empty space as far as Vesryn could see, the only hint at other pieces of the network vague shadows too far in the distance to pinpoint.

The eluvian at the end of the left-hand path was alight, though, as bright and clear as the one in the Winter Palace. With little else to try, they stepped through it.

The mirror put them out on a grand, stone bridge, smooth near-white cobbles yellowed with age and dirt, but still fitted firmly to one another. The width and length of the passage put Skyhold's to shame, but it seemed only barely adequate for the structure to which it led. Rising from the landscape in front of them was a sundered castle, once no doubt a magnificent edifice larger than any the Inquisition had yet ventured to, spires coiling upwards to pierce the clouds overhead. Though it was massive in scale, there was a lightness to it, a grace more welcoming than imposing, more warm than icy.

Now it was half-ruined, the bones of it still grasping for the sky. Some walls had collapsed; the silhouette suggested several missing towers, and the entire western edge had been shorn off, exposing the inside to wind and weather coming in off a natural cliff. It was hard to say where they were, exactly, except that it still felt like the Crossroads, but the air had grown warmer by a generous margin. More humid, too.

From their vantage, they could see a group of Qunari at the other side of the bridge, gathered in an armed circle around... something. Just blue light, from this distance.

"What do we do?" Astraia asked, looking around for direction. Vesryn squinted through the slit of his helm at the Qunari on the far side of the bridge, trying to make out what they were circling, to no avail. They didn't seem to have spotted them yet, but that would undoubtedly change soon.

"Not sure how comfortable I am attacking the Antaam unprovoked," he admitted. There were few enemies the Inquisition could make as powerful as the Qunari, and even if their base of power was far away, they had proof right before their eyes that they were capable of great reach. "Think we try the peaceful approach?"

"If you expect them to explain why they're here," Romulus said, "you're going to be disappointed."

"We could always try," Asala replied, though even she sounded doubtful. "It does not look like we have many other options available," she added. It was either forward toward the Qunari, or back the way they came, and of those two, forward was their best options to figure out what was going on. "I can translate," she said, glancing between Leon and Romulus, before she thought about it for a moment and inclined her head. "If they feel like speaking, I mean," she said with a shrug. It looked like she grasped the idea that not many groups they came into contact with like this were on speaking terms with them.

"I'm not comfortable attacking unprovoked either. Whatever quarrel they have with Cy and Harellan doesn't necessarily have to be ours." Stel's expression was grim, but it was clear that she didn't mean to turn around now. "One way or another, we have to get into that castle. Perhaps they won't mind. Just... don't get caught off-guard if they do."

Having so said, she stood, making her way towards the bridge with both hands out to the side, clearly unarmed. Of course, she could draw the sword at her side very quickly if the situation called for it. "Shanedan!" she called, followed by a string of words in Qunlat that Vesryn did not know. It wasn't hard to guess from the tone, though—she was making some kind of diplomatic overture.

Her appearance drew the attention of a few of the closer Qunari, who visibly squinted down the bridge. There were a lot more words after that, but the shout of Inquisition! followed by the immediate drawing of weapons didn't need any translating.

"Dammit," Stel murmured. With a sigh, she drew her blade, bracing it in both hands. The Qunari were swift across the bridge; whatever had them so occupied on the other side did not seem to be mobile. The first, a charging spearman, just barely missed a chance to impale her when she shifted aside, cutting across his back in retaliation. Though it left a bloody line, the wound was not enough to drop him, and his momentum carried him further into their formation.

He was caught for a brief moment between turning his spear to attack Stel again, or charging into the others, and that brief hesitation was all it took for Romulus to slip inside the reach of his spear, blade flashing upwards to slice open his throat. He didn't stop there, ramming the rim of his shield across the Qunari's jaw and making several more quick stabs to vital points, ensuring that the soldier died swiftly. More to ensure he was no longer a threat than to spare him pain, Vesryn knew. Qunari soldiers were notorious for their endurance and dedication to the cause. They were not easily dealt with.

For his part he rushed to the fore to keep Stel's flank covered, intercepting the second of two Antaam soldiers that closed in on her. They collided roughly, Vesryn's axehead finding the soldier's side and opening a bloody wound, but the Qunari elbowed him in the helmet, a jarring blow. Should've seen that coming. He'd been training harder than ever before since Corypheus's defeat, but he still struggled without Saraya. Ripping the axe free from the Qunari's side was enough to do some more damage, but he had to brace himself to block the next downward swing of his two-handed blade.

Another came for his right side, but he found his legs encased in stone before he could reach Vesryn. Astraia's doing, no doubt. She still hadn't quite worked her way up to attacking other people without necessity, but that didn't mean she couldn't contribute, or do it if she absolutely needed to. The Qunari did not like seeing magic used in front of them; their spear-throwers to the rear of the group clearly aimed their shots for the back line, hoping to remove Asala and Astraia from the equation.

One of the spears flew, but never made it to its destination. Leon snapped both arms up and caught it by the shaft as it passed by, shifting his grip quickly and hurling it right back at the Qunari who'd thrown it. The spear pierced his vitaar and skin both, right below the sternum, and he toppled backwards. A retaliatory blow from one of his comrades clanged off the Commander's gauntlet, forcing him a step back and off-balance.

Stel slipped in before it became a worse error, her sword cutting one leg out from underneath the Qunari mace-wielder. He went to a knee with a hard thud, only for Leon to grip him by the horns and drive his own knee up into the soldier's face: once, twice, three times. It was enough to make a bloody mess of his face and at least knock him out; Stel's dagger ensured that his death was quick thereafter.

The rest of the spears didn't seem to frighten Asala overly much, instead a tight frown formed on her lips. She took a quick sidestep closer to Astraia, and summoned a barrier above them both. The spears struck it harmlessly and clattered uselessly to the ground, where she dispelled the shield as quickly as she summoned it. Taking a step, she bent and plucked a spear from the ground and spun it, using it to focus the direction of her next spell.

A convex barrier sprung to life where she pointed and struck one of the Qunari nearest to the edge of the bridge with enough force to slam him against the railing. She spun around and loosed another, this one higher which caused him to flip over it, but fortunately for him he was quick enough to grab the edge before falling to his doom, where Asala ultimately left him.

The last Qunari was deadlocked with Leon, both having discarded any weapons but their bare hands. It seemed that the Commander was not the only one who preferred it, either—his opponent was giving him some trouble. Judging from the armor, he was in charge of this group, and his awareness of space was enough that even Stel's attempts to get in from the side were rebuffed. If she tried any more aggressively, she was in danger of being in Leon's way, so it was hardly a surprise when Vesryn could hear the telltale crack of her preparing for a jump.

More surprising was the much deeper boom that followed. He could just register the bare surprise on Stel's face before she was violently thrown from her feet, slamming into one of the edges of the bridge and dropping her sword with a clatter. Worse, the stone lip didn't quite stop her, and she disappeared over the edge with a flutter of dark hair in her wake.

"Stel!" Vesryn wrenched his axe free from his slain opponent, breaking into a sprint for the side of the bridge. Romulus weaved around him to aid Leon in bringing down the group's leader, but Vesryn could hardly be bothered to notice. He skidded to a halt where her sword had fallen, looking over the edge to find her hanging on with one hand, the unmarked one. Worse still, the Qunari that Asala had sent over the edge hung just below her, now reaching to grab her by the belt with his free hand. Whether he meant to secure his own position or pull her down with him, Vesryn didn't intend to find out.

"I've got you, hold on!" He dropped his axe and reached down, latching onto her forearm with his hands, but there wasn't going to be any pulling her up while the hefty Qunari soldier was attached, and whatever Stel's mark had done to her hadn't left her in the best shape to fight him off bare-handed.

A bladed staff appeared on Vesryn's right, the miniscule elf holding it visible soon after. Astraia angled the blade down and lunged, stabbing down at the Qunari's face. She struck him near the eye, eliciting an agonized cry from the soldier. His grip on Stel faltered, and then he fell away entirely, roaring until he hit the ground far below with a distant thud.

Vesryn was able to pull her up now, sliding his other arm under her as soon as he was able, and setting her down slowly against the stone lip. He checked briefly to confirm that the others had dealt with the rest of the threat before he knelt down and removed his helmet. "Are you all right? That was..." Uncharacteristic of her, for one. It almost seemed like she'd accidentally performed a much stronger version of what Romulus used his mark for. "What was that?"

She groaned softly, squeezing the wrist of her marked hand with the other, shaking her head slightly and tugging the glove off. Alarmingly, the green gash was past her hand now, just barely cutting into her forearm. She coughed, pulling in an unsteady breath. "I don't—I was just trying to jump like usual. But then something went—it felt wrong. The next thing I knew, I was in the air."

Stel leaned heavily against the stone, her head falling back against the edge. "Thank you. For a minute I thought I—well." It was a sentence that hardly needed finishing. With a thin smile for both Vesryn and Astraia, she offered her unmarked hand towards him. "I think I can stand. We should keep going, but... maybe not use the Anchors anymore."

"Noted." Romulus appeared to not to be wounded, but still in a significant amount of pain. And he hadn't even used his mark. "The way is clear now."

"For the moment." Vesryn helped Stel up and handed her sword back to her, making sure she was steady before he turned his attention to Astraia. Her attention was still fixed on the side of the bridge. She lowered her staff, and magically wiped away the blood staining the blade. Her expression was hard to read. "You did well, Astraia," he assured her.

She nodded and turned towards the path ahead. "Let's go."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon watched Estella's crystal flicker out, Khari's likeness disappearing from its green-tinged surface. The Lady Inquisitor tucked it away with a grimace, one the Commander could not help but echo on his own face. "Qunari explosives... moved into Halamshiral with our supplies." Her brow furrowed. "There's no way that happened without at least a few spies in our ranks."

With a nod, Leon glanced down at one of the Qunari bodies now still on their side of the bridge. "No doubt meant to help us take the blame in the event the explosion they were intended for took place. We might take some anyway." The risk alone would be more fuel for Arl Teagan's fire, no doubt. It meant that they now needed to make a much more thorough exploration of the terrain ahead—as Khari had said, access to even a part of the eluvian network meant that the Qunari could have moved their gaatlok to more than one place, planned more than one attack.

It's what Leon would have done, in their position. Ideally, one massive blow to every seat of government in Thedas: Val Royeaux, Denerim, Minrathous, Antiva City, Dairsmuid, Hossberg, Nevarra City—probably Ostwick, Kirkwall, and Starkhaven as well. It was hard to imagine them having access to all of those places, but even one or two would be a devastating blow. No doubt exactly what they intended. The Qunari were not known for indecisiveness or tentative strikes.

Estella sighed, glancing down at her mark and frowning. "Well, whatever the reason, we still have to go forward. Let's see what had the Qunari so interested earlier."

It was still there, the formless collection of blue mist. As they drew closer, Leon could tell that it was smaller than he was, but larger than most of the others, and it moved, stirring intermittently as if shifted about by an unfelt breeze.

As soon as Estella had stepped off the bridge, however, it reacted, shuddering and beginning to thicken, coalesce until it took on a humanoid shape. A very familiar one, too—by the time they drew within striking distance, it looked very much like Cyrus, only leached of most of his color and semitransparent, faded and bluish at the edges. The apparition appraised them in silence for a moment; though it bore his face, its manner of dress was decidedly different. Gone was the Tevinter-styled armor, replaced with something that fit closer, almost like a second, metallic skin. The similarities to Vesryn's plate were apparent, but Cyrus's was lighter, obscured in places by blue and green fabric.

He regarded them expectantly, but did not speak.

"Cyrus?" Estella froze for a moment, returning the apparition's regard with wide-eyed confusion. "Is that—are you—what's happening?" She took a step forward, reaching out as if to touch him, but her fingers sank into the mist with what looked like only a little resistance, and she snapped her hand back as if burned.

His expression shifted, brows knitting. Reaching up, he touched his lips with his fingertips and shook his head.

"If there was any doubt before, this confirms that Cyrus is involved somehow." Romulus studied the misty projection. "What is this, though? Is it really him? Or some magic left behind?"

"I've never seen anything like it." Astraia stepped forward slowly until she was next to Estella, turning one hand over and touching it lightly against the projection's chest, letting it sink through a few inches before she withdrew it again.

For all that it could not speak, the apparition seemed to have some resemblance to Cyrus's personality; it glanced down at Astraia's hand and arched an eyebrow, a wry smile touching the corner of its mouth. After a moment, it moved its attention to Asala, pointing to her with one hand and gaining a look of intent concentration. It shimmered, its primary hues shifting momentarily from blue to pink, then back. It let one hand hover near elbow height, then pushed it down, indicating small size, perhaps?

Asala pointed to herself moments after Cyrus's shade did, and appeared surprised and maybe even a bit confused that he'd do that. She watched the next few moments with arched brows, trying to glean whatever he was trying to tell them. She tilted her head and then held up her hand, turning it over before coating it in her particular pink hued magic, the same color that Cyrus had been moments ago. She stared at it for a moment before letting it fade, and glancing up to Cyrus. "Ethne?" Asala asked. Leon knew the name, as it was that of the spirit they had met in their dreams in order to aid Asala in becoming a spirit healer.

"You are saying you're like Ethne? But... Smaller?" She asked, her head tilted quizzically.

It grimaced, something about the answer not quite satisfactory, but then shrugged.

"Like a spirit, you mean?" Astraia had worked with Asala more than enough to learn of that source of her healing power. She pulled her staff to her chest and tilted her head sideways against it. "Or something similar."

"We saw a spirit mimic a person in the Fade," Romulus pointed out. "One appeared to us as Divine Justinia. She looked... significantly more real than this. I'm not sure it's a spirit."

"Regardless, the Qunari didn't seem too fond of it." Vesryn seemed to be tired of the guesswork. "And it doesn't seem dangerous to us. So we might want to ask some questions. I've some experience with these kinds of conversations; they can take a while to get anywhere."

"Probably best to stick to yes or no questions," Leon added. While the apparition was expressive enough to remind him quite keenly of his friend, there was no doubt that trying to decipher the answers to complex queries was not going to work out very well.

When no one else immediately supplied anything, he took the first himself. "Were you... left here for us in particular?" He wasn't sure what to call it. Left, put—maybe just waiting would have been better. But it would certainly hope to know if Cyrus had meant for them to make it this far.

The apparition nodded, then pointed back across the bridge to the dead Qunari and drew its thumb over its throat in a very clear gesture.

"You... knew the Qunari were planning to use the gaatlok?" Estella's question was more of a reach, but she seemed relatively confident in it. "You injured that other one, didn't you? The one that came through the eluvian into Halamshiral—to warn us? Or well, the real you did those things, I mean."

More nods, then the apparition gestured over its shoulder at the half-ruined castle, turning halfway towards it and beckoning for them to follow it. As they approached the castle, the sheer scale of it became more apparent: it was gigantic, to the point where it wasn't completely clear if such architecture could exist fully in the ordinary world. It soared over their heads, and yet the stone it was made of seemed light, almost delicate, and vaguely crystalline, much too brittle to hold all that weight with ordinary concerns about gravity and weather.

The massive front doors stood slightly open, just enough for the party to slip through, and if it had seemed vaguely unreal before, the inside was utterly fantastical: in places the walls had disappeared, staicases ended halfway up only to reappear dozens of feet higher and upside down, laws of logic and physics alike defied. It looked like nothing so much as the more artistic drawings in Cyrus's workshop, the ones where watercolors bled all over parchment rather than those with precise charcoal lines and squared corners. The general blurriness of the Crossroads wasn't helping Leon make any better sense of it, though most of the others apparently didn't have quite the same problems.

The area into which they first entered looked to be an atrium or something, its ceiling once a vaulted dome, the center of it tiled in colored glass, some sort of mosaic pattern throwing dyed light onto the white marble floors. Crystal columns were in places intact, others shattered; part of the dome had come away, and the walls exposed further rooms beyond. The far wall, what had once been a grand double staircase, was now in fragments, open air beckoning the brave to tread them and see where they might lead.

Each wall bore frescoes, desaturated to Leon's eyes, but all bearing scenes of battle or rest, dragons and the sun and four-eyed wolves stalking in the dark.

"It's like the library," Estella murmured. She'd only really shared the basics of this with Leon, but he understood it to be some ancient elven place, drawn into the Crossroads after the creation of the Veil. That part was admittedly still a bit much to wrap his head around—that the separation between fade and reality was an artificially-created thing, and not the default state of nature.

Still, seeing something like this was one of those things that made him think twice about what he thought was really possible. The castle shouldn't be able to stand, let along bear any of its other extraordinary features—it wasn't so hard to imagine that magic was what had made it possible, once.

But it was important to keep their current goals in view. "The Qunari have access to this place," he said, glancing at the silent apparition. "Are there other eluvians here? Ones they could use?"

Cyrus—or the entity wearing his face—frowned. Raising a finger to his lips, he pointed towards the top of the ruined staircase, then used his fingers to mime ascending. He took a step back towards the spot, light from the stained glass falling over his form and casting it heavily green. A glance upward revealed why: the shards were arranged in the shape of a crouching dragon with jade-colored scales, similar to some of the art in and around the Temple of Mythal. Beckoning for the others to follow, he turned and climbed the stairs.

Given the apparent need for silence, Leon elected to stay behind for the moment. While he was relatively confident in his ability to be quiet, he was wearing full plate, as was Vesryn, who also stayed behind while the others climbed to the top of the ruined staircase after the projection. They remained there for several long moments before descending again, seemingly looking at something below, blocked from Leon's sight by a partial wall.

As soon as they were back within range, Estella updated them. "There are a lot of Qunari down there, but I think the woman's leading them—she has this book tied to her shoulder armor," she said, gesturing at her own left shoulder. "A lot of barrels around—probably more gaatlok. Several eluvians, too. They're definitely staging something from there, but I'm not sure how to get over. There has to be another mirror somewhere that will do it."

"Sounds like we need to hit them, then. Hard and fast. Assuming we can reach them." Vesryn looked none too pleased about the idea, but if this indeed was being used as a staging point for attacks on all nations, they had little choice.

"Wait, before we go." The fingers on one of Astraia's hands disappeared under her mass of loosely-bound hair, rubbing at the back of her neck as she looked at the entity imitating Cyrus. "If you can answer this... are you all right? Are you somewhere close?" Close was an inexact term to be using, especially in a place like this, but it was obvious that Astraia's questions were borne out of concern, and that the first was more important than the second.

It appeared to consider this for a moment—perhaps a bit too long for the question, honestly. Eventually, it nodded, but not without some apparent hesitation, its expression torn between wariness and something else. Frustration, maybe. No doubt the answer would have been better conveyed with words it did not have.

"Okay." She didn't seem entirely satisfied by that, but she let it go, lowering her hand again and glancing at Estella briefly. "If... if we can find you, or Harellan, can you do something about the marks? I think... I think they might be killing them." She looked back to Estella. "Show him?"

Estella didn't look pleased by the answer either, but she extended her hand out towards the apparition. The mark hissed and crackled at obvious volume; Estella winced after a particularly loud one, though whether from pain or just surprise was unclear.

It reached forward in response, brushing ghostly fingers over the line of the mark and frowning. After a moment, it lifted its eyes to theirs and nodded, mouthing a single word, slowly so they could get a sense of what it was.

Hurry.

The Lady Inquisitor pursed her lips. It was clear that she had plenty more questions, but perhaps the urgency of the situation had cooled her inclination to ask them. "We need to get down there, to where the Qunari are," she said, drawing her hand back to her side. "Can you show us how?"

With a firm nod, the apparition took several steps back, then veered to the side, glancing back over its shoulder to be sure they were following. It seemed to know the castle's layout well enough, and it hadn't seemed deceptive so far, whatever it really was.

Perhaps they'd be able to solve both of their current problems after all.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
It was easy to say that Asala wasn't excited for the next part. Granted, she hadn't been excited to visit the Crossroads a second time either, but there she was. Khari had managed to feed them more information from their side, apparently they had apprehended the spy working in Halamshiral, and had retrieved a wealth of information from them. The combination of Rilien and Marceline in addition to the threat of an angry Khari and Zee proved to be wildly effective, unsurprisingly.

Among the information they relayed, was the password to enter the red eluvian they has passed along the way. With a new path in mind, they returned to the eluvian in question, where they now stood. In addition to the password, they'd also received word on what was on the other side, and that was the part that made Asala nervous. From what their source had said, it led to a place called the Darvaarad, a fortress located somewhere in the remote parts of Par Vollen. She'd never expected to return to her motherland, at least, not willingly, and certainly not in this manner. The fortress, Darvaarad, literally meant place that held back evil in Qunlat, and she wasn't looking forward to what these Qunari qualified as evil.

The fortress was in the command of a high-ranking Ben-Hassrath called Viddasala, one who converts purpose. They were also told that the Viddasala was accompanied by a very large Saarebas, and he undoubtedly lived up to the name of a dangerous thing.

Asala glanced between the others as they stood in front of the eluvian, awaiting for their word.

"There's a Qunari fortress on the other side of this mirror," Estella said, perhaps unnecessarily. Still her tone was almost disbelieving, as though it were difficult to comprehend that just past the glass lay some remote island off Par Vollen. It wasn't the sort of place that outsiders ever visited, so maybe that was understandable. No doubt the northern islands had more solid reality for Asala than for anyone else here. "Even if it's not well-manned... that's a lot of Qunari. I'd like to not have to engage them all, but if they really plan to do this... then at the very least we have to stop it."

Leon crossed his arms over his chest, contemplating the mirror for a moment. "In a way we're about as well-equipped for this as we can be. A strike force. I doubt the Viddasala planned on her spy giving up the password. And they won't be able to fully prepare for a breach in any case. Still... there's a chance a very large fight is waiting for us behind this, so prepare yourselves."

The Lady Inquisitor returned her attention momentarily to the specter of her brother. Whatever spirit or fragment of something wore Cyrus's face stood a fair distance from the eluvian—probably it couldn't leave the Crossroads. Estella stepped within reaching distance of him. "And you're—you're on the other side of this, right? The real you is there?"

The apparition tilted its head to the side, nodding once and reaching forward. Ghostly fingers drifted to pause at her cheek, unable to touch in the way flesh and blood could, but more solid than mere empty space. It turned its eyes out to the others and smiled grimly, the edges of it already starting to loosen, to come apart and fade away into blue light and then nothing at all. Last to disintegrate was the place it almost-touched Estella, but then it was gone.

"We'll find him," Astraia assured Estella, briefly reaching up to put a hand on her shoulder.

"Somehow I doubt that will be the hard part." Vesryn's helmet masked his features once more. His fingers opened and closed a few times over the axe shaft, and he rolled his shoulders a few times to loosen them. "Try to stay in formation as best you can when it comes to a fight. Leon and I will take the front. Asala, Astraia, use the walls to keep your backs covered as best you can, but don't get cornered. The Inquisitors can hold up the flanks, though I'd prefer they don't have to fight more than necessary." No doubt some of that was just concern for Estella, but there was also the marks to consider, and the way they were becoming increasingly unstable.

"Let's not delay," Romulus urged. "This needs to end now."

Estella nodded shortly, stepping to the front momentarily. "Maraas nehraa." Her pronunciation wasn't flawless, but it was good, and it got the job done. The mirror rippled, red fading out until the glass was clear again, alight with indistinct blue-white. She stepped back, allowing Leon and Vesryn to pass through first, following them with Romulus close behind. Astraia and Asala brought up the rear, the last to lay eyes on what awaited them on the other side.

Evening had begun to fall, was the first thing Asala noticed. Though the Darvaarad was made from the light stone much of Par Vollen's structures used, it wasn't blindingly-lit by the sun, only stark like bleached bones in the desert. No army awaited them, either—just another long length of bridge, this one probably manned by soldiers, though it was impossible to tell from this distance. In front of them, between the stairs leading up to the bridge, was a bronze statue of a Qunari woman holding a longspear, pointed towards the sky. It glinted dully in the fading light.

Asala gazed toward the statue for a few moments, unable to hide the trepidation in her face. The last time she had been in Par Vollen, it was behind a locked door, in a dark and terrifying room alone. They did not treat the Saarebas well, and she knew that the one that accompanied this Viddasala was used as a tool instead of the person he truly was-- once. The Qun had a habit of converting everything to its purpose completely. She tore her eyes off of the statue and shook her head, her grip tightening on the spear she'd taken from the battle in the Crossroads.

They moved quickly and as quietly as they could, beginning their hunt for Viddasala and a way to put a stop to her plans. The bridge was indeed manned by soldiers, but they were able to dispatch any they came across without creating an alarm just yet. They had the element of surprise here, attacking the Qunari near Par Vollen itself, and while there wasn't a great deal of noise, the waves crashing onto the rocky coastlines of the island helped mask their approach somewhat.

By the time they made it inside the fortress itself evidence of their trespassing had been noticed, distant alarms calling the fortress to action. No doubt a body had been found, or perhaps just a lack of a patrolling guard where he should have been. Their exact location was still unknown to the enemy, but the Qunari were on high alert.

It was good, then, that the layout of the fort was not overly complicated. That was unsurprising of the Qunari, given their obsession over order and efficiency. The unusual part was the content of most of these rooms. There wasn't too much time to look while they were avoiding or dealing with trained Qunari soldiers, but Asala spotted astrariums, devices for interacting with the Veil, a few oculara, even a few more eluvians in varying states of functionality. The Qunari were normally wary of magic to the point of labeling it evil. Perhaps that was the point of this place. A fortress to hold evil objects, to keep them separate from the rest of the Qunari population.

It was when they were passing through one of these storerooms of magical artifacts that Romulus's mark began to crackle violently. He shook his hand as though it had caught fire, opening and closing a fist to try to hold the magic back, but it would not be denied. "Get back!" he warned, just before a powerful blast erupted from his hand against his will. Romulus was thrown hard back into the nearby wall, Vesryn toppled over onto his back, and Astraia was actually thrown across the room, falling and sliding a short distance across the smooth stone floor.

The wall closest to the blast was cracked and crumbling, and all around them bits and pieces of arcane devices rained down, crashing into each other and creating a terrible racket. For one unbearably tense moment there was silence while all of them tried to recover. And then Asala could hear armored boots thundering towards them, along with deep voices shouting in Qunlat.

Leon reacted first, getting to the door and waiting for a few tense seconds before he threw it open, startling the Qunari on the other side for just a brief moment. He took advantage of it, grabbing hold of the first spear thrust in his direction and yanking, forcing the soldier wielding it into the room by himself. Not a good place to be; he swiftly met his end at the Lady Inquisitor's blade.

Unfortunately, Estella's mark chose that moment to do much the same thing as Romulus's had, except that the explosion seemed to happen in slow motion, time distorting around her and flinging both Leon and several more Qunari away as if they were moving through water.

Asala had saved herself from the majority of the blast from Romulus's mark, tossing up a barrier in time to absorb most of the force. There was still enough left over to put her on her back, but before long she'd made it back to her feet. Likewise, the explosion from Estella's mark came just as suddenly, but fortunately she was far enough away this time to escape it, but the same could not be said for Estella and Leon. Them and a few of the closest Qunari were flying through the air, but slowly, like they were trapped in sap. It left them open, and the Qunari unaffected by the time dilation were approaching quickly.

A barrier sprung to life just into to intercept a spear meant for Leon, and Asala pushed back, shoving the Qunari carrying it out of range. Before she let the barrier go however, she reeled back with her own spear and let it fly towards him. The shield fell just as the spear arrived. However, Asala was not practiced with the weapon more than just using it as a staff, and her aim was off and sailed past her intended mark. The Qunari behind that one was not so lucky, as he now found a javelin lodged in his bicep. It didn't slow him down much, and Asala frowned, throwing up another barrier in hopes to buy time for everyone to recover and reposition.

Fortunately, the few seconds she could buy them was all they really needed, and the group recovered well enough to take better advantage of their positioning, the Qunari forced to approach in smaller numbers due to the doorway. Even when more of them began to use the hole Romulus had put in the wall as a secondary entrance, the combination of Leon and Vesryn in the front, Estella and Romulus moving nimbly around the edges and Astraia and Asala contributing spells from the back felled their attackers.

No doubt there were more, though, and it didn't take much tactical acumen to understand that they had to get moving. Stealth was traded for swiftness, and though they encountered a few more solitary soldiers or small groups, their speed through the fort prevented any real defenses from mustering against them.

It was hard to know exactly where to go to find the Viddasala, but their path soon took them out into a courtyard, surrounded on all sides by high walls. Tropical plants grew here, lush but disciplined in the manner of everything cultivated by the Qunari. A large, rectangular pool in the center bore a stone fountain, water burbling pleasantly into the surrounding basin. It would probably only be about knee-high water on Asala, but it was easy to see the stone channels cut into the ground where it would occasionally be allowed to overflow and irrigate the plants.

On the far side of the courtyard stood a woman who surely had to be Viddasala—though they'd only caught a brief glimpse of her before, her armor was distinctive, as was the book tied to one flat shoulder-guard. She wasn't nearly as tall as Asala, perhaps a few inches beneath six feet, but her presence was much more imposing, especially standing elevated in the way she did. Another eluvian shone dimly behind her, and at her side towered Saarebas—a full head taller than even Leon, just as muscular, and practically brimming with barely-contained, raw magic.

Below them, arranged in a wide fan formation, were several more Qunari soldiers, and these looked like elites all, perhaps the Viddasala's personal guard. Men and women alike, and all of them armed to the teeth.

The woman herself, illuminated by the scant moonlight from above, crossed her arms and glowered down at them. "Survivors of the Breach. Heralds of change. Heroes of the South." None of the titles sounded complimentary on her tongue, and indeed she shook her head. "After fulfilling your purpose at the Breach, it is astonishing to hear you still walked free among your people. Your duty is done—it is time to end your magic."

"That's what this is about?" Estella's tone was torn between incredulity and what sounded like the beginnings of anger. "All of this—because you don't like that we have the Anchors?"

The Viddasala regarded her as though she were a particularly slow child. "Do you really believe that closing the Breach solved everything? That the consequences stopped there?" She exhaled a harsh breath, audible even over the distance. "The day we saw the Breach, the Qun decided its action. We would remove your leaders and spare those who toil." It wasn't completely clear which or how many leaders she was talking about, but Asala was familiar enough with the Qun's absolutes to guess. She probably meant all of them.

"But this gilt-tongued thief has disrupted everything, in your names."

It was easy enough to guess whom she was referring to with that. "And where can we find this thief?" Vesryn asked. "Judging by how grumpy you look, I'd wager he's eluded you quite easily."

"There's no time for this." Romulus's mark was threatening to overload again, but so far he seemed to be keeping it under control. "We need to see where that eluvian leads." Of course, there were large deadly Qunari in between them and it. Astraia eyed them nervously, her gaze most commonly fixed on Saarebas.

"If you understood everything he has caused, you would want to find him as much as I do." Viddasala shook her head. "But it matters not. The Qun would have taken the gentle path, but he has forced us to the way of blades. Mine will find him before his finds me." She turned to Saarebas and jerked her head down towards them.

"Kill the Inquisitors. If the others surrender, take them." She turned her back on them, striding towards the eluvian with purpose, but the group currently had bigger problems—quite literally, as Saarebas jumped the railing and fell the nearly ten feet down to land in a deep crouch in the pool with a heavy splash. He rose back up to his full height, primal earth magic gathering already at his fingertips.

He thrust both hands forward, hurling two enormous stonefists at once, and on the signal, the other Qunari charged as well, spears and axes at the ready.

Asala took the first steps forward, putting her in front of the group. She dug deep into her reserves of mana and withdrew a hardy barrier, shaping it into a half dome in front of them all. The pair of stonefists glanced off of either side and split from their paths, sailing off harmlessly behind them. With the immediate threat of them dealt with Asala retreated a step or two back to put the rest of her companions in front of her. Her eyes never left the Saarebas the entire time.

But it seemed the Qunari mage had plenty more where that came from, and lighting wreathed both of his hands after that, bolts lancing from each arm. Estella tried to dive to the left to avoid one, but it caught her in the side, and she fell sideways with a sharp cry, collapsing into the pool with a stumbling lurch. Leon moved in to cover her, intercepting the axe that whistled towards the Lady Inquisitor's head. Catching it between armored palms, he grunted under the force of the secondary lightning bolt that caught him for being too close, his balance faltering.

He just barely kept his feet, but the axe-wielder dealt him a blow to the head, hard enough for the ring against his helmet to echo. The helm dislodged entirely with the momentum, snapping his head to the side before hitting the water with another, smaller splash.

Saarebas hurled himself into the fray after that, no longer content to sling spells from a distance. Magic propelled him up into the air, and then down again with a thunderous crash into the middle of their formation, behind the front that Estella and Leon were barely holding. A blast of arcane magic pulsed from him, knocking Astraia and Romulus back several steps. Vesryn held his ground against it, but the Qunari soon encased his arms in rock, landing a quick and heavy strike to Vesryn's side. The next slammed straight into his chest, sending him tumbling backwards.

Romulus was forced to deal with one of the spear-wielding Qunari nearby, leaving Astraia to face Saarebas's wrath for a moment. She actually brought it upon herself by shoving the bladed end of her staff into the mage's lower back. His armor was ineffective, not even really designed as such, and so her blade was able to sink in easily. Pain, however, did not concern Saarebas in the slightest. By the time Astraia had withdrawn her weapon he'd turned on her. Her stonefist shattered harmlessly across his arm, delaying him only a moment. She made to swing her staff down on the base of his neck, only for him to catch the blade between rock-guarded fingers. He brought his other fist swiftly into her abdomen, and she crumpled with a choked cough. He immediately turned his wrath on Asala next, leaping across the distance between them and swinging a haymaker for her.

For a moment, Asala saw her brother. He had fought much in the same way, taking to Aurora's tutelage far easier than she had. He had even been as reckless. But Meraad had lacked the power of this Saarebas, she noted as she pulsed a wave dispel energy. The stones around the Saarebas's hands melted away, but still, the muscular fist would still do damage if he put all of his weight into it. So Asala dodged backward, but she overestimated and fell the rest of the way on her back, as the haymaker sailed above her.

It still left her in less than favorable position, and the accompanying hammerfist was fast incoming. She was able to summon another barrier, managed to block it albeit still with spiderweb cracking. The second and third widened these cracks, and Asala panicked, freezing for the fourth. That one broke through, though robbed of much of its force, drove heavily into her belly. She cried out in pain, and instinctively forced out a body sized barrier which caught the Saarebas by surprise and flung him away, afterward Asala rolled over and began to vomit violently.

Saarebas landed on his feet, but he didn't stay there for long. Estella, on her knees in the water, held her marked hand firmly in the other, light escaping between her fingers where she gripped her own wrist. But her palm flared brightly, a resounding crack flinging her backwards into the water again.

The brunt of the force collided with Saarebas, though, much more powerful than anything she could conjure with her usual magic, and he staggered sideways, knocking into one of his allies, who was trying to flank Romulus. His sheer size sent the other Qunari sprawling, and Leon was on him immediately, yanking his head up by the horns and twisting until his neck broke. Saarebas took a swing at the Commander, who caught the fist in both of his palms, for once the smaller and physically weaker combatant. But he still knew more of close-quarters fighting than Saarebas seemed to, and technique barely edged out raw strength, Leon sweeping the Qunari mage's legs out from underneath him and putting him on his back.

Another incoming spear forced him away before he could do any more than that, and though winded, Saarebas quickly regained his footing.

He only just got there before Romulus was on his back, arms wrapped around the mage's neck. He stabbed his blade into the Qunari's chest, doing a decent amount of damage and lodging him there for the moment. His mark pulsed wildly.

Astraia had only just gotten to her feet before a spear-wielding Qunari charged her. She narrowly avoided being impaled, deflecting the weapon aside with her own and kicking off the soldier's chest. The kick served more to shove herself away than do damage, and she landed in the midst of another downward slash, this one cutting a bloody line across the Qunari's lightly armored chest. It wasn't enough to end him, though, and his next spear thrust, though off target, cut across the outside of her thigh. The shaft of the weapon whipped up and smacked her across the head, sending her tumbling down to the ground.

Vesryn arrived to cleave into the warrior from behind with his axe, but Astraia had already turned and launched a desperate spell in self defense, in the form of lightning. It wasn't well-controlled either, chaining off the already dead Qunari soldier that Vesryn felled. It hit him, leaving him staggered, and bounced to Saarebas and Romulus next, still struggling with one another. The added pain of the lightning spell seemed to be enough to push Romulus's mark over the edge. He just happened to have it pressed against Saarebas when it went.

The Qunari mage utterly exploded in a blast of the mark's energy, sending Romulus flying across the courtyard to land roughly just before he reached one of the walls. As the debris from the explosion fell around them, the courtyard fell into silence. The last of the Qunari here had seemingly been dealt with.

Asala still knelt in the puddle, her hand wreathed in magic pressed against her belly. The warmth spread out from her center, healing the damage that the Saarebas had caused to her insides. With her other hand, she wiped the blood that dribbled from the corner of her lips. She glanced around the battlefield, looking for the enemy just in case they missed one, but once she confirmed they'd all been dealt with she nodded and stood.

"Let's find Cyrus," She stated, before she moved to check on Romulus's wellbeing.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Her entire right arm was in agony.

It took just about all the focus and discipline Estella had ever learned to keep the sheer extent of it from showing on her face. Wincing anyway, she rolled up her sleeve, lips parting in soundless surprise. Lines of eerie green webbed over everything from her fingertips to her elbow—it looked as bad as it felt. Like the entire limb was about to crack apart and fade into dust. It was hard not to panic at the thought, but urgent as it was, there was one that overrode it.

Through that mirror, she would find her family. There was no especially good reason to think so, aside from the fact that it seemed like they'd reached the end of the fortress and it was the only way to go. But more than that she just felt it. She'd always felt—would always feel—a connection to her brother that granted her vague insights like that. She couldn't help but put stock in it now, when there was so little else to go on.

But the eluvian stood open, and time drew short in more ways than one. Glancing behind her to be sure the others were all ready to enter as well, she used her good hand to push her bedraggled, wet hair from her face and exhaled, pulling in one final, bracing breath before she stepped into the mirror.

The mirror led them back into the Crossroads, if the sudden vivid colors blooming in front of her eyes were any indication. She could feel it, too, a gentle brush against her magic, a warmth that called to something ancient and quiet in her blood. Not an experience everyone had, apparently. The castle they'd passed through earlier lay on the other side of a massive gully, slightly above them, its broken and jagged spires shining in the dark, yearning towards the deep blue of the sky. A remnant, in the same way she was a remnant, of something great and powerful that had come before.

The path was somehow clear before them, though it was in truth little more than a vague depression in some of the grass at their feet, signs of passage from many that carried them around a rock face.

On the other side lay a scene of utter devastation. Qunari bodies were strewn across the ground, many of them slashed and torn by familiar weapons and spells. The smell of ozone was heavy in the air, despite the cloudless luster of the stars above them, bright against the velvet blanket of night. Blood, drying and sticky, glinted dully on the grass, on their armor, but little had found the steel of their blades. Still others were rendered to stone, an unmoving graveyard in corpses and monuments to them. The stone giants were frozen in the poses of warriors, fighting a battle centered around one specific point near the center, and there lingered nothing at all. Nothing but the sense that they ought to advance farther still.

"Gods," Astraia said softly. An old habit Estella knew she'd been trying to break. "They didn't stand a chance." She walked with a slight limp still, having only hastily healed the slash to her thigh.

"Keep moving," Romulus urged, holding his hand to his chest. "I don't know if I'll make it if this thing goes off again."

Asala hovered close by Romulus, watching him and his arm carefully. She probably wouldn't be able to do much if it did go off, but knowing Asala, it wouldn't stop her from trying. She did spare a look of horror at the scene at hand, but didn't dwell long, instead tossing a concerned look toward Estella.

Estella couldn't help but share the thought, uncertain as she was what to make of what lay before them. Biting the inside of her cheek, she nodded jerkily and followed the path that instinct made, seeking what she could not yet see.

Ahead, she could make out the vague sounds of an armed clash, Viddasala's harsh contralto shouting something indistinct in Qunlat. Through some trees, and then up what must have been a rise—the noises were coming from above. Estella shifted from a swift walk into an outright run. That had to be—

Emerging from the treeline brought them right to what they were looking for. Viddasala, spear in-hand, took a swipe at Cyrus, who bent backwards and away from it, parrying with a luminous blade. His strength was enough to knock her guard open, and as he came back up he took a hard step in, thrusting forward with the second and finding her throat. She gasped, the sound cut off with the severing of her windpipe, and collapsed to the ground.

The noise of their passage clearly registered; he turned to face them. At her distance, Estella could see he hadn't emerged unscathed from the earlier fight—blood was drying on a cut in his lip, another slicing across his right brow. The largest one stained his cloak red at the shoulder, though he gave little indication of pain.

He didn't look surprised to see them, exactly. Instead, his face pulled into a grimace, and he took a step back and to the side, eyes seeking and finding Harellan, who stood with his hands folded behind his back, which was to yet another eluvian. It had the effect of making his features difficult to discern, casting them in deeper shadow and darkening his silhouette.

"It seems you've found us." The words were soft, almost tentative. "I hadn't meant for that."

None of it seemed right at all. Their body language, the way they were dressed, the things Harellan was saying—it just didn't add up to anything Estella could understand. "Why?" she found herself asking, attention bouncing from one to the other. Her first instinct was to go immediately to Cyrus, but something about the cast of his expression... she'd only seen him look like that for her once in her life. The night he told her goodbye the first time. It was a similarity that she didn't want to contemplate, and so she reached automatically for the queries instead, stepping half a pace forward.

"What's—what's going on here? Why did you leave? What's all this with the Qunari and the—the rest of it?"

"A problem I had intended for us to solve ourselves." He had to be talking about the Qunari. The dark shape of Harellan shifted; he'd tilted his head a bit. "At least the immediate problem. But then someone pushed a dying soldier through an eluvian and onto your doorstep, and here you are."

“Harellan." Cyrus interrupted almost tonelessly. “The Anchors."

"I see them. I'd thought—I suppose splitting the power didn't do more than delay the effects. Since you're here, we can remove them."

"Remove...?" Estella immediately held her hand to her chest, cradling it with the other. It hurt, to be sure, and she'd much rather lose the Anchor than die, but... still she couldn't help but feel some terror at the prospect of actually losing it. It was the reasons she'd become Inquisitor in the first place, and now she knew it was in some way a piece of the heritage she barely understood. It was hard to imagine life without it, now, after almost five years. That feeling warred with the pressing need to push Harellan to answer her actual question, but she supposed this ought to come first. Mere questions were hardly justified when she and Romulus had lives hanging in the balance.

Romulus seemed more immediately willing, as he quickly peeled off the glove covering his, revealing the way his own mark has alarmingly begun to spread and crack up his arm. "Do it."

"Cyrus, if you please." Harellan nodded towards them. Cyrus banished his weapons and approached Romulus first, stopping short of him and motioning for the other Inquisitor to extend his arm. From there it looked to be mostly a matter of passing his hands in the air above and beyond Rom's arms. The green light came away with them, leaving whole, unbroken skin behind, and with a slight grimace, Cyrus stepped back, approaching Estella to do the same.

Only when the noise of the magic was in her ears did he speak, almost too low for her to hear. Certainly too low for anyone else to hear, which was probably the point. “I'm sorry, Stellulam." He met her eyes, his wide and almost childlike in their earnestness, if only for a split second.

But then he stepped back again, retreating to Harellan's side without so much as touching her.

"I don't understand." Astraia's voice was rife with emotion. Her eyes lingered on Estella's arm a moment, fascinated by the magic that removed the mark entirely, but clearly she had other things eating at her. "Why did you have to leave when you did? Without... without even saying goodbye? I thought—" She reached a bloodstained hand almost up to her face, where her vallaslin had once been. Whatever her thought was there, she didn't finish it, instead starting a new one directed at Cyrus. "We fought a dragon together. And when I woke up you were just gone."

"He is blameless in this." Harellan sighed softly, taking a step down from the eluvian's dais to stand closer to level ground with the rest of them. He'd re-shorn the sides and back of his head and gathered the rest, leaving a thick black tail to fall from his crown to the middle of his back. His armor was of a kind with Cyrus's new set, if slightly more elaborate, and with the addition of what looked like a thick fur cloak. Wolf pelts, perhaps, though the garment would have needed several. "If you would lay fault, lay it at my feet instead. Cyrus had no choice but to follow where I led."

Cyrus shot him an indecipherable glance, but did not contradict the statement. Harellan apparently took that as reason enough to continue. "We left when we did because no one was watching. A quiet exit was better, I thought, considering the reason for it. What we do now should not be associated with the likes of the Inquisition."

"And what is it that you do now?" Ves sounded guarded, to say the least. His gaze was questioning, searching for answers, and laid solely on Harellan. Astraia didn't seem satisfied with the answer she'd been given, but she fell silent for the moment.

Naturally, Harellan was expecting the question, or at least completely unsurprised by it. "Rectifying a mistake. An ancient one." He shook his head, tipping it back to look at the sky. "Corypheus was supposed to unlock the power in the focus, but I did not anticipate the extent to which he would succeed. The hole he tore in the Veil was... not what it should have been. Mine will be cleaner. More complete."

A simple statement. Staggering in its implications. Estella immediately looked to Cyrus, as if for confirmation. What she saw was not encouraging, and she reverted her attention to her uncle. "But—putting up the Veil destroyed an entire civilization, Harellan. Tearing it back down again will destroy... at least ten of them. Why would... why would you let that happen?" Not just let it happen—actively make it so. And the things he said about Corypheus made it sound like he was the cause of everything. She almost couldn't process it.

His expression, almost eerily neutral up to that point, finally softened slightly. "I did not think that so great a sacrifice, for a very long time." He sighed, letting his eyes fall to the ground in front of his feet before lifting them back to hers. "You showed me the error of that thinking. Made me believe again that there are things in this world worth saving, worth cherishing." He swallowed thickly, beset by some emotion that never quite became clear. "I'd lost that belief, when I lost your mother and my brother. It makes this more difficult, but... all the same, I cannot lose my resolve now. The world that was before the Veil was a better world than this one, and if catastrophe is what it takes to see Thedas returned to what it was always supposed to be, then I must unleash it. I alone have the strength and the knowledge."

"That's insanity." Ves said it with certainty at Estella's side. He held his weapon in one hand, showing no signs of wanting to use it, but at the same time his posture was anything but friendly. "I know what I felt, what was in my head. Saraya lived in that world, and she lived in this one. If she could speak again, she'd tell you there are just as many things worth protecting in this Thedas. And there were just as many things wrong with the world before. You can't do this."

"Make no mistake, I do not mean to merely trade the new for the old. I'm aware enough of the faults you allude to. Nothing is perfect, but a world where the magic and the life does not leach from us with every passing generation—that is worth sacrificing for. And I will sacrifice for it." For all the tenderness he used speaking to Estella, and for all that his tone remained mild now, there was an unmistakable firmness to it. The kind belonging to someone who'd well and truly made up his mind. Quite a long time ago, from the way he spoke of it.

Estella didn't even know what to say in the face of that kind of certainty. She'd been certain of so few things in her life, and she could never even imagine being certain that the destruction of so much life was the right thing to do. It was like the person in front of her was at once the uncle she knew and someone entirely different, as foreign to her as a stranger. She'd always known he had his secrets, but to think he'd been sitting on this the entire time they'd known each other, from their first meeting in a Chantry stables to his reappearance in the eluvian network all the way through teaching her, and Cyrus, and Astraia...

"How—how much of any of this was real, then?" she asked, her tone tremulous. It was a demand to know, but a quavering one. "This whole time, this has been your aim... was it all just so you could do this? And Cy—what do you mean he had no choice but to follow you?"

“The Vir'abelasan, Stellulam." The first to answer the question was Cyrus himself. “Drinking from it bound me to the will of Mythal. It's a compulsion to obey—and Harellan is what remains of Mythal."

"I have been ruthless, and unkind." Harellan confessed this with evident remorse, though apparently not enough to have stopped him from doing it in the first place. "Power and knowledge I have, but what I still needed was reach. Agents with the capability and skills to assist me. I manipulated Cyrus from the day I met him. Piqued his curiosity about elven history, his heritage. Taught him the magics I thought he should know. Pushed him to restore his magic when he lost it. Suggested that he be the one to drink from the Well. I knew what the sum total of these things would be. I knew what they would make him, and I am not sorry for it."

His brows knit. "If there were some other way to achieve what I aim at, I'd have taken it. Corypheus was my attempt to do that. But we all know how that went."

"Corypheus was..." Romulus had kept his distance a little more after having his mark removed. He still rubbed the spot where it had been. "The elven orb, what he used to make the Breach. That was your doing?"

"Placed in his hands by my agents, while I was still too weak to use it. A flaw I could have overcome, if only I'd been more patient. More willing to take the slow and deliberate path that lies before me now. For what it has cost you, I am sorry. It was not my intention to embroil Thedas in war like this. The same reason we stopped the Qunari here."

As if by some unseen, unfelt cue, Harellan's body language changed. "It is time for us to take our leave." He straightened, glancing to Cyrus, who looked away with what could only be called a sullen expression. "Before we do, however... Astraia. I do apologize for departing with such haste. I regretted at the time that you were still unconscious, but I would like to rectify the error." He let his hands relax, falling softly to his sides. "Would you like to come with us? There is a place for you here, if you would occupy it."

She didn't seem all that surprised when he asked, already deep in thought about her answer. Though it was posed without much weight behind it, it was impossible to miss that there was a great deal riding on her answer, at least regarding her own future. She shared a look with both Estella and Ves before she turned her eyes back up to Harellan, straightening to as much as her height would allow.

"Yes."

"Astraia, you can't be—"

"Let me do this, Ves." She kept her tone controlled, soft. "I'm sorry to leave you all like this, but... this is something I have to do. Something I think I've been training to do for some time, even if I didn't know it." She stepped forward and turned her back to Harellan, facing Estella. She offered a subtle nod of her head when their eyes met. "Goodbye. And thank you for everything."

Estella glanced between the three of them. "Astraia..." She didn't really know what to say to that. Too many things were shifting around at once, reorienting her entire understanding not just of the last few weeks, but the last few years. Maybe even more than that. On the one hand, she was worried about what this might mean. Harellan was not exactly who she'd thought he was, and she couldn't think that he made this offer without a purpose, one that might be just as dangerous for Astraia as it was bound to be for Cyrus.

On the other... neither of them would be alone. She knew Cyrus, knew he'd do everything he could to look out for Astraia. And she thought maybe Astraia would look out for him, too. Whether that would make any difference in the long run was less clear, but—it was something. "You're welcome. And—" She paused, struggling for the right thing to say. "Good luck."

"Lethallan." Harellan had moved no closer to the group, remaining at his place on its fringe with deliberateness, as though some invisible line had been drawn in the space that he would not cross. "If you would not mind..."

It was obvious enough what he was asking for. When Estella stepped away from the others to approach him, he gave her a tentative smile, glancing only once back over her shoulder before settling his eyes on her face. "I... know you'll never endorse what I'm doing. I don't expect you to thank me for this—I half-suppose you'll try to stop me, and perhaps that's how it should be." He sounded almost wistful when he said it, reaching out as if to touch her cheek. But his hand stopped short and hovered there, uncertain.

She was torn. Trying to think about it from his perspective helped: he'd known only of the fading glory of the People for most of his life, and then the first exposure to anything outside of that had been Tevinter of all places. And the news didn't really get better from there, as far as the welfare of elves was concerned. What Fen'Harel had done must have seemed like such a catastrophic mistake, and to feel like the only one both capable of and willing to fix the problem, when the solution had such a cost.

Estella could almost, almost imagine what it must feel like to be convinced of that, and to really understand what it meant, as Harellan surely did. The death and destruction he would cause... it would be like Romulus and Cyrus ending up in the future and resetting everything. Destroying an entire timeline gone wrong, even knowing that the people who'd lived in it were no less real than the people who would live after.

Her heart broke for him. And she knew she could never, ever let him succeed. Even if Harellan couldn't see it yet, she could. It would destroy too much, and it would destroy him, too.

Taking one step closer, she caught his hand in hers and pressed his hand to her cheek. "Lethallin," she said, pronouncing the word carefully. It was still not natural to her tongue. Never would be, in the way it was natural to his. For all that they were so closely related, she was of this world. The one he wanted to destroy. Maybe he imagined there would be a place for her in the one he made. But she didn't want it. "Don't do this. Don't take this path. Stay with us. We can still change the world—we already have, and you helped us do it. Don't go." She pulled in a breath through her teeth. "Please don't go."

His other hand found the untouched side of her face, and Harellan drew himself closer, putting just a toe over the invisible line dividing them. So close, she could see the way his eyes shone in the dark. He blinked, and a tear slid quickly down his cheek as he pressed his brow to hers. "I can't stay." His hands trembled against her skin, fingers dry like parchment. "If the world could be saved by good intentions..." The words were a murmur more than anything, but she could feel him steel himself with them, the tremor steadying and tension returning to his body language. "I love you, lethallan. And I pray to whatever gods there might be that you do not forget that."

With a tight, thin smile, Harellan pulled back, clearing his throat and taking several steps towards the eluvian. "If there are other farewells to be made, now is the time."

"Not much point in farewells if we're going to see each other soon, is there?" Ves clearly still wasn't happy with Astraia's choice, or anything he'd heard here. "You can walk away now, but we're good at finding trails."

"Not this time, Ves," Astraia answered him quietly. "This is goodbye for now."

"You can't listen to him," he urged. "I don't know what you think he's been teaching you, but he's using you, controlling you. Even if he does care, he's clearly willing to discard you anyway."

"Ves. Stop." Her tone was significantly more stern now. "No one is controlling me. Not Harellan... and not you. This is my choice. My chance to help my People. The Inquisition served its purpose. This is mine."

Ves shook his head, and then turned away in frustration, carrying himself several paces away to the edge of the group. Astraia watched him go with pained eyes, but she said no more.

At this point, Cyrus stepped forward, holding himself much too tentatively for her brother. “You think I'd learn eventually." He cleared his throat softly. “That pride cometh before a fall, so to speak. I can't help but feel if I'd have just had a little less at the Well..." With a shake of his head, he glanced over those assembled. “Still... I've, ah. I've hope in the lot of you. Seems like there might be one more world-saving in you yet. Rather betting on it, actually."

For the first time since they'd entered the mirror, Leon stirred. He'd been very still so far, no doubt taking in the information and letting it stew a while before deciding what he wanted to do about any of it. Estella couldn't blame him. But this part, he seemed to have less difficulty with, taking a step towards Cyrus and squeezing his shoulder. "And I've hope in you. Don't give up, Cyrus." With a small nod, he dropped his hand and moved back.

Rom kept his distance, but offered Cyrus a nod as well. "We'll see you when we see you. With any luck, it'll be in better circumstances. But I've got faith in that."

Cyrus returned the nod, but it was easy to see that he was already trying to mentally prepare himself to face her. When he turned just enough to do it, he lost any semblance of composure he had, expression stricken instead. “Stellulam, I—" He faltered.

She wouldn't have let him finish anyway. "If that's an apology, I don't want it." Estella was moving even as she spoke, closing the distance at a walk too swift to be calm. She threw her arms around him, leaning her weigh into the solidity of his body. "You don't have to apologize to me for anything, Cy." She squeezed, knowing that time was short and no matter how much of it there was, she'd never be able to get all her feelings across.

He didn't reply, except to return the hug as tightly as he could, lifting her partway off the ground, armor and all, before setting her down. “I'll find a way to fix this." He spoke the words into her hair. “Or help you fix it. Whatever it takes." Loosening his arms, Cyrus expelled a breath and shifted his hands to her shoulders. “Do me a favor, would you? Tell the others..." He frowned. “Tell them I never meant to leave. That I'd have stayed."

"I will, Cy. I promise. Take—" Her voice cracked, but she would not cry. That was not how she wanted to send him off, even if everything in her felt like it was falling apart. "Take care of yourself. And..." She tilted her head in Astraia's direction, letting the rest of the sentence be filled in by the gesture.

He nodded. “I promise, too. Until next time, Estella." Cyrus took a step back, then another, his fingers falling away from his shoulders and back to his sides. A third step, and he turned away from them altogether, catching up with the other two, where Harellan was already stepping through the eluvian, Astraia closely behind. He paused one last time on the threshold, turning back over his shoulder and feigning a confident smile.

But then he, too, was gone, and the mirror's light darkened in his wake.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Rom could still feel the mark burning in his palm.

It was a phantom pain now, seared into his mind from the sustained and excruciating agony he'd dealt with up until it had been removed. Every time he looked down he was surprised to see it gone, to see his hand the way it had looked before he'd given himself away at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The way his hand had looked when he was a slave, a spy and a killer, nothing special about him at all. He was different now, he knew, but still he couldn't help but feel diminished. The thing that he had used to forge his own place in the world, and then to save it, was gone.

Estella had to be feeling something similar, but he knew she had other things on her mind. Much more personal thoughts. To find her uncle and her brother, only to lose them to an eluvian and parts unknown, sealing the path behind them so she could not follow... he couldn't imagine what that was like. Vesryn seemed confident they could track them down, but Rom knew by now he was good at projecting that even when he didn't feel it. Harellan, Cyrus, and Astraia would be nearly impossible to find if they wanted to stay hidden. The Inquisition's foremost experts on magic were gone, and with that magic they could cover their tracks.

Of course, it remained to be seen if the Inquisition as a whole would remain, and no doubt everything that had happened here would influence that. Two things had become clear to Rom: first, that there was still a need for an organization able to do what no single nation could alone, after what Harellan informed them of. Second, that they were not so impregnable as they'd seemed before, and that some restructuring was perhaps necessary.

It was late by the time they arrived back at the Winter Palace, and Rom was weary, but he led the way in silence beside Estella as they headed back towards the meeting chamber, where they were no doubt awaited.

They were interrupted one hallways short of their goal by a familiar voice. “Thank the fucking Maker." It wasn't too many people who'd say something like that, especially not, perhaps, with a tone of such genuine, profound relief. “You're alive."

Khari approached at a jog that looked more like a poorly-contained sprint, slowing only a little before she collided with Rom, strong arms banding around his back. “Lucien and Sophia are keeping everyone distracted by talking about very official business that doesn't actually matter, but Teagan's getting cranky. Crankier." The update was perfunctory; Khari pulled back and held him at arms' length for a moment, brows knit.

“You guys don't look too great. What happened out there?"

"We took care of the Qunari plot, and a lot of Qunari along with it. At the end of it we found Harellan and Cyrus." He glanced sideways at Estella, He wasn't sure how she'd want it described, but somehow he imagined she wouldn't mind him taking over the duties of explaining for a moment. "Harellan's not quite who we thought he was. He has Cyrus under his control from when he drank from the Well of Sorrows, and he has... some pretty destructive plans. But they were able to remove our marks." He'd taken hold of Khari's hands, but now he turned up his left one, to show her the unbroken skin there, no sign of the unearthly green light remaining.

"Astraia went with them," Vesryn added. "They disappeared into an eluvian, sealing it behind them. Hard to say where they are now."

“Huh." Khari blew out a long breath, also glancing towards Estella, then briefly over the rest of them. “I... have questions. But this probably isn't the right time or place, so." Her thumb brushed over his unmarked palm. “Meeting first. Then rest, I think. We'll take care of everything else after that." She grimaced and turned to look over her shoulder, in the direction they'd been going before she'd stopped them. “You want the full honor guard cause we're badasses, or to slip in all discreet-like? Cause if it's the second one, me, Ves, and Asala should probably stay here while you three head in." Himself, Estella, and Leon, no doubt.

Estella just looked tired at this point, fatigue clear in the bruised-looking skin beneath her eyes. It was carried in her body language more than anything, though, and that she masked, forcing her spine straight and her shoulders back. "We've just prevented the destruction of every government seat in Thedas. Even if some of the agents responsible were spies in our ranks, we're no more culpable than anyone else. And we fixed it. They can live with it if we don't downplay that and go in with bowed heads." The set of her jaw was a stubborn one; she tilted her chin up a little as if in preparation to stare down the world leaders who'd sit so far above them inside.

"We're not theirs to chastise. If the Arl can't handle that, he'll need to learn."

Khari's eyes lit up, a fierce grin splitting her face. “Fuck yes. Honor guard it is. Help me out here, Ves?" Khari straightened, too, relinquishing Rom's hands to pat down a few of her wilder curls and adjust her cloak. The green one with elaborate gold stitching, he noticed. Checking that all her gear was in the right place, she turned on her heel to stand in front of them. But the doors at the end of the next hall were double, so she needed an extra pair of hands for the right effect.

"All set?" Vesryn checked behind at the rest of the group. When no one made any claims otherwise, he and Khari pushed open the doors in unison, letting Rom and Estella lead the Inquisition party in.

And that they did. Estella timed her pace to Rom's, so they were moving almost in lockstep. When they reached the table at which Rilien and Lady Marceline were sitting, she did not immediately take a seat. "I think everyone will be relieved to know that the Qunari situation is resolved," she said, voice firm enough to make it clear that she was not shrinking away from the words. Not much harder, though—Estella didn't have that in her personality. "In total, we stopped nine instances of the plan called 'Dragon's Breath,' and the Qunari officers responsible are dead. Our information indicates, however, that this was meant only to be the first strike in a more protracted offensive, which will likely now become a full-scale war."

She expelled a breath through her nose, leaning forward slightly to rest her hands on the tabletop in front of them. "Their method of travel through the fadelike realm known as the Crossroads has been rescinded, however, and so if they wish to bring a fight to your doorsteps, they will have to do so the long, difficult way."

The Emperor leaned forward a little in his seat, clasping his hands together beneath his chin. "Quite the accomplishment for... what has it been? Eight hours? I fear we've little to show for our time, by comparison." It wasn't hard to detect the rebuke in that, which was certainly not directed at the Inquisition.

Arl Teagan made a discontented noise, but it was clear enough even to Rom that he had to be very careful about what he said here. Their success at stopping such a large-scale problem before it really became a problem was nothing to scoff at, especially with the limited resources they'd had to do it. No doubt it looked even more impressive to people who didn't know about the helping hand they'd had on the other side of the mirrors.

"No one denies their effectiveness." The Arl sighed heavily, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. His eyes narrowed down at them—his displeasure was obvious enough, but there was also something approaching respect there. "In fact, it is the thing about them that might be most problematic. Lest we forget, however, the instance of this Qunari plan that almost happened here came so close to success because of a spy in the Inquisition itself. If nothing else, your organization has outgrown its ability to self-monitor, and I understand this is not the first time a dangerous agent has been found within your ranks, either."

Normally Rom would be inclined to let everyone else do the talking. Most people were better at it than him, after all. A few years ago he'd have spoken to this group with his head bowed, hands clasped somewhere, speaking softly and clearly. The practice he'd had came on a throne, which he did not have now. The Emperor, Empress, Banns and Arls, Orlesian nobles, even Chryseis herself all sat above him, looking down as if in judgement. His heart was pounding rather rapidly, but he still managed to lift his chin, cast his eyes up to theirs, and speak clearly. He wasn't about to let Estella do this alone.

"I think a few things have been proven, my lord. The first being that the Inquisition is still a necessity for Thedas, an organization equipped to handle threats beyond any of the assembled nations. But you also speak the truth; our size has become a weakness that can be used against us, and worse, against all of you." He paused to take a breath, finding he was short of it. Some combination of his weariness and the stress of the situation, perhaps. "But there has to be a compromise we can find. I would suggest first that our regular standing army may no longer be necessary. Our soldiers are volunteers, and all left lives behind to join our cause. Many will be able to return to those lives now that the lands they came from have been made safe of the threat of Corypheus."

"I think that is a sensible place to begin," Empress Sophia said, turning to look across the room at Arl Teagan. "Would you be willing to accept the Inquisition's continued existence if its army were to return to their homes?"

In fairness to him, he considered it at some length, mouth pursed. Perhaps the sour expression was just the one he wore by default. "It's a start, but not quite enough. The Crown's most pressing issue is not even so much their size as their location. They sit on an..." He paused; it was clear he was very measured with his next words. "Important border. And on the Fereldan side of it, no less. Considering the well-known fact that their diplomatic ties to Orlais are stronger, I'm sure you can see why this is a problem even if they have only information-gathering capacities remaining."

It was a more difficult conundrum. Skyhold had been the Inquisition's home for years, and they'd only been able to use it because no one else was. The landscape was not exactly replete with abandoned fortresses, and no doubt even if it were, any that they could choose would encroach on someone's territory.

"We would be willing to move," Estella said carefully. "But there is presently nowhere we could move to."

At that point, the Emperor cleared his throat; the attention of those present swung immediately to him. "Actually, that may not be entirely true." He paused a moment, considering them with a warmth that could not be mistaken for judgement, even if he did tower perhaps the most of everyone in the room. "If you were to move well within the borders of Orlais, with a few provinces between your base of operations and Ferelden, I take it the Bannorn would be satisfied?" This was directed at Arl Teagan.

The Fereldan man nodded, suspicion warring with genuine curiosity in his expression.

"In that case... you may have Lydes. I think the castle would be well suited to your purposes, and the lands around it enough to sustain you. I might be biased, but I daresay it yields quite nicely with sufficient management."

"Truly?" Estella looked a bit dumbstruck, as did a few of the others in attendance. It wasn't every day a monarch offered someone his personal property, after all. "But—aren't you...?"

Lucien huffed softly. "If you were Orlesian, what you have done would be rewarded in much the same manner. Land and holdings for heroism. We've operated on the system for ages; I see no reason not to employ it here."

"With respect, Your Radiance, such arrangements usually leave the recipient bound to the throne from which the land was issued. While the offer is both generous and appreciated, part of our strength is that we are not currently so beholden." Leon kept both his face and tone neutral, but the point was obviously important.

And obviously expected, if the way the Emperor nodded was any indication. "That is quite so. And were I a monarch granting land to his vassals, it would be a problem. But as a rather ordinary man giving a gift to some friends of mine, the same rules do not apply. There will need to be treaties, of course, but we can construct those in due time. I invite our Fereldan counterparts to take part in the process, that they might bear no fear of Orlais securing more of your loyalty than we ought."

That seemed to put some ease back in the Arl's shoulders—they'd been growing increasingly tense as the conversation continued. But clearly Lucien had fended off his biggest concern with the last concession, and he nodded, looking almost surprised to find himself doing it. "That seems to be... quite the equitable solution, if the Inquisition desires to take it." His attention reverted to Rom and Estella, as if to ask the obvious question.

In every aspect it had to be a more favorable deal than the one they currently had. Skyhold was remotely positioned, and expensive to keep supplied. Lydes would be much better positioned for trade, and they would have far more resources of their own to make them not so dependent on deals such as the one they'd established with Arlesans for food. Not to mention they'd have significantly fewer mouths to feed and pockets to fill.

And the weather would be nicer.

Still... it was hard to give up Skyhold. The place that had nurtured them back to health after the crushing defeat at Haven. The place where Rom had freed himself, fallen in love, and beaten a self-proclaimed god. His little corner of that castle had become a precious space, one where he had watched himself steadily improve as a person. He had to remind himself that his progress, his success, was not tied to that place, and it would not revert or vanish if he were to give it up. Likely no one would claim Skyhold except for the snow when they were gone, but the snow had taken care of it long before they'd arrived.

Ghosts and spirits would always whisper there, of the things they'd done, the battles they'd won, and the joy they'd found.

Estella had already voiced her opinion even before the answer was provided, but he wasn't about to declare it alone. "I'm ready to move on if you are," he said quietly.

It took her only a moment more to nod firmly, then shift her eyes to the assembled. "We accept," she said, fingers curling into the wood at the edge of the table as if to steady herself. "And... thank you." She looked particularly at the Orlesian Emperor and Empress when she said it, before bowing her head. The closest to graciousness that fatigue would allow, no doubt.

"Then it will be done," Lucien replied. "The details in due time. For now, I think we might adjourn. It has been a long and trying day."

Rom couldn't argue with that. Bowing to the lords and ladies present here, he took his leave, the Inquisition party behind him. When they were clear of the prying eyes, he partly sagged into Khari, knowing his weight would be welcome there. "They have beds for us here, right? I think I need a few days of sleep after this."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari yelped, ducking away from a heavy swing. The scrambling required to do that put her on her ass, though, and with a muffled curse, she waved a hand to concede the match. Some days, she'd have been happy to make Leon work for it and actually pin her, but today was not such a day. Especially since she was also not armed with anything more impressive than her fists. With a huff, she got back to her feet, dusting grass and dirt off the seat of her pants and scowling up at him.

“Everyone should know how to throw a punch, he says. Too bad you don't actually gimme a chance." She crossed her arms and tilted her chin back so she could actually meet his eyes properly. Stupid Leon and his stupid huge self. Huge, punchy self. It occurred to her that in her case, the sword really was compensating for something. Just not anything funny.

He shrugged, entirely too nonchalant for the broad smile he was wearing. Since Corypheus was killed and the thing with Cyrus as resolved as it was going to get for now, he'd seemed a bit lighter, somehow. Maybe it was because he'd been able to send so many of his people home after nearly five years with nothing much worse than a hell of a lot more life experience. It probably felt good, after all the letters he'd had to write to people's homes when they were lost.

Spreading his arms wide, he took a single step back. "How about a free one? Go on: take your best shot." His eyes glittered with mirth. Definitely lighter.

Khari wasn't going to say no to that. Cracking her knuckles, she bared her teeth in a rather vicious grin. “Hey, if you're offering." Curling her fingers the way he'd taught her, she took a step and thrust forward in the same motion, aiming for the dead center of his chest, which was a ways up, for her. She didn't really think she was going to hurt him, but she wasn't going to aim for any weak spots, either. Just in case.

A completely unfounded worry, as it turned out. Leon let out a breath that sounded like amusement, one of his arms lashing forward to catch her at the wrist. Her momentum neutralized, he stepped in and bodily lifted her off the ground, throwing her over one shoulder like she was just a sack of grain. Or potatoes or something. "You can avoid telegraphing with a sword, but not your own hands. It's really quite remarkable." He used the same mild tone to inform her of this as he did to talk about tea or whatever was growing in his garden. "Now—how are you planning on getting out of this predicament?"

“You absolute shithead. Of course I was telegraphing; it was a free punch!" Khari struggled, but of fucking course Leon's arm was basically made of iron—she still hadn't figured out what the hell those Anderfels Chantry people had fed him when he was a kid, because now he was all into veggies and still didn't have to exert effort to lift her entire person. And she wasn't a waif, despite her height challenges.

She made her dissatisfaction with this situation known by beating at his back with her fists, kicking at his front too. Not a lot of leverage, sadly. On the other hand... “Put me down or I swear we're both gonna find out where you're ticklish, and I know you don't want that."

"Negotiation. I'm impressed." Or maybe more intimidated by the threat, because he did put her down, and gently at that, rather than letting her fall from his height, which he'd been known to do when he threw her in a spar. "Though in fairness, I don't think most of your future enemies are going to be quite so easily daunted."

“Yeah, well." Khari balled her hands and set them on her hips. “I don't plan on fighting any of my future enemies without my sword, thank you very much." At least not the hand-to-hand specialists among them. Talk about stacking the deck in his own favor. Her brows knit, then, and she pushed a hard breath out of her nose. “Which future enemies are we talking about here, anyway? Cause I'm pretty sure Lucien's endorsement means that my future chevalier enemies are all obligated to come at me from the front, and I'm not worried about that."

It wasn't that she thought she was the best fighter ever now or anything like that. Khari knew very well that she could still lose, especially if she was careless. She also knew there were people in the world who were just better at this than her, and would win against her more times than they'd lose. The proof was towering nearly a foot and a half over her head, after all.

He gave her a strange little smile at that, shaking his head faintly. "Well, not those, no." He gestured towards the fence rail, moving to lean against it himself, crossing one ankle over the other and his arms across his chest. Despite this being the main bailey of Skyhold, they were practically alone outside right now. There were still a few guards on the wall, and the scouts were around, and Ril's people, but... with the departure of the army had gone most of the daily activity, enough that Skyhold was starting to feel a little empty. It wouldn't be long before the rest of them moved either, down from the mountains and into rolling Orlesian plains. Not that far from the Dales, honestly.

It was obviously a place in transition, but honestly Khari was glad of it. Skyhold didn't feel right like this, still only patched up after the battle and missing so many of the people who'd made it home. Not all of them—not by a long shot. But enough of them that she didn't want to remember it like this. A new home, new memories... she was perfectly okay with that. But she didn't want to think of Skyhold and be reminded of the days after, when things were slowly unraveling. It just didn't feel right.

She followed Leon to the fence, hopping up to sit on the top bar. It closed the gap in their heights just a bit, though she figured she'd always look slightly ridiculous next to him. Not that she minded.

"I actually meant the future enemies of the Inquisition, should any show themselves. While I agree that a Commander should keep all of her options open, it seems unlikely that most of them would concede to threats to, ah, tickle."

“Hey, I'll have you know that tickling can be torturous if the other person wants it to—wait, what?" It took a second for his use of the pronoun she in reference to the Inquisition's Commander to sink in.

Khari could be pretty dense, but she was fairly sure she knew what Leon was implying. He wasn't the type to yank her chain about something like this. “You—I—what?" She stared hard at his profile, demanding explanation that way when the words wouldn't quite come.

Leon chuckled, entirely sanguine, it would seem. He turned to meet her glare with something much warmer, making an ambivalent expression and shrugging. "It's not ser, but it's something, isn't it? Something you've earned. Something you deserve." She'd known already that he would not be staying forever, that eventually the transition would take him away as well, put him in that group of people who'd left, though perhaps not quite so completely as some of the others. It wasn't too hard to guess where he'd go, after all: he was still a Seeker, still a Chantry man, at a time when effective, experienced members of that group were in low supply and high demand.

“I—but—" It had been a while since she'd struggled this much just to form words. She'd known he was going, but she'd never really thought of what would happen after that. “Leon... I dunno. It doesn't feel right. If it's not you." She was honored; humbled even. But that definitely wasn't the main thing she felt thinking about it.

Reaching over, Khari grabbed the hem of one of his sleeves, leaning sideways so her cheek was smashed against his bicep. Seriously, shouldn't human beings be softer than this? She was crazy jealous, even if she knew she was pretty built, too.

"It will," he assured. "Give it time. Truthfully, I expect it won't be much more than you already do—the paperwork is already drastically reduced. But..." He shifted, pulling away a bit so he could settle his hand on her head. "Even if it were the whole army, I wouldn't choose anyone else. The others agree, you know."

Khari, usually a font of confidence even if it was mostly put-on, still wasn't entirely convinced. “This better not be some excuse for you to leave us and never come back. I expect visits, Leon. Regular ones. Wherever you're going can't be that far from Lydes, right?"

His brow knit, as though he were perplexed by something. "Of course I'll visit," he said, quiet voice rumbling over the words. "You won't be rid of me that easily, Khari. I've few friends, and not a one of them like you."

She released a quiet ha at that. “Utterly shameless, you mean?"

Leon laughed, full-throated and easy. Clearly he remembered the last time he'd called her that. "That," he said, as though it were a concession. "And also utterly singular. Never change, Khari."

“I'll do my best to stay this awesome forever." She grinned up at him, rather ruining her own attempt at solemnity, and then hopped down off the fence. “I—thanks, Leon. I've gotta do some thinking about this, but... thanks. Really." It meant the world to her that he thought so much of her, but it was a lot to take in. Expelling a breath, she reached up to pat his elbow. “See you for dinner?"

"Of course. Until then."

From there, she mostly just let herself wander wherever, contemplating the future. It was sort of a weird exercise—what had once been monolithic and so very distant was now... right in front of her and a lot messier than she'd thought it would be. Better, honestly, but messier, too.

Unsurprisingly, she found her way back to Rom's room. Their room, really, though some part of her was still getting used to that. Khari had messed around now and then in her roving days, like pretty much everyone did, but she'd never really had anyone be part of her life in quite the way Rom was. Not that it was a bad thing—in fact he struck her as the perfect person to talk to about this. His opinion mattered, and he'd give it honestly.

Pushing open the door, she caught sight of him immediately and grinned, pausing and crossing her arms, leaning sideways into the frame and letting herself appreciate the view for a moment. She doubted he'd mind.

The view was of his rear, for one, trousers shorn off at the knees and rope-bound loosely at his waist. He performed push up after push up, until the muscles all along his bare back and arms strained with the effort. He stopped just before giving out, not pushing himself too far, and rolled over onto his back on the floor mat, breathing heavily. His eyes wandered to Khari in the doorway, and he grinned back. "I trust you're enjoying yourself... Commander."

That was going to take some getting used to. Fortunately, the rest was easy. “Oh, I'm having loads of fun. Really. I think the visual feast that is the Inquisition is just sadly underappreciated by our detractors." Letting her arms drop, Khari stepped into the room, taking a seat on the couch. “So, uh... Commander, huh? I guess you knew about that."

Rom slowly picked himself up off the ground, wiping his face and neck with a nearby towel. "Leon made sure we were okay with the decision before he settled on it." Dropping the towel, he sank down onto the couch next to her. "You've been one of my advisors for years already, so there's not much change in it for me." He hesitated a moment. "I'll, uh... I'll miss Leon, though. When he moves on. This whole Inquisition really was quietly built on his back."

It really had been. Not that Leon was the kind of guy who'd ever want any credit for that. “It's... it's a lot to live up to." Khari scooted over until she was nestled into Rom's side. “I mean, it's not a whole army anymore even, but this—I gotta say I never thought I'd be leading anybody. Not for real, you know?" Small groups were one thing, when her strategies had all been cleared through Leon first. But to be that person, that everyone else went to for the expertise? That was pretty hard to imagine.

"I think you'll be great." He lifted his arm and draped it over her, his left hand settled on his thigh. It had already been marked when she'd first met him. He didn't seem too broken up about losing it, especially since keeping it would've killed him, but she did catch him glancing at his palm every now and then. "You've always been good at remembering what you're taught. And you've been taught a lot. We're all here to help, too. Anything you need."

“Heh. Guess I really don't have anything to worry about then, do I?" Though she was never going to be happy about Leon leaving, the idea of being the Commander was getting nicer the more she thought about it. She still had her own goals to meet, but this could only help with that, too.

Breathing out a short sigh, Khari turned her face in towards Rom's shoulder, resting her cheek in the slight dip between it and his chest. “What about you, Lord Inquisitor? You ready for the bright and beautiful future?"

"I hope it turns out that way." He seemed contemplative, unwilling to be blindly cheerful. "I don't really know how we're going to handle this situation with Harellan, and Cyrus. We have to stop him, obviously, but... we don't know when we'll see him again. Or where. Or what to do when we find him. Somehow I doubt he'll make for an enemy as straightforward to fight as Corypheus."

He had a point about that, she knew. Honestly, it was a problem she'd have to think about a lot more closely than she'd ever thought about the logistics of fighting Corypheus. That was the kind of thing she'd left to other people before. Not if she was going to be Commander, though. “I've said it before, and I guess I feel like I should say it again. I've gotta believe we can win, Rom. We've done so much already. Each of us, and all of us, you know?"

She felt a squeeze from his arm, his lips briefly kissing the side of her head. "I'm gonna miss this place, too. But I'll never forget it. What we started in Haven, and what we finished here. And now we get to start again. A new adventure."

“I'm always ready for an adventure."

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