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Zahra Tavish

"If we're all gonna die here, at least we can give them something to talk about."

0 · 1,838 views · located in Thedas

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

Description

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Full Name: Zahra Killiani Tavish
Titles/Nicknames: To her crew, Zee suffices. She tends not to mind if people other than her crew call her Zee, as well. Though she’s quick to correct when people call her Captain Zahra. In a friend’s mouth, it sounds odd.
Age: 32 [9:43]
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Class: Rogue
Specialization: Archer, navigating towards Tempestry.

Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Chartreuse, sea-green
Height: 5'4”
Build: Slender and lean.

Appearance: Zahra could have been a well-tempered, simmering lady ripe for courting in some small, insignificant town. She could have been a doe-eyed lass with long lashes, bowed lips, and an equally soft smile. She could have worn frilly dresses and small shoes. She could have been pleasantly, quietly intriguing and walked on dainty, pretty kitten heels. But she was none of these things. Instead, she chose to be a set of jaws. Zahra's tenderness comes with an air of intrinsic sense of self, borne of freshly acquired liberty.

She walks with languid decorum, as if she owns whatever land she sets her feet on. She behaves as if she's sinking her teeth into whichever apple she so desires; reckless, daring someone to step forward and defy her. It's in the way she holds her shoulders, squared off. Posture straight and lazy all at once, arms at her sides. Danger? No, no. Fun. Sleek and lean as a red lion (and just as vicious), it's apparent that she's conceited enough to keep herself in sturdy shape; a dancer meeting partway with a bird's nest rope-monkey. Feminine, and barbarous. A nestling monster, who suffers from an unfortunate short stature, with it's hatch wide open—waiting for a single misstep.

Smooth, tawny-brown skinned, as many Rivain's are, Zahra however has not gloated through life unscathed. The brunt of her scars are spread out across her face. Small nicks chipped into her squared, proud jaw, and a much broader scar chinked into the upper left side of her lip, across the bridge of her nose, and the left side of her cheek. A knife of sorts was used, and the wound looked as if it healed incorrectly, leaving white puckered scars. Marking her as a once-thing. Less than human. An object to be taught lessons. Now, she carries them as badges of defiance; spitting on the world she'd belonged to before. Her soft, wavy, black hair is fashioned into a large braid, often decorated with seashells, bits of brightly coloured string or pearl beads. Other times, it's pulled into a complex warrior's braid. In all instances, her hygienic routine is meticulously maintained, unless she's bound to the sea for days on end. Even so, with her assortment of oils and perfumes, she flourishes in exotic scents.

She sees much farther than lets on, and she is always planning. Always seeking chinks in armour, weaknesses, areas to bleed and incapacitate, if she cannot outright deceive. Zahra has eyes like the underside of an eroded bottle; a mixture of soft greens and yellows weathered by the tide, sharpened with a meanness that is both breathtaking and frighteningly cold. Two blades slicing through your ankles, making not-so-silent judgements. They smooth into lukewarm satisfaction and tepid amusement just as surely as they narrow into looks designed for peeling skin and setting fires; perhaps, the most useful when trying to bargain or judge her moods. Slender eyebrows frame those condescending eyes, dancing with flagrant lies, and usually flagged in question.

She dresses finely in and out of battle, in and out of business, it doesn't matter where she walks, as long as she's fashionably prepared. Strip the luxury from her and she's miserable. She wears only the softest tunics in varying colours; reds, whites, deep blues and shades like nightfall. Equally luxurious dresses (that may or may not have been stolen from nobles) with feathers and beads and jewels that would make Orlesians cluck in approval—and when she has the sense to dress for the road, she prefers fitted leather trousers, a drape-like silk tunic, soft leather boots and many, many bangles.

9:42:
Spoiler: show
A woman of consistencies, and aberrant changes. While most of Zahra’s developments are purely internal, she’s changed. In small inches, increments hardly noticed. Perhaps, more muscled than she’s ever been. Loosing arrows never lent her anything but her straight-shooting, dead-eyed accuracy, but clambering up the ramparts stairs and tumbling across Skyhold’s yard in order to properly pirouette has done wonders. Under the tutelage of Marceline, she’s learned how to properly defend herself should combat bully itself into the forefront. She spars with anyone willing to put up with her loud, obnoxious challenges, often leaving with new bruises and welts, but always coming out with a grin.

Pirates are supposed to dress eccentrically. This hasn’t changed much, but she’s learned from experience that not all climates allow for tropical luxuries. Skyhold is an unforgiving chill bristling up your spine, and because of that, Zahra’s chosen to dress more modestly. No more laced vests, bound tight around her midriff. No more billowy sleeves, puffed at her shoulders. Instead she’s chosen plainer clothes, still mostly composed of leather parts. More often than not she’s seen wearing a familiar red scarf tied around her neck. A stark reminder that not all things you cherish can be saved, even then it doesn’t mean they’re far away, or forgotten.


9:43
Spoiler: show
This year, in particular, has been very telling to her. The realization came in the form of broken bones, burns and nasty cuts at the hands of her enemies. She was too slow, too reckless, too ineffective. Physically she’d never been particularly impressive. A slender waif. A grasshopper hopping from the ropes overhead. Lean as a fiddle. Much had changed in the last year. She wanted to transform. Become better. Stronger. Better suited to be at her companion’s side. Channeling her relentlessness, Zahra began training her body in any way she could—even if she hated every second of it. Running up the stairs, panting and sweating had never been something she’d thought she would do.

She’s slowly developing muscle, but more than that, she’s no a mess whenever she spars. At least, it doesn’t always end up hyperventilating. That in itself is a miracle. She’s taking small steps. Not quite bounds, but it’s progress, and for once in her life, she feels good to be doing it. As of late, she’s upped her sparing with Marceline, and anyone else who will have her. While her grace may still be lacking she’s found other ways to improvise, using her body as tool. She’s also enlisted in Rom’s help in order to concoct specific potions and drinks to enhance her vitality, strength, and growth. Honestly, she doesn’t think she’s ever felt so
 good before. Assured.

Not much has changed when it comes to Zahra’s garb, changing whatever clothes needs changing when the weather calls for it. She’s still flamboyant as ever, though she has a secret store of lavish attire hidden in her commandeered tower. At times, she’ll deck herself out in bright scarves, handkerchiefs, and ringing bangles. Other times, she dresses far more practical. Comfy clothes for comfortable occasions. Her hair remains unchanged. Wild curls, a mess. She has looked rather tired, lately. If one were to look hard enough, they may notice dark rings hanging underneath her eyes. A clear indication that she hasn’t been sleeping very well.


“I never said I was a hero.
People like me seldom are. But I’m a goddamn believer, and I’m glad of the person I’ve become.”


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Apparent Demeanor: While beetling the image of an impeccable, noble woman, Zahra is similar to the coppery taste of coins, or the swill of blood and missing teeth, rusting in your mouth. Unpleasant and usually introduced with violence. She is a whimsical, ill-tempered tease; and a vulgar trouble-making liar who assuredly milks each and every conversation for tidbits of useful information, and if she finds no diamonds in those supposed roughs, she walks; disinterested until a more compelling offer is made. Her fickleness, and rapacious hunger for power in any address, makes it considerably easier to sweeten whatever pot you're offering (and she will always listen). She is an avid abuser of underhanded means in order to get out of unpleasant situations. Outright aggression does not suit her needs, but manipulation is a much softer means in achieving her goals, and if she can avoid bloodshed, so be it to dirty her tongue with lies.

She remains relatively unflappable in situations that usually warrant panic in others. Sinking ship? That's fine. She wasn't too attached to this one anyhow. About to head into a particularly bloody battle? Skulking into a spidery cave who's width is startlingly tight? No problem. Fluffing her feathers every single time something awful happened would require energy she does not want to expend. And if she's learned one thing from life, if anything at all: it's that life is laughably short and wasting time, a commodity that ticks through her skull at an alarming rate, isn't something she's willing to do. While not one to pine over any losses, Zahra is adept in sniffing out golden opportunities and sinking her claws in once they've reared their heads. She's fierce, behaves fearless, and is always sashaying between not caring what people think about her and being sordidly obsessed with appearances. She hides behind winks and smiles and whispered words crooked between collar bones, murmuring sweet promises, and even sweeter rewards, should you only do this for that. She's a passive-aggressive grifter who offers things, in exchange for other things. Because, everyone wants to win, right?

While she professes seeing and knowing everything around her, Zahra understands that there are many things she's yet to experience and learn. She quietly absorbs what people do and what they say, even while gnashing her teeth because she already knew how to do that. Whether it's information she'd like to know or things she'd like to learn, her ears and eyes are strained open. She is a sea-sponge who devours knowledge because she knows it's important. Her curiosity is an itch she's yet learned how to scratch, and sometimes, it's as tempting as jewels. Contrary to her outward nature, once she's forged a bond, it holds stronger than the walls she's built around herself. A sly backstabber? No, not to her friends, anyhow. She cares deeply with those she's come to trust and loathes to leave them under any circumstance; forgoing her own self-preservation to see them safe and sound. Those she's allowed into her personal circle are people she's chosen as family. Her crewmembers are her children; and she, their vivacious, gregarious, bow-totting mother hen.

9:42:
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In the truest sense of the word, Zahra has felt loss. Loosening her grip on whatever inkling she’d once had of her childhood home felt more like hanging up a heavy cloak then anything else, it hadn’t hurt at all. Scraping off the remnants of her dewy-eyed fears, hesitant steps, representation of a rabbit-girl, reminded her of the flapping of unburdened wings. Freedom in every sense, in any way she could describe it. She’d felt loss. Endured hardships. Grit her teeth against unfairness, promised to become better for it. This was much different. Losing Aslan? Feeling that sickening sense of helplessness, as if she were a statue. A spectator to her greatest nightmares. A lump of useless stone. A liar, most of all. She’d promised to keep her crew safe, after all. From everything and anyone. Foolish as those promises were, whispered into her pillow, in the absence of her friends, she certainly believed herself capable of seeing them through.

Haven served as an awakening. A reminder of mortality. Not of her own, of course, but of others. Her friends, her family. It was an admonition of just how much Aslan cared not only for her, but for the cause they’d decided to support. The Inquisition with it’s curious people, Inquisitors included. A backing of soldiers, mages, smirking rogues, and scallywags who’d fit in just fine aboard the Riptide. She’s come to realize that there’s faces she’s come to care about. Far more than she believed she was capable of. It was no longer only she, and the Riptide. No longer Zahra and her motley crew scavenging the world of what she believed they deserved. However unintentionally, she’s grown. Her worlds blossomed. Made allowances she would not have, perhaps, made otherwise. Her friends, her family. It’s grown larger than she’d believed possible. With it comes new fears, and a desperate desire to keep them safe, whatever the cost.


9:43:
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If Zahra could quell demon’s in their entirety, she would. It seems as if they encounter them at every corner, and with them come unpleasant surprises rising like nightmares, reminding her of things she’d rather leave spoiled and buried. As much as she’s grown over the year, she feels as if there’s anchors wrapped around her wrists and ankles, tugging her backwards when she strains to push forward with the help of her friends. She understands that she’s not alone, even if, at times, she feels that it is so. She’s not sure if this means she’s weaker than the others, or if she has far more business that needs taking care of. She hopes it’s the latter.

Not that she’s show it. Zahra’s still as gregarious as ever, grin as wide as a sharks and eyes that dance, dance to whatever beat of conversation around her. It may be a farce, a means to avoid and deflect her own issues, though she’s found that they’re welcome distractions. Admittedly, she is happy where she’s found herself. She’s never felt at home with her own family back in Llomeryn, but here. It’s different. Much different. Aside from the rolling waves and the Riptide, it’s the closest thing she’s come to a static home, a place she can come back to and still feel free. The pull of adventure needn’t be squashed and her wanderlust is easily sated in their midst’s.

It’s also the first place she’s come to where she’s leaned on so many shoulders, which speaks volumes of how much the Inquisition and of all of its inhabitants continue to change her.


Hangups/Quirks: Stranger still is her obsession with time—everything about it terrifies her. It's one commodity she cannot buy or steal or create, it's something she cannot turn back or maintain. She's never been honest or logical about time passing. She's never wanted a thousand laugh lines, or to die comfortably in her sleep. If someone's late to meet up, Zahra will be silently grinding her teeth together while she fantasizes about leaving. Or killing them once they arrive. It doesn't matter if it's an unimportant. A One-time meet in a tavern or an appointment involving a new contract. If she wastes too much time, her life will slip through her fingers, and having achieved nothing... she'll slide right back where she'd begun. Become a nobody. A useless sack of waste. If no one values her time, why should she value theirs?

She's infamous for hoarding things. She has a tendency to pick up seemingly random things—with the very high likelihood of said things not being hers to take. One man's trash is another man's treasure or however that goes. Throwing something away because it's broken or no longer of use, it's likely she'll sneak up and snatch it without your know-how, and put make use of it herself. Every single thing has alternate uses, and she's keen to discover them, even if it doesn't make much sense to anyone else. Call her out on it and she'll feign ignorance. What? That's a coat hanger. It's always been a coat hanger. Haven't you seen one before? Here, have a drink. You look like you need one. Crisis averted. She has an eye for shiny objects and a talent for making useless things useful again.

Strengths: Zahra's an adaptable woman capable of shrugging off changes without any fuss. She rolls with the punches, moves on to the next big thing and sometimes thrives when things take a tumble. Instead of digging in her heels, she allows it to carry her forward. Every situation begets a new chance, a new start The idea of a quiet, easy life isn't for her. She isn't afraid of taking risks, because she knows that she's capable of handling failure. Each challenge in life leaves a mark on her, they build onto her arsenal of knowledge and makes her a stronger, more resilient person. She also has an innate ability to slither out of terrible situations.

Throw her into a pit with a spoon and she'll somehow manage her way out again (maybe, otherwise she'll resort to petty threats). Since it's difficult to ruffle her up, Zahra's quick-witted and excels in hasty decision-making. Most of the time, the ideas aren't terrible either. Her mind lies in array of cards; each one another angle, begging questions and answers and possibilities. She collects, organizes, researches her thoughts, her memories and puts them together into a cohesive whole, with impressive speed. Charismatic, affable, and a fantastic teller of lies, she transcends in the very things she loathes.

Weaknesses: It's abundantly clear that she carries far more baggage than anyone should. It's not a chip on her shoulder, but rather, a general distrust of people and an unhealthy habit thinking that everyone has ulterior motives. If she’s ticking off her fingers, plucking benefits off in her head, wouldn’t they as well? No one does anything for free unless there's something to gain. Her life has gravitated around that take, take, take world for so long that it makes it difficult to form any kind of long lasting friendships. It's a thick swirl of ugliness, rendering earnest people into hapless lampreys. This means she leans heavily on her crew mates. Her crew. She believes that only they are capable of weathering her crap; her storms, her affections, her insatiable curiosities. Few could, nowadays.

Have a good deal to make? It's unlikely she'll turn it down. Zahra is easily exploitable. There's a saying about someone's eyes being larger than their actual appetites. It's similar to her need for power and influence and money. They're all tied together and she is never satisfied with what she has. Could a dragon whet it’s appetite? No. She’s much the same. Her quarters reflect her ravish tastes. Silken pillows, bobbles, trinkets hanging from the rafters. Whatever she acquires only fans the flames of her inclinations, and once she's fallen in love with something as intoxicating as power, it isn't likely that she'll ever let it go.

Fears: What would a pirate fear most of all? Especially one in Zahra’s position? Loss of control, of power, of freedom. Her crew leaving her. Her ship sinking. Reducing herself to a nobody. Having everything she's worked so hard for disappear. It's a constant in her mind. Keeps her on her toes, regarding angles in lukewarm paranoia. She's afraid of having everything she's ever fought for slip through her fingers. She's afraid of being reduced to a cornered, shivering animal. A doe-eyed girl incapable of anything. Becoming less of who she strove to become, a weaker version of herself. Zahra fears simply fading away from everyone's memories, and becoming that same meaningless dust, sifting indefinitely. Reduced to having decisions made for her. While she may never admit it, she's terrified of losing her loves ones. Her friends, her family, her crew. For them, she would do anything. Anything.

9:42:
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How far she’s come amazes even her. In the Inquisition, she’s faced helplessness so much that she fears it less. It’s no longer constant in her life, because if she’s learned anything from grappling beside great warriors, and witnessing great feats of political prowess, is that sometimes, it’s necessary to let go of he reigns. She cannot control everything. Not here. Perhaps, not even in most cases. She can control her actions. Her thoughts. But not much else. And that’s alright. In it’s place, Zahra fears losing any more of her people. Any more of the people she’s come to call friends. By Gods, it’s grown since stepping foot off the Riptide. She fears missteps, hesitance
 staying her blade when she should have come to arms.


9:43:
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Some of Zahra’s fears have wane the past year. Partly because she’s gained confidence in her companion’s abilities to protect themselves, and her own strength to protect them as well. It’s a weight off her shoulders, an acceptance of sorts. If any of them should crumble, she would too. But she knows the Inquisition makes no promises, and neither does war. She has, however, taken some steps backward due to unforeseen circumstances. Old, nearly forgotten fears, dredged up. Her mistakes, her past rearing it’s ugly head in the most inopportune times, dragging her into the deep end. Spoiling things. She fears facing everything they entail. What the consequences will be. How she will respond to it. She fears the fact that she has no interest in doing anything at all. What does make her? A coward.


“There’s still time to make amends.
There’s still time
”



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Strength: XXXXXx⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [7/10]

Dexterity:XXXXX ⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [9/10]

Intelligence: XXX⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [8/10]

Wisdom: XXXXXX⎧ ▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [4/10]

Cunning: XXXXXX⎧ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [9/10]

Magic: XXXXXXXX⎧ ▇▇ ⎭ [2/10]

Willpower: XXXX ⎧ ▇▇ ⎭ [2/10]

Constitution: XXX⎧ ▇▇▇▇ ⎭ [4/10]

Weapon of Choice: Why would you get up close and personal when you can pincushion someone from afar? Kill them without being noticed yourself. Kill them before they even realize they're dead. Zahra's favoured weapon is a double-curved bow made out of cherry-wood and backed with sinew to make it springier. She's affectionately named it Truthbringer. Presumably crafted by Elven hands as there are unique carvings up and down it's entire length: a pretty woman's face, flowers and unusual swirls, as well as a howling wolf. Accompanied are feather fletchings of varying colours and sizes, copper and bone arrowheads, sinew bowstrings, pieces of flint and completed arrows tucked into a fancy leather quiver with matching designs. Other than that, she has various knives hidden here and there, but she hopes to fell whoever she's up against before resorting to something so intimate.

9:43:
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When the Inquisition traveled to Dirthavaren, Zahra’s bow perished against the Revenant they faced in the old, Elven ruins. She hadn’t exactly expected it to happen, and as cheery as she’d been to survive the ordeal, she hadn’t found a proper bow for the longest time afterwards. Nothing felt right in her hands. Too light, too heavy. Off-balance or just plain wrong. Fortunately for her, Marceline’s lessons made her rapiers a decent substitution until she could find something to fill the void her bow left her with. Her search was fruitless, if not self-sabotaging. She believed nothing would compare to her Truthbringer.

That is, until Khari brought her a gift from home. Something she definitely hadn’t expected—a bow that felt right in her hands. Crafted by her own mother, and made from ironbark. She’s never even seen ironwood before, and to have it in her own hands, her gratitude was palpable. Stained a dark, nearly black mulberry hue. Difficult to see at night. Perfect for her style of hunting. It was carved with the traditional symbols and designs of Andruil. None that she understood. A hare in mid-bound and a hawk in mid-flight were engraved on the bow’s belly, in surprising detail. A steady hand, to be sure. She can’t wait to bear the bow in battle, and finally see it in action.


Fighting Style/Training: While Zahra’s not stupid enough to talk up her admirable attempts at close-combat abilities, she is confident in her marksmanship. She prefers, in all instances, her bow. Should she be forced to use any other means, she will resort to dirty means of keeping herself alive. Hair pulling and biting and groin-kneeing aside, Zahra would like to think that she's somewhat honourable in her hostile encounters, but the bottom line is, if you're fighting for you life, none of that really matters. So, she tries to ensure distance, and focuses entirely on quick-firing and maintaining her endurance. Her technique may seem strange to others, but it's something that she'd been taught as soon as someone settled a bow in her eager hands.

9:42:
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All thanks to Marceline’s guidance, and Zahra’s persistence to learn how to do something out than notch arrows, she’s come far from the bow-totting woman, slinging arrows on the beach where they'd met. While her footwork could certainly use work and she’s still slogging through those dreadfully dull books, and loose writings, she’d been given at the beginning of her lessons, she’s certainly learned how to effectively swing a blade. Whenever she’s not plaguing the taverns, she’s pirouetting around straw-filled dummies, favoring a thinner blade, oftentimes a rapier she’d also obtained from Marceline. Her style is a barbaric, ungraceful version of her mentors, too direct for her own good, but she’s quick enough of her feet to slip away when she needs to. Her marksmanship, of course, still remains her strongest point.


9:43:
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WIP WIP WIP


“Fear doesn’t have to make you cruel or cowardly,
but it can push you forward. Mine is a vessel, I’ll sail it as far as it can take me.”


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CreditPlace of Birth: Llomerryn, Rivain.
Social Status/Rank: Captain of Riptide, affiliated with the Raiders of the Waking Sea.

History:
Like something out of a really bad bard's tale, she was born on an unnaturally cold night. There was a light dust of frost creaking down the wooden platforms, nestled in a Rivaini village. It wouldn't last long but it marked the day she was born. Zahra Killiani Tavish—a shrieking baby girl, waddled and warm. Her birthplace lied on the very tip of Rivain's finger, Little Llomerryn. Born into a family with many, many siblings, she was nestled somewhere in the middle. Far from the youngest and almost one of the oldest. An unimportant number joining their midst’s, and handed little in the means of expectations. Two brothers, Zahra, and three older sisters constantly squabbled for attention; it was stifling how alone one felt surrounded by people.

Their mother was a walking canvas of Rivaini tattoos, spidering boldly up her arms and legs and face, displaying prowess only seers could attain in their little village. Few Hedge Witches formed partnerships with spirits, but she'd done so in her youth to prove her devotion to the matriarchs and maintained a relatively healthy union. For long periods of time, she traveled throughout Rivain; tending to the people's needs, carrying out communal duties, and only drifted home when her daughters needed political grooming. On the other hand, her father was a simple, watery-eyed fisherman with an equally rummy spine. Misfortune dealt it's hand long ago and pronounced Zahra unskilled in any magical arts, and so, she stopped squabbling and joined her brothers on the wooden piers.

Expectations no longer weighed on her shoulders, but being expected of nothing felt far worse. She wanted to bend under those normal expectations, and make her parents proud. She wanted to stamp her name across the village and crook her chin up towards the sky. She wanted tattoos just like her mothers. Instead, she was overlooked, loved and taken care of. Zahra was not the black sheep of the family, nor was she unloved, she simply was. She existed. Her brothers and father took to their own trade as well as anyone else did—but she watched her sisters from afar, disconnected from a life she pined for. There was a oneness in tradition and passing on everything you knew, and without magic, she couldn't exist there, as they did. Her brothers flourished without all of the scrutiny and chattered about travelling away once they'd grown older. Males were hardly anticipated to stick around. Why would they? While her sisters received disproportionate amounts of attention, and their first tattoos, Zahra drowned herself in resentment and sunk her teeth into seedier activities.

Around her seventeenth birthday, it was made clear that she wasn't as overlooked as she thought she'd been. Arranged marriages aren't all that uncommon in Rivain when you've got a renown seer in your family. Even less so when you've acquired the attention of a heavily tattooed man in your wayward exploits, and your mother believes it's a fantastic idea to tie familial bonds. A marriage of convenience, a union of two powerful families combining into one. The man's name was Faraji Imamu Contee. Wealthy son to a particularly nasty magister. She shirked his attention, dismayed at the prospect of being with someone she had no interest in. Even if it did win some of her mothers attention... being punished into a loveless marriage with a man felt as if anchors had been shackled to her legs. Her brothers could do nothing but watch, and her coward-of-a-father remained silent.

On most days, she loitered around the taverns and avoided Faraji's company. Meek little kitten as she was, she hid from her responsibilities. Buried her head in the sand as best she could. The wedding approached, and with it, the nauseating promise of childbearing and joining her future husband at the hull, trading spice across the seas. In comparison, fishing with her father seemed like paradise; a safe-haven that she'd taken for granted. Faraji himself hadn't been a bad man, was not a bad man, but he was a man still. It posed problems. She felt no attraction towards him, and couldn't even scrounge up enough empathy to form some sort of mutual friendship, in order to ease into the transition of wifedom. Zahra could see it clearly now, that the union would eventually destroy her. All of her dreams would wither and die. Things changed on the eve of her wedding...

She met Aslan there. A burly, beefy Qunari with the strangest outfit she'd ever seen. Or lack of, anyhow. Never had she seen someone occupy so much space, and for reasons unknown to her even now, he entertained her tragic, drunken tale and uttered a question that would change her path in life forever, “Why don't you leave then? Leave. Now. Looks like you've got nothing to lose.” And then, she did the unthinkable. Zahra left with him that night and boarded his Captain's ship, the Black Cutlass, as a lowly perch-monkey. Just one of many pirate ships sailing under the Raiders of the Waking Sea. No packing and no goodbyes and never looking back once. She fell in love with the sea and the freedom it symbolized. Treasure, adventure, the slip of power she'd glimpsed in the Captain. All of the things she'd seen over the years, and the things she'd taken part in created and built a much stronger version of herself. One she hadn't known existed. While she may regret some of the thing she's done, she will never regret leaving that day.

Two years into service and she decided to strike out on her own, which isn't too uncommon. The Raiders of the Waking Sea is composed of several fleets; each with their own territories, contracts, crew members, and businesses. Some deal in slavery while others peddle wares and protect ships. Most seek out long contracts, or plunder and commandeer other ships; and nearly all Raiders disagree with each other at some point in time. Those who follow her to this day had been recruited in her travels, Aslan being the only one who'd been with her originally—afterward, they acquired her current ship, Riptide, from a kindly nobleman. The traveled across Thedas, seeking adventure, shiny things, and bolstered their names by making new friends, acquaintances, and affiliations. Some might say Captain Zahra Killiani Tavish is heartsick with power and control, but really, who isn't these days?

9:42:
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Had anyone asked Zahra before settling into Haven’s chilly grasp, and allowing herself to open up a little bit, she’d say that leaving her ship for any amount of time was a godawful idea. That it was always better to drape herself across Riptide’s wheel, steering them into the sunset. Into the next great adventure, treasure troves included. If anyone asked her now
 her answer wouldn’t be so simple, because the Inquisition has changed her. Not it’s ideals exactly. Certainly not the Maker, because she’s still not sure she believes in such a thing.

No, it was its people that cast a mark on her. From the tooth-baring little bear to it’s cheeky tavern-dwelling elf. The morose, pretty-faced Commander, with the sorceress of a political mother-figure flagging her eyebrows in the background. The Inquisitors themselves: perhaps, one of the bravest, soft-spoken lasses she’s ever had the pleasure of meeting and another dusky-skinned Rivaini who doesn’t smile nearly as much as she’d like. And the mouse of a Qunari who could crush anyone that stood against her, if she so wished. Stitched together to form a family of sorts. Friends bound in blood and the only cause she’s ever cared about. When was the last time she’s cared enough about something to linger? A long time, she supposes.

It’s an odd turn of events. Certainly not one she ever expected. She’s sure, at least, that they’ll continue surprising her.


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Credit| Cyrus Avenarius | Forest Fires

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Credit| Asala Kaaras | Pretty Down to Your Bones

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Credit| Marceline BenoĂźt | Thief

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Credit| Leonhardt Albrecht | Ships With Holes Will Sink

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Credit| Vesryn Cormyth | Little Bit of Feel Good

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Credit| Kharisanna Istimaethoriel | Oh, La

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Credit| Romulus | Keep Your Eyes Open

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Credit| Rilien Falavel |

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Credit| Estella Avenarius | House by the Sea

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“They taught me something important. The Inquisition. My friends.
The things I’ve done, they don’t define me. Not anymore.”

So begins...

Zahra Tavish's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The weather was absolutely dreadful. Once the salt from the coast began to permeate the air, it started to rain and it never stopped. Ugly gray clouds hung high above them and seemed to stretch from eternity in every direction. A dark purple cloak draped over Lady Marceline's shoulders, the hood up so as to not subject her hair to the terrible conditions. Marceline was miserable but she did not allow that to play out on her face. She would not show weakness, not even to those she called allies that rode with her.

She was not unarmed, as only a fool would be when traveling through the country. A thin, silverite basket-hilted rapier tapped against her saddle as she rode, a small main-gauche waiting in the small of her back, currently hidden by her cloak.

She did not lead the procession however. That honor would go to the dalish woman called Khari, and she seemed to take to it with a certain zeal. The woman wore a mask, not unlike her own. However, Marceline was without her mask during this time, having opted to discard it upon leaving Orlais and instead show her face. The masks were an Orlesian tradition, and meant little outside of her homeland. That, and it would be better to allow the people to see her.

They had broken from the road some time ago as they approached the coast, the scent of salt on the air intensifying as they grew closer to their destination. The elements would play havoc on Marceline's hair, she knew it, and she did not know how long their venture to the coast would take them. She, however, said nothing and rode in silence.

If Khari cared a whit about what the elements were doing to her hair, she had a terrible way of showing it. Wisps of it stuck out from underneath her hood, curling into a rather impressive frizz once exposed to the open elements. Her eyes were good-humored from over the top of her half-mask, and she rode as though entirely oblivious to the conditions of the Coast.

At several points, she seemed to turn her attention vaguely southwest, though each time she did, she’d shake her head and return to navigating her horse down the slope shortly afterwards. It was a good half-hour of riding in the rain before anything changed. The Dalish crested a hill first, then shifted in her saddle to call back to the other two.

“Heads-up, you two. I think we found ‘em.”

Romulus put his heels into his horse and rode ahead, to catch up with Khari. His shield found its way onto his arm.

A great flapping flag could be seen in the distance, bright red against the miserable sky. It was attached to an anchored ship dipping and swaying near the rocks, far from the dancing figures on the beach: a battle between two groups, from the looks of it. On the outskirts of it stood a woman holding a bow, foot planted on a boulder. Her fingers smoothly drawing back and loosing arrows into shoulders, bellies, and hips, though if she was bothered by any of it, the sordid weather, the mewling cries as they stumbled onto their arses, she gave no indication. If anything she seemed delighted. Tossing her head back and laughing. She called out encouragements, and pointed a waggling finger at the mismatch of individuals grunting below.

The largest of the group—a Qunari, bashed his forehead into the nearest man's face, then grappled onto his leathers and tossed him aside. Unlike the woman, he was not smiling. There was a fine distinction between the fighters. One group wore unusual plates, garb reminiscent of Tevinter mercenaries: all human. Difficult to tell from the crest, but it was easier to distinguish the motley crew of pirates. Dwarf, Elves, Qunari, and a roaring woman. None of them seemed to notice anyone else happening on their exchange.

Khari fidgeted in her saddle, looking quite a bit as though it was physically difficult for her not to join the fight below, but her eyes were sharp as she surveyed the goings-on, moving from one fighter to the next, and she leaned forward slightly on her red horse, her head tilted to the left.

“They’re pretty good.”

"Mhm," Marceline agreed. "It is a coarse display, but that is not necessarily a terrible quality," she added, watching the battle intently. While she did not command the Inquisition's armies as Ser Leonhardt, she had been around Chevaliers her entire life and could deduce the effectiveness of the fighters. "They would not fit in with Ser Leonhardt's main body, but I am positive that they could prove their usefulness elsewhere." she added, her eyes rising to look out toward their ship. Of course, that's provided the Inquisition signed them on.

While they may have been a decent fighting force with their own ship to boot, that meant nothing if they asked too much from their fledgling organization. A deal had to come at a right price, as it was with most mercenaries, and she was there to ensure that. They would need to see what else they could offer first, and toward that end, Lady Marceline patiently waited for the battle to conclude.

It did so quickly, and none too softly. Blasts of blue shot from an elven lass's hands, sending a man tumbling head over heels. It was the dwarf who ended his cries, smashing her mallet into his skull. Stragglers were being pushed backwards, and cut down against the boulders and the skeletons of old boats littering the coastline. One particular man gurgled for the others to retreat back up the crest, and without helping any of his mates, began scrambling up the hillside himself. He jerked to a halt when he spotted horses pawing at the ground: and riders, simply watching. His mouth gawked open and the only thing that came out was the tip of an arrow, silencing whatever words he'd been trying to say. The man shivered and jerked, tumbling back down the hill.

In the distance, the wild-haired woman lowered her bow and stared up at the riders. She bared her teeth in greeting and put her fingers to her lips, whistling a sharp tone. She made another small movement with her hand, and her crew scattered amongst the remains, picking at discarded weapons. Others slumped down against pieces of driftwood and turned their attention towards the newcomers. Only Aslan walked to the woman's side, exchanging a few words, before her smile cracked into a grin and they both turned to begin their approach.

For someone so small, stature wise, she seemed to encompass a lot of space. She climbed the hillside without much trouble and stopped short of Khari's horse. Aslan rounded up at her side, crossing his arms over his barrel-chest. Although no words were exchanged, and he did little more than survey the new arrivals with narrowed eyes, it appeared as if he was just as much a weapon to her as the bow she'd already begun strapping to her back. The woman rubbed her hands together and arched her back, hands planted on her hips. Several cracks sounded and a long sigh followed, “So, this is the fabled Inquisition. I've heard good things about you, and I hope we haven't disappointed. Either way, I'm glad you could make it.”

She paused and clicked her tongue, “Right on time.” The woman motioned for them to follow her down the ridge, and towards the beach where the others were. Someone had already started dragging the bodies into a pile, pilfering whatever they needed into another one. Those who'd been injured lingered beside a scruffy-looking man, wrapping sopping wet bandages around proffered arms and legs. “I'm assuming you'd like to get straight to business. Serious bunch as you look. I'd like that too, honestly.”

Marceline nodded and swung off of the Orlesian charger's saddle in a single fluid motion. She landed on soft feet, though her black boots sunk into the sand with a squelch. Dreadful, she thought again, but her face betrayed nothing. In fact, her face was unreadable save an easy confidence on her brow. A neutral expression, this Zahra was a business woman, and would not take kindly to any air she may have put on. If she wished to speak business, the Lady Marceline would speak business.

She turned and pointed out her companions as she said their names, "This is Ser Khari, Ser Romulus, and I," She said, turning back to face Zahra, "Am Lady Marceline. And you are the good Captain Zahra Tavish." It was a curt introduction, but they were not in Orlesian courts, but on a beach among fighters and mercenaries. Social graces were unnecessary and the game that was to be played was not the Grand one, though she remained unfailingly polite.

"We were told that you were in search of your latest contract, and that you may possess some piece information that may be of value to the Inquisition," Marceline steepled her fingers and let them rest on her belly, taking on a relaxed posture. "So I shall cut through the pleasantries and get straight to the matter at hand. What is it that you are willing to offer, and, if you will excuse my forwardness, what are your terms?" She asked as a dark brow rose.

The Captain inclined her head to each new person that was introduced. Her eyes lingered on each one, then fell back on Lady Marceline, clearly unaware that her scrutiny might have come off as unsettling. She idly scratched at her chin but listened intently, eyebrows flagging when her name was mentioned. Aslan stared off into the distance, glancing at their horses and adjusting his stance, occasionally stepping out of the sucking sand into more sucking sand. Zahra seemed as comfortable as a cat stretching out across a bed. Even in the Storm Coast's miserable weather, rain pattering down her cheeks, whereas Aslan stood as still and silent as a wall. A formidable one.

“Yes, you're right,” Zahra tossed her head towards the ship, still bobbing up and down in the distance, “And much more besides. You see, we're in the business of information. We've traveled near everywhere, haven't we?” There was a boom of cheers and clattering weapons coming from her crew mates littered about. “That is to say, we hear more than rumors, and secrets are worth their weight in gold. If there are no little birds to whisper in our ears, we compensate in battle. You won't find a tougher crew than us, that's a guarantee. Front line, and fearless. It wouldn't matter where you intended to take us. Once a deal is struck, we're loyal-bound. To hell and back.”

Her mouth curved into a smile, “Did I mention we have a boat?” Pleasantries cast aside, Zahra threw her arms out wide and took another deep breath of the ocean spray, “Our terms are simple. We've both got something to gain. You and I. Strong alliances. What we're asking for is a place to stay. Food, warm beds. Gold, of course. We come at a fair price, but I'm sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

Though she didn't let it show, Marceline's interest was piqued. If her interest bled through, then it may cost them later in the negotiations. It was safer to regard them with a nominally impressed expression. It would be rude to do otherwise. "Your offer is intriguing," she conceded, though she turned quiet afterward. She regarded this Captain, her crew, and even her ship with a critical eye. There was nothing that would refute anything the woman had said, and if what she had said was true to the letter, then it would be unwise to simply let this opportunity sail away.

However, she was not going to simply hire them on the spot. They would need to be gauged first, to ensure what they say and what they offer were up to the standards they desired. "The Inquisition is willing to offer you and your crew a probationary contract," Marceline said, an inviting smile creeping into her lips.

"If what you say is true, and we find your services satisfactory, we will renegotiate the terms of your contract for a longer period of employment, and the pay to reflect the services you provide. Of course, food and board will certainly be provided within the deal as well. The Inquisition is kind to her people," Marceline said with a nod. It was a fair offer, she felt, and there were many potential opportunities to be had with a crew with their own ship.

"Do you find these terms fair, Captain Zahra?" Marceline asked with a raise of her brow.

The woman-Captain took another deep breath and sucked at her gums, glancing over her shoulder at her gathered crew. She was silent for a moment, as if she were considering her options, though the wild brightness in her eyes spoke volumes. And abrupt as any of her movements seemed to be, Zahra whipped back towards Lady Marceline and held her hand out for a sealing handshake, mouth twisted in a toothy grin, “You have a deal, Lady Marceline, and it's not one you'll regret making.”

"I would hope not, Captain Zahra," Marceline replied with a smile of her own, before taking her hand and shaking it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
It wasn’t more than thirty seconds after they shook hands on the deal that they heard a loud screech, almost impossibly loud, and a corresponding rumble. The ground tremored slightly beneath their feet, and from the east, it was possible to see the masked woman, identified previously as Khari, approaching on horseback. She must have left at some point during the negotiations, but her horse trotted back towards them, its rider holding herself high off the saddle, standing in the stirrups.

“There’s a dragon here!” Her tone was excited, almost gleeful. “A really big blue one. It’s fighting a giant over there!” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.

With little more than a handshake, the deal was struck and Zahra stood as pleased as a coddled kitten. Albeit sopping wet and forced to keep readjusting her feet in the sucking sands beneath them. She'd much prefer being inside her ship, or else somewhere dry, but by the looks of this Inquisition of theirs, with lady Sunshine bringing up the front, it appeared as if they still had business to do on the Storm Coast. She'd truly meant through hell and back again, so questions were useless. Besides, their group looked just as motley as her own. Her smile did not wane, only bellied the relentless energy swirling in her belly. She didn't doubt that they would be just as interesting.

A shriek cut through their nice little congregation. Loud enough to rattle her skull and make her ears ring. Certainly not a sound she'd ever heard before, and she figured she'd seen many things in her travels. Aslan's meaty fists clamped down across the curved blade hanging at his hip, though Zahra placated him when she placed a hand on his shoulder. The one introduced as Khari rounded up on them. Fiery-haired and pointing off in the distance, rattling on about a dragon and a giant. She'd admit to being just a little bit distracted by her hair, bright as fire. She turned the words over in her head and clicked her tongue again, “Two things I never imagined I'd see in one day.”

It seemed as if staying anchored in these parts would be both unwise, and foolish if there was a dragon circling the coastline, even if it wasn't interested in their ship. From what little she knew of dragons, and their ilk, they were damnably large and capable of felling their mast as if it were a toy. And she'd just commandeered that thing months ago, she meant to keep it in one piece. Her hand slipped away from Aslan's shoulder and she leaned closer to him, hooking her thumb towards her gathered crew mates, already springing up to see what Khari was talking about. “I'll be traveling with these guys for awhile, but I want you to get our girl out of these waters. I'll be damned if it gets torched after coming all this way.”

Aslan nodded. His voice was a gravelly pit when he said, “Where to, Boss?”

She rubbed her knuckles against her nose, and sniffed, “Head back to that little fishing village we passed. Anchor there. Feed the boys and girls. Get some rest while you can. Keep your ears open.”

With that said, Aslan stomped down towards the pirates, and gave rumbling instructions to get their arses in gear as quickly as they could manage. Fantastic crew as they were, she'd rather see them all safe on their ship. Besides, she could prove how useful their company was while they were gone. Zahra joined Marceline at her side, and placed her hands back at her hips, fingers drumming a beat, “Besides my ship and my crew, you're also getting me. I'm a good shot. They say I never miss. Course, you'll see that yourself. A sharp eye, an arrow in the dark—whatever you need of me.”

She didn't wait for her response, only slipped back up where Khari had been stationed. She saw it for herself. Two great beasts, entangled. A giant and a blue dragon as bright as any jewel. Her heart hammered in her throat, and if she didn't have any better sense, she would have crept closer.

“Well, look at that, Ginger's right.”

Marceline noticeably kept her distance with a deep frown marking her face. "If I may make a suggestion," she began with arms crossed. "I suggest we give them both a wide berth and allow them to finish any business they may have with each other." A deafening roar from the dragon caused the air around them to shudder, and Marceline's eyes narrowed. "A very generous berth," she added.

There was a glimmer in the eye of Romulus as he pulled his horse up alongside Khari. The excitement was clear in him, but it was heavily tempered, reduced down to a small upward curl in his lips, and a gaze of wonderment towards the two battling behemoths across the bay.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" he asked, the question directed at Khari.

“Only once.” Her tone was reverent, her enthusiasm for the experience more than apparent. Her eyes stayed fixed on the spectacle, drinking it in the way other people watched sublime artistic performances, or whatever it was that fascinated them in a similar way. “And not this close.” Her eyes narrowed, clearly from pleasure rather than anger.

“This is absolutely worth it.” What the ‘it’ she referred to was wasn’t clear, but the words seemed to mean something to her, anyway.

From where Zahra was standing their business may last a long time, though it looked as if the giant was faltering against the dragon's advances. Difficult to tell, really. She let her gaze drift away from the carnage below and she turned to consider the two riders at her side with much of the same fascination. She watched their reactions, took note of the small things. An upturned lip. The brightness in Ginger's eyes, leaning forward in her saddle as she was. Minute gestures, like the fluttering of fingers. She didn't think it would be very difficult to convince them that taking up their arms would be the better course of action. Then again. Perhaps, she was wrong and they were looking on in wonder and not with the tickling sense of violence and glory.

“It'd be a shame, just to bypass them,” Zahra shrugged her shoulders, and glanced back to Lady Marceline. The most sensible one, it seemed. Even so, she couldn't help but wonder how much those scales would sell for or what that giant was carrying for that matter. Opportunity could be had if they waited around long enough, but she supposed that Marceline wasn't the patient type. Already seeking out another route. Fighting off a dragon and a giant seemed foolish enough but she'd be hard-pressed to deny that her blood wasn't already boiling. Besides, she wasn't sure who, in fact, was in charge of this expedition. “I'm assuming you have some sort of destination in mind,” Zahra arched her eyebrows, “which isn't over there.”

"A pair," Lady Marceline answered. She returned to her steed and remounted it. She pulled in behind the three of them, still warily gaze out toward the dragon and giant. "Along with you, we were to make contact with a cult that goes by the name 'Blades of Hessarian'. Judging by the name they have given themselves, it is a highly religious organization. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage," Marceline added, her gaze lingering on Romulus for a few moments.

She then shifted attention to the path ahead, "The other destination is far more nebulous. We are to investigate the disappearance of the Grey Wardens. Our source says that they were last known to be in this area." Marceline looked out ahead for a moment before turning to look at the others. "I suggest that we meet with these Blades first, and should they prove amiable, inquire what they know of the Wardens and then proceed from there." With that Marceline nodded as if pleased with the plan of action.

"Agreed?"

“You can ride with me, by the way.” Khari had waited until Marceline had done all the necessary explaining before making her offer, but now she was holding an arm out and downwards, with the clear intention of helping Zahra up behind her. The horse certainly looked strong enough to take two, especially considering that the first was a fairly small person.

A group of religious arseholes, and some Grey Wardens. There it was, an adventure already to be had. She certainly wasn't complaining. Besides, Lady Marceline wasted no time explaining where they were going and that suited her just fine, though she was curious what made her tick. Surely, she wasn't all prim and proper. There must've been some fun buried underneath all of orderly business. “Fine by me,” Zahra bobbed her head. Now that she thought about it, she'd never actually met a Grey Warden before. Sounded like they'd have their pants in twist. She hoped not.

She followed the voice and was pleased to find out that it was Ginger who'd offered her a ride—not that she would have minded any of the others, though Ser Romulus was quiet enough to make her wonder whether or not he'd talk at all. Perhaps, she intimidated him. Wouldn't have been the first time. As for Lady Marceline, she doubted that she'd want to close the distance between them anytime soon. Not before having a few drinks. So, Zahra turned towards Khari and took up her proffered arm, boosting herself over the horses rump and settling in behind her as best as she could manage, “Thanks for the lift.”

“Not a problem.” Khari grinned, then faced forward, urging her horse to begin moving. The others did, too, and the small group was off, turning back towards the north, avoiding the dragon as advised. The slopes were fairly steep, but the horses seemed to be solid, hardy creatures, and not once did any of the legs under Zahra and Khari falter, the elf’s deft hand guiding him to the best places on the narrow, rocky paths.

They’d been riding for another fifteen minutes or so when something resolved ahead of them. It looked to be a small group of people, grouped on one side of the path. From the way they were all looking down towards the approaching Inquisition, it would seem that they awaited their arrival, and Khari slowed the horse down to approach with a little more reserve.

Most of them were armed, but with a few exceptions, they were women, younger teenagers, and older people, and none of them looked particularly well-fed, the hollows of their cheeks perhaps more sunken than was warranted. Still, there wasn’t a one that was bowed over or hunched; each held themselves tall, and tall most of them were, even the children. There were about fifteen, it looked like, though most of them were set back a ways from the road, sitting in a rough circle, but two stood right next to the road. One was a thickset man with meaty arms and a head of wild, copper-colored hair. He held a staff in one hand; it looked to serve as a walking stick more than anything, for his face showed age, especially around the eyes and mouth.

The other was perhaps of an age with Zahra, or thereabouts, and shared the man’s hair color and most of his height. Her armor was mostly leather and fur, and had nothing by way of sleeves, dark blue tattoos encircling her right arm all the way to her neck, the patterns foreign and strange—not Rivaini, not Antivan, and certainly not Dalish. Her skin was dark, much darker than that belonging to any of the others, but it was the way that she stood in the front which perhaps differentiated her the most.

“Hail, Inquisition. If you seek the Blades of Hessarian, you will not make it far.” The words were not a threat; indeed, she spoke them with a hint of amusement underneath the contralto timbre of her voice.

Lady Marceline bowed slightly in her saddle, more out of appreciation it seemed than greeting. "If I may ask then, why is that?" her tone wasn't one of contention, but genuine. Her eyes glanced between the other individuals before returning to the one that had addressed them.

The woman smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. “They are a strange lot, with many rules that have little purpose.” She shrugged, then raised both of her hands to her neck, tugging until what seemed to be a necklace came free and dangled from one hand. The blue color of the gem in the middle suggested serpentstone, and the rest of it looked to be made of granite and some sort of scaly hide. “Such as this: without one of these in view, your group will be attacked by them on sight, something we discovered the hard way.” There was a thread of malice under her tone, but it seemed to coexist with the same amusement that had accompanied her words thus far, making her feelings on the matter difficult to pin down.

“I, therefore, find myself in a position to make a deal with you, and that is something I would like to do.”

Marceline's head tilted to the side, but likewise she betrayed nothing, making it difficult to feel out her own thoughts. She looked at the amulet for a moment before she spoke. "Hmm," she hummed to herself, as if thinking it over. "We would hear the deal before we are to commit to anything. Know, however, that we wish to negotiate with these people." Her eyes then went to burly man beside her, and then to the rest behind them.

"We will not be able to condone any retribution you may have in mind unless they instigate hostilities themselves," She said, with a sigh and subtle shake of her head. She did not seem overly surprised to hear that the Blades were hostile to strangers, only tired by it.

The woman shook her head. “You misunderstand. Perhaps I should have been clearer.” She lowered the amulet to her side, and then glanced back at the others further away from the road, the gesture inviting them to do the same. “It is partly an insistence on retribution that has whittled us so. That, and famine, and darkspawn, and any number of other disasters over the last dozen years. The gods do not answer, and so it is I who must decide.” The man at her side shifted, but said nothing.

She returned her gaze to them. “I choose to save them, whatever others may say of my honor for it.” She smiled again, sharply, like the edge of a knife. “Retribution is uninteresting to me. My terms are this: you have the amulet, which will enable you to negotiate. You have us, who are capable survivors and hunters, when there is game to be found. You have me, and the weight of my clan’s good name, which is leverage you will not be able to get elsewhere, and will carry much meaning should you have cause to deal with Avvar. We have food, and shelter, your word that we will be tolerated outside your town, protected by your troops. That is the deal.”

"Is this what remains of your clan?" Marceline asked, indicating to the others a ways away from the road.

“It is. Once we were many, and our hold large. But hunger is an enemy that cannot be fought.” Her answer was even, but any trace of humor had vanished from it.

She looked toward them for a moment more, as if internally debating something before turning her gaze toward the woman addressing them. There Marceline seemed to internally gauge her worth. Finally, she spoke. "What is your name?"

The question seemed almost to perplex the woman, as though it seemed irrelevant and she was unsure why it was being asked. “I am Signy Sky-Lance, Thane of the Wyvernhold. This is my father, Svavar Earthspeaker, our shaman.” The older man inclined his head, politely if a bit awkwardly, as though he weren’t used to that form of greeting.

"I expect Ser Leonhardt would benefit from the scouting expertise you and your clan will bring, and the medallion you hold will see to it that our business here goes smoother than without," she said with a nod, before Marceline dismounted her horse and offered this Signy an outstretched hand. "I will have to requisition hardier tents from Ser Leonhardt, but your people will have their shelter and their food. You need not starve any longer."

Signy took the proffered hand, grasping Marceline’s forearm, then nodded and relinquished the medallion. “Then we will make our way to Haven and find this Ser Leonhardt. We will be of little assistance with religious cultists, beyond what we have already provided, and without the crest, we are no longer safe here.” She released Marceline’s arm, then stepped back and whistled sharply. Almost as one, the other members of her band stood, and she gestured them to the right.

“You’ll want to go left from here. And watch out for their leader—he’s unpopular, and for good reason.” With that, she and her father turned to depart, soon disappearing down a different path.

Certainly not what she'd been expecting to see on their travels, though she'd seen enough starving folk in her travels to understand the need for powerful allies. She only shifted sideways, so that she could properly see the unusually tattooed woman at the front. Lady Sunshine was proving be an awfully good conversationalist and so, Zahra offered no words. She hadn't been hired for that anyhow. Shamans, Avvar, Thanes and hollow-cheeked tribesmen already—things she had never encountered before.

A chuckle bubbled from her lips, and she looked much like Khari had observing the dragon and giant, “Worth it.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
The Blades of Hessarian kept their camp a fair distance inland, nestled into the steep hills and cliffs that zig-zagged along the coast. The people of the region were scarce, only a few outlying fishing villages and mountain communities, tough people that looked on strangers, especially armed ones, with suspicion. While they made their way towards the bandit encampment, or cult, or whatever it was, they preoccupied themselves with following up on some clues as to the Wardens that they sought in the area.

The people of one particular fishing village remembered them, but provided little information, for they only had little to begin with, or so Romulus believed. He was fairly good at spotting lies, and these villagers spoke none, concealed nothing. The Wardens that had passed through were a group, led by an elf, apparently. They were not received with hostility, for the locals were still grateful to them for the speedy end to the Blight, years ago. The group of Wardens inquired after other Wardens, an Orlesian man and an elven woman of the Free Marches, but the villagers could tell them nothing.

Khari led the tracking effort, for the most part. Romulus wasn't too experienced in following signs in the wild. A city would've been preferable, honestly. He was often more successful at prying information from broken fingers than broken twigs. Khari was the one most comfortable with this sort of work, and so she was best suited to find where the Warden group had gone.

It took the better part of a day to find a discarded camp, well nestled between steep rock formations on a secluded hillside. There they found, among few other things, a discarded journal, mostly soaked through, but with a few legible lines through which information could be gleaned. The camp had indeed been made by the Warden group they sought, but there were no names available, either for the searching party, or the two that they pursued. They worried over a whisper in their minds, had difficulty sensing darkspawn, and ultimately determined that their objectives had since departed the region. It could only be assumed that they themselves had left soon after, and there was no indication as to where.

The search for the Wardens having proven fruitless, they were left with one more task on the Storm Coast, dealing with the Blades of Hessarian. The camp was not far now. Romulus occasionally spied shadows moving behind bushes and trees, but none ever approached. Perhaps the openly displayed medallion that the redheaded woman had presented them with was truly enough to keep their arrows and blades at bay.

He studied their new companion, the sea-captain, as they descended down steep terrain. She handled herself well, on and off land, and carried herself with confidence. He didn't doubt she was capable, and a worthwhile addition to the Inquisition, especially considering their lack of influence at sea. What interested him more was her appearance. She shared a similar tone with him, the rather distinct features of one with Rivaini heritage. Given her own profession, and the manner in which Romulus had been told he was first found, he determined her to be worth prying into.

"You are Rivaini, Captain Zahra?" he asked, the answer obvious, the question probably more in what to call her. Titles felt annoyingly necessary when a person such as him ventured to address someone. "May I ask how you acquired a ship and crew?"

Zahra leaned backwards, slightly further from Khari, and tilted her head to examine Romulus. Her mouth curved into a smile. It pulled at the scars banded across her lips, twitching back to bare her teeth, “Perceptive of you.” She readjusted herself across the horse's rump, possibly to keep herself from slipping off as they rode. Her movements were languid, thoughtful. She drew a hand up to her face and traced her fingertips across her cheekbone, trailing it down below her eye, “And so are you. Must've come from a wealthy family with those.” A rhetorical question, it seemed. Or rather, a statement. With her, it seemed difficult to tell the difference.

“Now, that's a tale that I'd gladly share,” she clicked her tongue and raised an eyebrow, watching him as a hawk might, “but I'm not in the habit of giving without taking anything so, if you'll answer a question of mine, I'll answer one of yours. Deal?”

Romulus ignored the comment about his tattoos. He knew not what they signified, or where he had acquired them. If they were some symbol of his belonging to a wealthy lineage, it hardly mattered now. "I'll answer as best I can. Ask."

Zahra made a small noise in her throat and dropped her hand back down to her side, seemingly lost in thought. She rolled her eyes skyward. There was a pause, and only the clopping of hoof beats and rattling weapons filled in the spaces of her silence. It took her a few moments, but her eyes fell back to Romulus and held his gaze, “Alright then. How is it that you came to be with the Inquisition? I'm sure you all have your own stories to tell.”

Romulus was aware that the circumstances regarding his joining were less than ideal for the Inquisition's public image, hence why they'd been largely swept under the rug in favor of Estella's more palatable background. Briefly, he tried to catch the Lady Marceline's eye, to see if he had permission to answer truthfully. Marceline nodded her consent.

"I came from Tevinter, on orders from my domina to spy on the Conclave. Somehow, I was caught in events, I don't remember. The Breach was created by the explosion, I helped stop its spread three days later. The Inquisition requested that my domina allow me to remain and help close the Breach entirely. She agreed." It was delivered without much emotion, despite the enormity of everything that had happened. Perhaps it was because Romulus always seemed uncomfortable discussing the details of his slavery with these southerners. In Minrathous, his position was not something that was looked at twice. Many magisters had favored slaves, and he was fortunate and skilled enough to be one of them. Here, they seemed to think the idea worse than death. He did not know what to make of it.

"My question still stands, if you're satisfied. The short version, maybe. We're getting close." He could see wisps of campfires in the distance. They'd be in sight of the bandit camp soon.

Her eyebrow occasionally shot up when Romulus said certain words, though she did little more than nod her head. As abrasive as she seemed to be, she was a polite listener. Her shoulders straightened when he was finished and she seemed to consider his words. If she had any questions, she thought better of voicing them aloud. It seemed as if she had many of them, tapping at her knee as she was. Her smile simpered into a flat line. For all of her bluster, she hesitated. She followed his gaze and her grin returned, kindled like fire, “So we are.”

“Short version it is. This particular ship was commandeered. Borrowed indefinitely, you might say. If you're all for justice and fairness, you might not want to hear that story. As for my crew, I picked them all up along the way. Like I said, I've been around the world, mostly. Took some of them in. Except for Aslan. He's always been at my side. Hell if I know why,” Zahra used her hands, stroked the air in broad gestures, as if it explained anything at all. She paused and crackled a rough laugh, “But I'm sure you'd be more interested hearing it from them.”

The camp belonging to the Blades of Hessarian actually looked more like a small fort, complete with a large wooden wall, watchtowers, and a gate. Blue flags were unfurled over the towers, and Romulus got the distinct sense they were approaching a military encampment rather than a bandit hideout. Their little formation of horses left them appearing quite exposed, but even when more of the Blades came into sight, they did not attack. Those who manned the gate pushed it open upon seeing the medallion.

"You come to challenge our leader?" One asked, disbelieving. The other shrugged.

"All others have failed, but you're welcome to try."

They rode through the gate, Romulus with his hand ever on the hilt of his dagger, and already with shield in hand. His eyes watched the places an ambusher might hide, but for all their strength, these bandits seemed interested in this approach, which they perhaps saw as more honorable. It would certainly be easier than fighting all of them, he supposed.

There were many tents and little fires scattered throughout the interior of the camp, but some of the structures were actual houses, well-made and seemingly well-lived in. They had been here for some time, unchallenged. It made sense, he supposed. The Blight would have had no cause to travel through this place, and after it the darkspawn would've retreated and remained underground. The region was too far from Highever for Teyrn Cousland to do anything about it, not when darkspawn threatening more populated regions took priority. No, the Blades of Hessarian were masters of this land, and had been for some time. Removing them would not be easy. Controlling them would be more profitable.

"Who among you challenges the Blades of Hessarian?" demanded a man, standing in front of a throne carved from wood and stone. He was a large brute of a man, lightly armored and armed with a hand axe and round shield. His beard and hair were both thick and blond, in all a very Fereldan appearance. At his sides, a pair of mabari hounds clad in spiked plates of armor growled at the approaching strangers.

Marceline had dismounted her horse and stood straight as the man spoke. She was not cowed by the installation the Blades had, nor did she seem fearful standing in front of the man. As she spoke, she kept her head level and her arms crossed. A relaxed stance. "We represent the Inquisition and would ask to parley. We need not resort to violence," she said.

The rest dismounted in turn, and all approached the leader of the Blades on foot. He crossed his arms at Marceline's words, narrowing his eyes at all of them. "You carry the Crest of Mercy. This earns you the right to a challenge, no more. The Blades of Hessarian will not negotiate with outsiders, not under my command." He took a threatening step forward, his two hounds behind him drooling with anticipation. He pointed at Marceline and the others with the spike atop his axe.

"Name your two champions. One for me, and the other for my dogs. That's how this works."

When it seemed like words get them nowhere, Marceline's eyelids dropped and she stared down her nose at him. Instead of addressing the brute anymore she turned and looked toward the others to listen to their comments.

“Me. I volunteer.” It was spoken immediately, probably before anyone else had a chance to get a word in edgewise. From the way Khari sat, though, tense as a bowstring and tall as she could make herself, she’d been anticipating this from the very start. As if to match actions to words, she tossed her leg easily over the side of the horse, hopping to the ground in a fluid motion that left Zahra behind her undisturbed.

“Don’t care what, either. Those dogs look vicious and mean, but the big man looks more vicious and meaner.” Her eyes glittered, and she turned them towards Romulus, perhaps because he was, after all, the Herald here. Or perhaps just because she anticipated him being the other party, it was hard to say for sure. Her hand was already reaching back for the hilt of her sword.

Zahra sucked at her gums, and slid off the horse as well, eying the Blades of Hessarian with little more than a crinkled nose. Her fingers, however, twitched at her sides. One of them lingered slightly behind her back—closest to her bow, fingering the string as if it were a musical instrument to be plucked. Her stance bellied a readiness that was often seen in warriors, and her eyes danced not with the wariness that any of the others might have had, but excitement, “Let them have their way then. I don't doubt any of your abilities.”

Romulus stepped forward beside Khari, drawing his dagger, wordless in his intent. It was obvious what he was planning on doing, and that was volunteering. He was trained for killing important targets, mages or otherwise. Killing this man and his dogs would make killing the rest unnecessary, and would possibly make them pliable to the Inquisition's will. But, it was ultimately Marceline's duty to direct the mission, and so Romulus glanced again to her for her approval.

She looked at the three of them in contemplation before she turned back to the Fereldan and his hounds. She held them in her gaze, sizing them up before she closed her eyes and sighed, apparently having decided on something. Marceline then began to undo the clasp to the cloak around her shoulders. "Khari," she began, "If you would handle the hounds?" Once the cloak was free, she approached Zahra and handed it to her, giving her an appreciative look. Zahra, in turn, folded and tucked the cloak underneath her arm and grinned at the others, obviously pleased by the outcome.

"I shall answer his challenge," she said, reaching into her pocket to produce a length of black fabric. As she used it to tie her hair back into a bun, she looked to Romulus somewhat apologetically. "Your position in the Inquisition is far too important to risk on something I can handle myself, Lord Herald," she explained. By her tone, it was clear that her usage of the title of Herald was not so much meant for him, but for the Blades. Romulus did not move at first, looking briefly at Khari and then back to Marceline. His face was stone, more so than usual, but eventually he sheathed his dagger, and stepped back, deferring to her.

Turning back to the Fereldan, her arms free and her hair out of the way she drew the rapier at her side with one hand, and the main-gauche with the other. She held the rapier horizontally at eye level, while the dagger waited in the shadows.

"Begin."

It was probably only meant to commence the match between Marceline and the leader of the Blades, but it seemed to serve well enough as a signal for Khari, as well. She still wore her cloak, and the steel mask, as well, and the hounds leapt for her as one. She immediately jumped backwards, positioning herself a fair distance behind Marceline, but still at her back, obviously to prevent the mabari from flanking her. One of the dogs landed short, but the other had taken an extra step before jumping at her, and she was forced to block, swinging her fist around to punch it directly in the nose.

That didn’t seem to do much, perhaps due to the armor plating it had, and though it failed to get a good hold on her, it did knock her to the ground. Chances were, it weighed about the same as she did, maybe a little more with the armor, and the ground was muddy and slick. Khari fell, but she did so easily, almost as if she’d been expecting it, and she laughed as she slid backwards on the mud about a foot before coming to a stop, rolling onto her feet quickly and bringing her sword around for the next exchange.

Marceline simply shook her head most likely at what was Khari's laughter. When it was clear that it was not her that going to make the first move, the Fereldan made his own instead. With his first step forward, she took her first backward. Likewise for the second. The slow retreat seemed to have angered the man, because a scowl leapt into his face before he threw himself at Marceline.

Instead of rushing forward to meet him, and instead of retreating backward and risk tripping into the fight Khari was in, she danced to the side and out of the way, carefully watching his weapons with each step. Marceline carried herself with practiced steps and honed grace. It was becoming clear that she was no stranger to a duel. The rapier never dropped below eye level, at least until it bobbed upward, as if to entice him to try again.

Khari, meanwhile, wasn’t particularly graceful at all. She was all motion, a constant back-and-forth, push-and-pull, like the flow of the tides, and the part of the field she and the dogs occupied was swiftly becoming even more of a mud pit than it had been before, as she and her four-legged foes churned it up with the strength of their strides. It seemed to be ankle-deep, in most places, but their vigor had splashed large portions of it onto them, until the dogs were gaining a coat to their chests and Khari was just wearing it everywhere. She repelled their attacks mostly by swatting them away with large, sweeping strokes of her sword, but she never overshot, never left herself open for longer than she could recover.

One of them dove low, going in for her ankle, most likely, but she went low, too, diverting to the side and pivoting, the force of the motion carrying her through the next stroke, which cleanly severed one of its legs, just below where the armor protected. It went down on its side, so she opened up its belly with the subsequent blow, ending its life with celerity.

"It appears as if you overestimated your hounds," Marceline taunted after the hound that Khari dispatched cried aloud. The leader of the blades simply grunted angrily and charged her again. This time, she did not retreat, but she never let her eyes move away from his shield and axe. He came in hard for a horizontal swipe, but Marceline apparently had seen it coming and took a step backward to let it pass harmlessly in front her. She had also seen the backswing coming, and parried it with the main-gauche, pushing it away from her.

A fierce shield block followed, but Marceline easily dipped under it and spun away, coming out unscatched on the other side of him. She put a few steps between instead of pressing an attack, before resetting the positioning of her rapier. "It also appears as if your hounds were much more competent," she taunted again. The mounting frustrations on the Fereldan's face was visible to all, and it was easy to see that his motions were becoming more and more wild with each miss and each taunt.

In the aftermath of the death of its counterpart, the second mabari fought all the harder, seemingly confirming the rumors about their intelligence and loyalty, and it was certainly well-trained for battle. It snarled at Khari, and lunged, this time from too close for her to merely duck away, and they both hit the ground with a wet squelch. It was a bit hard to see exactly what happened after that—a great deal of rolling was involved, as both tried to get the necessary leverage to finish the other off. With a half-yell, half-snarl of her own, though, Khari hauled the dog off her and threw herself onto it, planting a knee in its chest and a hand beneath its jaw, tipping its head back too far to bite her and rendering most of its powerful muscles useless, since it couldn’t get leverage to push her off.

With a grunt, she brought her sword towards her with her second hand, laying the blade over its throat under her first, then leaning into it. Given the lack of armor there, it bit in easily, and the hound went still beneath her. She climbed to her feet, coated almost head to toe in wet earth worn proudly, almost, glancing towards Marceline and her foe, and her teeth flashed at him from under the mask, though it it was a smile, a grimace, or something else wasn’t evident.

“Waste of good dogs, on your pride.” Her tone was clearly derisive, and the jab played off Marceline’s like taunts surprisingly well, for someone who’d been wholeheartedly engaged in her own confrontation.

"She is correct, you know?" Marceline said, with a brow raised. Her answer was immediate, a rage induced yell and the Fereldan threw everything at her in his next flurry. However, even in the mud, Marceline proved quicker, stepping out of the way of errant strikes and batting away the weaker ones with her main-gauche. Despite the ferocity, it was clear that the fight was beginning to strain him. The wide angles, the wild slashes, the ferocity, even in the rain it was easy to tell the Fereldan was laboring.

She backstepped one more time before the man barked at her, taken over by his rage. "Fight Ba--urk," he was never able to finish the sentence. Marceline siezed the opportunity provided by the man opening his mouth to speak to drive the tip of her rapier into his throat. He was choking on his blood before he fell to his knees, his weapons quickly sinking into the muck beside him.

"We could have just spoken," Marceline said, the man tipping over into the mud, lifeless. She sheathed main-gauche and produced a linen hankerchief from a pocket. She then proceeded to wipe the beads of blood from the tip of her rapier, before she sheathed it as well. Turning to face Khari, she looked her up and down before she offered the woman herself the handkerchief.

Khari only laughed, waving the offer away with a good-natured grin. “Gonna take more than that, I think. Rain should do for most of it." They were quite the contrast, one of them as neat as it was likely possible to be out here and the other wearing muck from the crown of her head to the toes of her boots, but they'd both been successful.

It was Zahra who first stepped forward to congratulate them on their victories. Arms held out wide as if she might embrace them, though she did not. Instead she stood in front of Khari and settled her hands on her hips, smiling broadly, “Now that was a damn good fight. I'm glad the brute was stupid enough to challenge you.” Her eyes flicked from Khari's mud-speckled face, to Lady Marceline's sheathed blade and back up to hers, which was noticeabl cleaner, “It might've been easier to talk, but less fun, you must admit.”

Whatever her idea of fun was, it obviously lied in the more violent aspects of their journey. Her expression shifted as she looked between the two, sizing them up before she circled around Khari. Glancing over her shoulder, Zahra looked mildly apologetic as she held out Marceline's cloak, “Forgive me, but I think I'll be riding with her the rest of the way. At least until the rain does its work.” Khari only shrugged.

“Suit yourself."

As Romulus mounted, one of the Blades of Hessarian approached. "You'll be hearing from us, Inquisition," he said, not at all in an unfriendly manner. "You've proven yourselves worthy, and earned the right of command. In the Storm Coast, your will is our own." Romulus pulled his hood up over his head, as the rain began to come down ever harder.

They were not unlike slaves, he thought. Serving without question at the whim of the most dangerous person they could find.

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: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus could not calm the storm in his mind.

Chryseis Viridius was in Redcliffe, and he hadn't known it until she walked into the room with him. He'd only barely managed to avoid ruining the cover she wanted him to have, thanks to the intervention from Cyrus. Thankfully, Cassius had paid him little mind after that. He was, after all, still just a runaway slave to him, beneath worry or consideration, especially next to his lost apprentice. And Estella had forced him to make a quick exit.

He could have managed well enough if it had just been Cassius. He was just another magister, despite their history. Romulus had only ever called the man dominus for a period of a few short years, before he was transitioned fully into the service of his daughter. Chryseis was running her own affairs almost immediately after the first attempt on her life, and it was not long before she was split off from her father almost completely. Even when he had been in the man's service, it was as one of a much larger group of slaves. Chryseis was the one to have seen the worth in him, and made him into her blade.

Her being here just seem to muddle an already confusing situation. He expected to be glad to have her direct presence again, commands to follow, a side that he knew he could be on, a return to his old ways of not needing to think, or decide anything. But she was having him pose like a runaway slave, and he knew not why, or what she was doing here. He trusted her, but also knew her to be a woman capable of many things.

That... and he couldn't shake the dislike he felt for letting others see him around her. Perhaps he wasn't any different here than before, but he found himself ever so slightly ashamed, of himself. A feeling nagged him, telling him that he should want more, even if he knew it to be a dangerous path. Could any of them understand his difficulties? Was he capable of explaining?

For now, he didn't much want to. The waiting was proving agonizing, so he occupied himself with walking instead, and listening. Very few people recognized him for who he was, even with the marks on his face. He wore no identifying clothing, nor did he openly display the mark on his hand. He watched people, conversations, peculiarities, and learned a bit about this mage rebellion to keep his mind busy, until the sun could set. He learned several things. Very few Tranquil not already out of the Circles had survived the initial rebellions. One of the Chantry sisters remaining was a smuggler, but currently out of work. An elven man was trying to find a traveler willing to bring flowers to his wife's grave. And few of the people present were happy about anyone from Tevinter being there.

Eventually, Romulus found himself wandering up towards a broken old watchtower, hoping to get a better view of the castle fortifications from there. Cassius and his guards had no doubt moved in and secured the place. Knowing more of it could only benefit them.

The watchtower had a ladder which led up to what was now a wooden platform of solid, if only partially intact, construction. The wall that was supposed to be there had fallen away at an angle, meaning that, essentially, the platform looked out over the area uninhibited by architecture. It would seem, however, that Romulus was not the first person to arrive there, or have the thought of using it for the view, because Khari was already present, her legs dangling over the edge of the platform, knocking her heels occasionally against the stone and mortar of the fragmented outside wall. Her sword lay flat behind her, within easy reaching distance, though she clearly didn’t expect to have to use it, from her relaxed posture.

She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the old ladder, her expression pensive for all of a moment before she recognized him and grinned. “Hey, you. Did you come for the view, or the solitude? ‘Cause I’m bound to ruin the second one.” As was quite common, she appeared to be eating, this time from a loaf of bread fresh enough that it still steamed, from which she periodically tore pieces.

Despite himself, Romulus snorted slightly, and grinned. He stopped near the base of the ladder, turning towards Redcliffe's castle and crossing his arms. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, at least, currently throwing light directly at him. He squinted and gazed out at the fortress beyond.

"Scouting. The castle looks difficult to get into. The walls would be the best way, but it wouldn't be an easy climb." This was not an uncommon task for him, finding ways to get into a place that where he didn't belong. He'd infiltrated the Conclave, after all... though he didn't quite remember how.

Suddenly, he remembered Khari had not been present for any of the proceedings in the tavern, and quite possibly didn't know what was going on. She didn't seem the type to inquire, either, if it was complicated magical business that in general was above her head. Romulus couldn't help but think it was good that she wasn't there. She might've caused an issue that they really didn't need.

"Have you been told what the situation is, with the mages?"

She hummed a bit, keeping her eyes out on the castle. “Not really. But I heard a name I recognized. Seems
 complicated.” She leaned over in her position, looking down at him directly with an arched brow, a clear invitation to elaborate, but she didn’t seem inclined to press otherwise. “View’s better up here, you know. Also, there’s bread in it for you if you come sit with me, and this stuff’s delicious. In case my excellent company’s not enough incentive.” She patted the platform next to herself with obvious exaggeration.

He looked away from the castle, up at the bread Khari held. Soon enough, he was scaling the ladder, skipping a few rungs, and climbing up on the platform with her, though he looked down at it warily when it creaked slightly under the weight of both of them. The repair efforts on the tower, if they could be called that, had clearly been halted some time ago with all of the region's upheaval, Redcliffe especially.

Romulus split the bread with Khari, exhaling deeply through his nostrils as he chewed. He was silent for a while, and no longer really focusing on the castle. He was a bit tired of it all, tired of worrying about every move and every word. It felt much better to simply do as Khari seemed to, and not be bothered by any of it. If only he were in a position to do so more permanently.

"It is complicated," he finally said, between bites. "But there's no point making any judgements on it until I know more. We'll be speaking tonight." For now, he didn't mind enjoying good bread and a good view.

“Fine by me.” The reply was accompanied by a shrug, and she leaned back on one hand, holding her food in the other, apparently quite content, for the moment, to do the same.

A smoky voice called up from below Romulus and Khari's position, “Partying without me?” Coming from the side of the ladder they had both used. It belonged to the smarmy pirate-Captain, already flashing a toothy grin. When exactly she'd managed to creep up on them was anyone's guess, but she had already taken her own post against the tower's base, arms neatly folded over her chest. And if she'd been eavesdropping on their conversation, she gave no indication of embarrassment or guilt. From the smile plastered on her lips, it was clear that she was pleased by something. She occasionally lifted her chin and stared across the rolling waves, tilting her face as if relishing a lover's caress.

There was a short pause, and the sound of shuffling leathers, as Zahra moved further away so that she could see them properly. One of her eyebrows flagged up inquiringly. Whatever attempts at wrestling down the excitement she obviously felt was reflected in her eyes, dancing like the frothy waves. She held her hands out wide, and waggled her fingers, “I wasn't sure if you'd be interested. But fancy a walk along the docks?”

Romulus hadn't expected a visit from the pirate captain, but it wasn't unwelcome. She seemed like a good woman to kill time with, putting Romulus in the company of two of the best, then. He shrugged at Khari, and then nimbly slid down the ladder to the bottom, landing lightly on his feet.

"Don't see why not."

Khari crammed the rest of the bread she was holding into her mouth at once, though fortunately she seemed polite enough to finish chewing before she spoke, at least. It took her a few seconds to strap her sword properly to her back, and then she slid down the ladder after Romulus, landing surprisingly lightly for someone wearing armor.

“Sure. Didn’t have anything more exciting planned, anyhow.” She flashed her usual ragged grin and shrugged.

The Redcliffe docks were fairly active, though this was no city, and could not possibly be mistaken for a port. The lake had no real ships, as they were all contained to the Waking Sea, though there was a way to slip through, at the northernmost point, close to the now-empty Calenhad Circle tower. Currently, the docks were a site of trading, the rather unique conditions of the village meaning that all sorts were currently passing through, setting up makeshift stalls, and doing their unique form of preying upon the Circle mages, some of which were still a bit fresh to the outside world.

In busy places like these, Romulus felt a bit closer to home. The sounds of voices were easy to get lost in, and both Zahra and Khari did no small amount of talking on either side of him. Most important of his crowd-oriented skills was to pick out the other individuals that were a part of it, but not participating in it. The other people that would rather watch, and listen, than speak. One of these in particular stuck out fairly obviously to Romulus.

He was an older man, probably in his fifties, wearing a long coat of a red-orange leather, with a thick, wide collar. His skin was dusky, evidence of either Rivaini or Antivan heritage, though Romulus hadn't gotten a close enough look to determine which. His hair and beard were a soft brown, both long and full. He had the look of a seafarer about him, judging by his light, loose clothes under the coat. He'd been keeping his distance while they moved through the docks, but unmistakably watching their group. Well, unmistakable to Romulus at least.

"There's a man following us, watching," he said to his two companions. "Behind me, at the dock's edge. Long red coat. Either of you know him?" He wondered if the man wasn't there to see Zahra. She seemed like a woman that would make a fair amount of both friends and enemies.

Khari turned very obviously to look over her shoulder, clearly either unaware that it would be incredibly easy to spot or just not caring. When she noticed the person in question, she lifted a hand, and waved, wiggling her fingers and smiling a little too widely for the situation. She turned back though, her expression dropping back to something more ordinary, and lifted a shoulder. “Never seen that guy before in my life. We could just ask him?" Despite her emphasis, her statement rose at the end to become a question, and she arched a brow.

Zahra sauntered down the docks, as content as a rat might've been skirting down a rusty pipe. She seemed far too busy scrutinizing the boats, dipping in the waters, to notice anyone watching them. Lips pulled into a permanent smile. She halted in mid-trot when Romulus indicated that someone had been actually paying them more mind than was necessary. There was a brief pause, and a murmured curse, before she followed Khari's example and simply turned on her heels to face whoever was rude enough to follow them. She wasn't, however, particularly surprised. One had to wonder whether or not this was a common occurrence.

“Bloody hell,” were the first words hissing from between her teeth, “No need to ask him. His name is Borja. Captain Borja. What the hell does he want?” From the way her smile faded into a tight-lipped frown, Zahra certainly recognized the man Romulus was pointing out. Her expression seemed a few shades more sour, though she did offer bearded man a cheeky smile, one that did not quite reach her eyes. She turned back towards Romulus, and Khari both, and let out a soft sigh, “We'd best ask him what he wants. He's not one to simply walk away.” She shuffled towards Borja, steps a little heavier this time.

"Fair enough,” Romulus said. He supposed he should have been put more on edge by the fact that they had another captain, apparently a man to give Zahra some pause, on their tail. Really, Romulus was just a bit relieved that he was there for Zahra, in all likelihood, since the two apparently knew each other. Perhaps it would also be interesting to meet someone else from the northern seas.

"I’ll follow your lead.” Zahra was the captain here, the one with experience dealing with these types. Romulus preferred a way to get through this without saying anything at all, if it was possible. Thus, he followed a half-step behind Zahra as they walked directly towards Borja, not giving him any option to quietly slip away. His fingers fumbled together near belt-level, and he didn’t turn his head towards them, but from the way he’d centered his hips, it was obvious he knew they were approaching. If Romulus had to peg it as anything, he’d guess the man was actually a bit shy.

He glanced up at Zahra first, offering a brief flash of a smile, his teeth whiter than Romulus had expected. He spared a glance for Khari as well, before his eyes lingered on Romulus a bit longer than he preferred. He was a tall man, around six feet, but from the way he carried himself, he actually seemed a bit shorter than that. “Zahra Tavish,” he greeted, his voice a low growl, but quiet, almost tentative, like the words weren’t easily forced from him. “Captain, of course I should say, forgive me. Didn’t expect to see you in Redcliffe. A
 pleasure, as always.”

Zahra's mouth twitched up at the edges as if she were trying to conjure up a kinder, well-intentioned part of herself and failing horribly at it. She seemed to decide on something less friendly. A small, mirthless smirk. As soon as they came to stand in front of Borja, she rustled her fingers through her messy hair, and eyed him through the curly strands that fell back into place. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment. An expression passed. Perhaps, irritation. But as quickly as it had come, she smothered it back down, “Captain Borja. Likewise. This it the last place I expected to see you.”

She stood like an immovable stone, far too close to Borja than was comfortable for either of them. Shoulders slack and hands sliding back to take their posts on her hips. Even though she was looking up into his face, it appeared as if her presence towered over his own. She clicked her tongue and glanced over her shoulder, regarding Romulus. It seemed as if she hadn't missed the unusual attention Borja had been giving him. “I'd love to say that this is just a pleasant coincidence, but we're hardly in the business of those.” Although she posed no questions, they lingered there just the same.

He cocked his head sideways a bit, his eyes holding somewhere near Zahra's shoulder. "Coin's no coincidence, and there's plenty to made here. Mages... always need lyrium." Romulus was immediately prompted to look around for boats, or whatever means the pirate captain had used to transport the lyrium he'd mentioned. There were a few boats of varying sizes around the dock, none suitable to be manned by a single person. Borja had to have crew members around.

"Nice marks you have, boy," Borja said, the words half grumbled. Romulus snapped his gaze back onto him, aware that he was being spoken to directly now. He narrowed his eyes at the man. Unlike with the others, Borja looked him right in the face when he spoke. "You know what they mean?"

The way he said it... to Romulus, it implied that Borja knew, and was merely testing him, wondering if he knew as well. He pursed his lips tightly together, stepped forward past Zahra, and reached to grab Borja by the front of his coat. He hardly reacted, even when tugged forward half a step.

"What do you want?" With me was the unneeded addendum, and Borja seemed to get the message clearly enough. He simply looked down at Romulus, as though the other people present no longer existed, or anyone or anything on the dock, for that matter.

"I heard about a Herald of Andraste, a Rivaini man with marks on his face. Came to have a look myself. Now I've had it."

Zahra had stumbled back a few steps, away from Borja and Romulus. She now stood beside Khari. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and whatever veneer of patience she'd been demonstrating fell away. Replacing it was a molar-crunching temper rearing its ugly head, indicated by the way her face contorted. Lips pulled back like a snarling hound, teeth flashing. Her eyes twirled like two hard pieces of flint. “Who told you? Don't tell me you'd come all this way just for a look.”

Her hand brushed across her leather belt. She was obviously uninterested in wasting anymore breath. Her fingers tickled the dagger that hung there, threatening as ever, “Tick tock, Borja.”

"I've done nothing to you," he stated flatly. "You wanna carve me over nothing, in front of these people you're trying to win over, be my guest." Now that he noticed it, their exchange had drawn some attention, specifically the rough grabbing of the coat, and Zahra's snarling. Romulus released Borja's coat, shoving it back against him. He let out a short huh in reply.

"Might be I have some interesting things to tell you," he said, taking a step back, "but I'm not in the habit of giving anything away for free. And you've got... other things to worry about right now. I'll be in touch, Herald." He turned, heading out onto the dock, an Antivan man who had been conversing with a local suddenly falling into step with him. The pair headed towards one of the smaller boats.

Romulus gave no pursuit to the pirate captain, for he was right in that there were more immediate things to be concerned with. Something about him, though... Romulus wasn't used to being recognized, to being sought out by men from across the world. He stroked his forehead as Borja and his compatriot set out from onto the water.

"This day can't be over quick enough."

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: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella swallowed thickly, pulling in a breath and trying to loosen the constricting feeling winding around her heart like climbing ivy, and push down the rising taste of bile on her tongue. She was nervous, for a lot of reasons. First among them, of course, was the fact that they were planning to spring a trap on a magister, one cunning and powerful enough to have taught her brother, regardless of whatever Cyrus thought of him now. It was a serious risk, and she understood that everyone here was taking it, just by entering this room. But even that wasn’t it—she knew that Rilien and Lia and the others with them, including Zahra, if she understood the plan properly, were capable of doing what they’d decided to do.

She wasn’t even especially concerned that she would fail, exactly, because in the end, her role in this was simply to be present. That, and not give away the plan by revealing what they knew of Magister Cassius’s intentions too soon, or letting herself look at where she knew the ambush party would be. She could do that much, she knew—she’d been hiding her thoughts from people more powerful than she was practically since she had any thoughts worth hiding. But more than any of that, this was making her remember things best left forgotten, and there were parts of it that were strong in her memory, things dredged up in response to who the Magister was, and where she knew he was from.

Part of Estella had never left Tevinter behind, not even after six years of physical distance.

Watching her brace herself was indeed an act of perception: she straightened her spine, eased the expression on her face until it was nearly blank, settled her shoulders back, and tipped her chin up slightly, because it defaulted to let her eye the floor, something she should definitely not be doing as part of the Inquisition in an audience with a Magister. They could smell weakness, and fear, and Estella was both weak and afraid. The trick was pretending she wasn’t well enough to fool him. Glancing to Romulus beside her, she offered a thin smile and nodded, pushing the door to the throne room open, allowing the two of them and their company—Cyrus, Vesryn, Lady Marceline, and Khari—to enter.

A red carpet runner guided a straightforward trajectory to the dais on which the throne sat. The path itself was flanked by columns on either side, and in front of each stood one of the magister’s guards. There were about two dozen in total, which was a large number, but not entirely unexpected. He probably had more troops, hired or brought with him, elsewhere, else he likely would have had difficulty holding the castle for long, magical defenses or not. She was reluctant to put her back to any of them, but that was required to advance far enough for an audience, and so she put her trust in the people behind her and kept moving forward.

The throne itself was occupied, and Magister Cassius looked quite comfortable upon it, one ankle crossed over the other knee, and his jaw leaned on a fist, the corresponding elbow braced on the armrest. If anything, he seemed a bit too put-together for the accouterments of Fereldan nobility, which were generally much more rustic than those one would find in older lands like the Imperium or Orlais. His daughter stood beside him, and it would seem he’d been in conversation with her before the party entered.

When they stopped close enough for an audience, he smiled slightly, the expression deepening the existing lines around his mouth, the whole of his face thrown into sharper relief by the intermittent torchlight of the chamber. It gave him a more hollowed-out aspect, so that for a moment, his face appeared nearly skeletal, until the flames shifted again and he regained the aspect of an older, but still very much living, man. “Inquisition, welcome. I take it from your presence here that you are still inclined to bargain. Perhaps your terms will be more
 agreeable, this time.”

Estella knew that all she really had to do here was stall for time, and not give away the fact that she knew this was a trap. She also knew that it was usually true of people in power, people with egos worth talking about, enjoyed hearing the sound of their own voices more than anyone else’s. So ideally, the best way to go about this would be to get him to talk, with as little input from her or anyone else as possible. Suppressing her nervous tendency to chew her lip, she put on a small smile, one that couldn’t have made it even halfway to her eyes, but looked convincing enough for someone in what her position was supposed to be.

“That is my hope, milord,” she lied softly. “I’m afraid that, considering the brevity of our last meeting, there was little opportunity to ascertain which terms you might find agreeable. You know what it is we need—what is it you would want in exchange?” She chose her words carefully, framing him as the one with all the power in the situation, and they as the ones who were in need of something from him. It wasn’t far from the truth, though this was not the method they’d chosen to get it, in the end. With a little luck, she’d stroked his ego and prompted him to speak at some length with a few sentences, but she didn’t trust much to her luck, in truth.

The Magister was intrigued at such an open question, it was clear. He leaned farther forward, his brows arching up towards the edge of his hood and a slight smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. “A question with a great deal of relevance, my dear.” He did indeed appear pleased at the situation, not entirely unlike a cormorant, full-bellied but still hungering voraciously, more out of habit than necessity. “What I propose is simple: I will release the southern mages from their indenture, provided I receive two things in return: firstly, my daughter’s slave returned to her.” He made a careless gesture with his free hand at Romulus. “Hardly asking for much, I should think, considering she owns him already anyway.”

He sat back then, and the smile grew, a deep satisfaction evident. “Secondly, a trade: all the mages now in my service for just one—you.”

It was Marceline's turn to step forward. A far cry from the saccharine smile she wore during their last meeting, Lady Marceline's lips were drawn in a tight line, and her face wholly unreadable. She held her arms crossed and her elbow propped, her hand gingerly rubbing her chin. "A sound trade," Marceline agreed, looking down upon Estella, then glancing back at Romulus for a moment before returning her gaze back to Cassius.

"You are correct, what Lady Chryseis owns is hers. We are more than willing to relinquish him," she said, her head tilting to the side. She spoke it with no emotion, only a matter-of-factly demeanor as one would use during a business discussion. "The Inquisition would also find the trade agreeable, the mages for Lady Estella. However, I would ask what you had in mind for the young woman," Lady Marceline asked, a look of curiosity seeping into her features. "Out of pure curiosity of course," Marceline said, before a smile slipped into her lips and she allowed herself a light laugh.

"It sounds as if we are getting the better deal, after all."

Cassius raised a brow, then shrugged lightly. “Who knows? I’m sure I’ll find some use for her. I’ve had great success with one apprentice from the family; perhaps one who cannot leave will prove even more beneficial.” From the way he said it, his tone light, careless even, it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was being serious, though a fair guess would be that he wasn’t. “There would be much interest in the mark, of course, but once the research possibilities were exhausted, well
” He paused, looking Estella over dispassionately, as a buyer at an open market.

“A face that exquisite will always draw its own brand of interest, no?”

Though she couldn’t say she was unused to being talked about like she wasn’t even there, she had managed to forget exactly what it felt like, for the most part. Estella wound up doing what she’d always done in such situations before—she tried to pretend she was somewhere else, someone else, and did her best to deaden her feelings to what was being said. She couldn’t let herself lose focus entirely, however, and she knew this was actually a good thing. For every moment Magister Cassius availed himself his considerable advantage over them without actually springing his trap, they were a moment closer to being in position to turn the tables.

So really, the implication that she’d be sold into a brothel or private ownership or something wasn’t bothering her as much as it could have. Especially considering that, in the absence of other options, she likely would have agreed to it anyway. She only prayed that Cyrus would be able to hold his temper in check long enough to get through this conversation. She knew her brother, and knew he wasn’t taking any of this conversation very well, though his face didn’t change much.

Marceline's eyes dropped and she sighed heavily. It was as if she expected something of the like, because didn't display a moment of surprise. When she looked back up, her eyelids were at halfmast and any emotion she may have allowed to show were long gone, replaced entirely by her matter-of-factly demeanor. Instead of responding immediately, Marceline's hand fell on Estella's shoulder, and patted it encouragingly, almost like a mother would a child. "Tell me, Lord Cassius, as a man with a family of his own," she began.

Her gaze then went from Estella to Cyrus, the frown tight on her lips. "How do you believe her brother will take this news?" she asked, the curiosity remaining in her voice. "And what do you intend to do about him? she finished, looking back to the Magister.

"Out of curiosity. Of course."

Cyrus was doing a rather impressive job remaining blank-faced, but something in his eyes was very hard, almost crystalline. Cassius laughed. “I know better than any one of you what that boy will do for the sake of his sister. In fact, I’m rather counting on it.” He seemed to shift his demeanor, however, and raised a hand, waving it in a lazy motion. “But enough talking. I grow bored with this charade. I will have the Heralds, and I need not give up anything to obtain them.”

At the signal, the guards posted around the room were immediately at attention, drawing their swords, spears, and axes almost as one unit. “Capture the Heralds, and my wayward apprentice. Kill the rest.”

It would seem that Cyrus could contain himself no longer, and the first thing that happened was a massive bolt of lightning flying from his fingertip, crashing with a thunderous rapport into the shield Cassius had conjured, shattering it, but also expending the spell. He summoned a familiar blue sword to his hand, and ran right for the dais.

“Finally!” That was Khari, who ducked under a horizontal swing from another guard and swung her cleaver, which bounced off his shield with a forceful clang. She pressed forward, however, and her next hit was delivered from inside his guard, punching into a spot beneath his protective chestplate.

Romulus passed by on her left, blade drawn, running right through glowing orange magical glyphs that had been quickly inscribed upon the floor by a white-clad Venatori mage. They were triggered by his step, a burst of fire engulfing Romulus, but he came out the other side unscathed, the flames washing over him like so much wind. His blade found the mage's throat, and painted his white robes a bright shade of red.

Vesryn had his helmet down over his face, the tallhelm giving him the visage of a man made mostly of steel, save for the proud white lion on his back. His tower shield was locked in front of him, and soon a pair of arrows clattered off of it. He lowered his spear and awaited the first attacker to step forward. "Always running off, these people!" he shouted, mostly for Estella and Marceline to hear. "Bloodthirsty and angry. Stay behind me! Watch the flanks."

Estella honestly wasn’t sure any of them had experience fighting as part of a unit. Khari might have, but then, with the way she tended to fight, she probably had to break ranks usually anyway. Cyrus had certainly never been part of an army or anything, and Romulus was, as far as she could tell, a solo agent, so in a way, she understood why they acted as they did. She, however, was quite accustomed to group tactics, and so she took Vesryn’s right flank, the harder one to defend, given the absence of the shield.

Indeed, the majority of those who tried to get at the three of them came for her, at least when they could get around behind the spear-wielding elf, but she had expected that, and to the extent the could be, she was prepared for it. The first two came in as a pair, and there wasn’t really room for any more than that at once, a blessing she noted gratefully. The first swung, and she parried, angling her sword quickly to force his off it. Her mobility was reduced by the tighter quarters, so she’d have to rely a lot on angles and the geometry of a fight, since her ability to dodge was considerably hampered.

Reacting more quickly than her foe coming off the clash of blades, she drove her own forward, seeking and finding his throat, which she sliced across with a neat stroke. The arterial spray that resulted informed her she’d found the mark, and just in time to twist herself away from the incoming axe the second had aimed for her shoulder. It clipped the very edge, biting into her leathers, but tore away without meeting her flesh. She swung low, slashing at his thigh, where another vital blood vessel was located, this one not known to as many people, by any means. That one hit, too, and he collapsed beside the other, still alive, but barely. Estella grimaced, and thrust her sword down, puncturing his windpipe and ending his life quickly.

From over her shoulder behind her, Estella could not see Marceline on Vesryn's left flank. However, every now and then the noble brushed up against her to remind her of her presence. There was the sound of flesh being pierced, and the gurgling of someone getting stabbed in the throat before armor clattered to the ground. Though no warrior, Marceline sounded as if she held her own.

Meanwhile, Chryseis observed the approach Cyrus was making, and immediately readied a swift entropy spell in her hand. Rather than cast it at him, she instead aimed down at her father, immediately to her left, the sleeping spell leaving her fingers even as she drew her bladed staff into her other hand.

The spell was met midair by another, a dispel magic, from the way both fizzled out upon mutual contact. Cassius turned slightly to regard his daughter, an almost sad smile upon his face. “While I can’t say I’m surprised, Chryseis, I am rather disappointed.” The Magister drew his own staff, several of the white-robed Venatori breaking off from the main assault to assist him. “Don’t kill them. Render them unconscious or bloody if necessary, but do not kill them.”

Two of the cultists turned to face Chryseis, while two more and Cassius himself went after Cyrus, attempting to bring him down before he could close to melee distance, which would no doubt provide him with a tremendous advantage. A volley of fireballs flew in his direction, but he pulled himself into the Fade, and they struck only afterimages of where he had been, a trail of them between his former position and halfway up the stairs, where he wound up. Another quick spell from Cassius landed there, but he brought his spatha around, the low thrum of it sounding as he used it to slice clean through the stonefist, the halves of it flying off to either side of him.

And that, as far as Estella could tell, was how the fight generally proceeded. Cyrus and Chryseis put heavy pressure on Cassius and the most elite of his Venatori, while herself, Lady Marceline, and Vesryn weathered the storm at the center. Khari and Romulus ranged more freely around that center, their aggressive styles keeping too much from concentrating on the center. The problem was, there were a lot of Venatori and guards, and probably unless the ambush team arrived very soon or Cyrus somehow managed to get at Cassius himself, they would simply be worn down by sheer numbers.

She’d acquired several wounds by this point, but they were mostly minor, and thankfully her stamina wasn’t failing her just yet, but it was growing tedious, and she knew that this was the part of the fight where she risked serious injury, because if her focus flagged, she might make a mistake. So she did her best not to let that happen, keeping herself aware of Marceline behind her, Vesryn to her side, and as much as possible, the positions of her enemies and other allies.

Her arms were burning with the effort of fending off multiple blows from people of superior strength, but she raised them again for another necessary parry, hoping they would stand up to the force with which the next guard swung his axe.

A bugling roar came from Zahra's mouth. And her hands moved remarkably fast as soon as the ambush began, though it appeared as if she'd been ready the entire time. She plucked arrows from her quiver and loosed them as quickly as she notched them back across her cheek. Several whistles could be heard as the arrows sailed through the air, more so over Estella's shoulders, and bit into their marks.

Her arrows were marked with brightly colored feathers, speckled with blood as the shafts sunk into gawping holes in Venatori faces. She danced around the meaty portions of the ambush, away from clanging swords and flashing fireballs. It appeared as if she were concentrating her attacks on those who were having trouble, causing her own version of chaos by crippling and maiming the opponents her companions faced.

More arrows came from Lia, fearlessly throwing herself into the mix, as the Inquisition scouts and agents flanked the Venatori force on either side, throwing the previously desperate fight's outcome into doubt. Chryseis and Cyrus had nearly broken through to Cassius, when a shield bearing guard surprised Chryseis from the side, slamming her to the ground with the heavy metal plate. From her side she unleashed a blast of arcane energy, sending him staggering back. Romulus appeared behind him, opening his throat and spilling his blood down his front, allowing Chryseis the needed time to get back to her feet.

The scouts freed up Vesryn to make some moves of his own, and began a bit of an advance, burying his spear in the guts of a Venatori mage who had been forced into the center of combat by the pincer attack of the Inquisition. "Push!" he shouted. "We'll have him! Don't let up!"

Recovered from her near-miss, Estella figured Vesryn’s advice was good enough, and pushed. Now that there wasn’t quite the same need to simply weather, her mobility was back to providing the lion’s share of her advantage, and she utilized it, keeping herself light on her feet and darting between opponents in an attempt to reach the front of the room, where the fighting was beginning to concentrate as more and more of the guards and Venatori closed ranks on their leader, in an attempt to shield him from the wrath of his own former apprentice and his child as well. The magic flew thick and heavy through the air, enough so that even Estella tasted it on the back of her tongue, the tips of her fingers tingling with a familiar, but long-suppressed itch to dip into the Fade and claim some of it for herself.

An empty promise, if ever there were one.

She dashed past a guard, flaying into his sword-arm on her way, causing him to drop the weapon he was holding and clutch at his wound, which made him an easy target for those behind her. She wasn’t far from the dais now, and mounted the first step, blocking an overhead strike from one of the guards, nearly brought to her knees with the strength of the blow before she managed to angle it away, forcing another step forward and up and burying her saber in his neck. Blood gushed down the blade to her hands, but she stepped to the side before his body could fall atop her, gaining another two stairs before she was made to halt again, her hip clipped by a fireball that left her armor smoking but her flesh thankfully only mildly burned.

By this point, Cyrus was basically dueling Cassius, though with several bodies in the way, which prevented him from closing range. The magic was especially dense in the air between them, and it seemed almost that each of them was casting several spells simultaneously, to keep the volume of fire and earth and ice so thick, to say nothing of the shields and Fade cloaks and the rest. The spell-volley was interspersed with more raw blasts of force, though those were issuing only from Cyrus, and it was hard to tell if they were intentional or not, as they tended to arc away from their initial trajectory, doing more damage to the throne room's furniture than anything. One of them crashed into the stairs, chipping several large chunks of stone off the dais, a pair of them careening into some nearby Venatori and crunching bones with their momentum.

Cassius was clearly tiring faster, whatever the reason, and when he turned to see the others approaching the dais, abandoning the effort to focus on his apprentice for just a moment, he paid for it, a glistening bolt of raw lightning slamming into his chest. He lurched for a moment, then threw himself into a Fade-step not unlike the ones Cyrus so commonly used, reappearing on the other side of the fight, behind everyone pushing for him, both arms outstretched.

Not far from where Estella, Chryseis, and Romulus fought, an almost deafening ripping sound issued from the air, the ground beneath everyone’s feet trembling as the space over their heads seemed to twist and distort, at first like heat waves and then like a window opening to some other place. The pull towards it was strong, almost like it contained its own gravity, and the three nearest the tear were lifted from their feet, pulled upwards toward it.

“Stellulam!” Cyrus’s shout reached her at about the same time he did, his shoulder slamming into her with almost enough force to break a rib, the space she occupied clearly the end point of his own Fade-step’s trajectory. She was knocked a dozen feet backwards, and out of the range of the tear, which picked him up instead, pulling he, Romulus and Chryseis into it within seconds, before the sound crescendoed to an almost agonizing pitch, then ended abruptly, as the tear closed.

But the three it had taken did not reappear.

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 she remembered who was responsible for this. Surely, if Magister Cassius had caused this, he could put it to rights. Estella clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on her saber, and whirled around to face him, lunging into a sprint. She’d have to get all the way back across the room, and through all the fighting, but honestly, the plausibility of that was the furthest thing from her mind right now.

All she knew was that if she could get to that Magister, she could get her brother and the others back. There was no need to think about whether she could. She simply must.

"Estella!" The voice was Vesryn's, from behind Estella, and soon a strong hand had clamped down on her upper arm and wrenched her backwards. Vesryn pulled himself in front of her, another arrow clattering loudly off the face of his shield, the projectile originally aimed for the Herald. The elf's eyes were wild, bewildered, but he seemed focused enough on keeping her close to him.

"We have to get out of here!" he said, trying to hold her back. Perhaps due to the fact that the Venatori were simply more prepared for such a stunning feat of magic than the Inquisition, they had instantly turned the tide again, and several of the flanking force had fallen in pools of their own blood. Lia struggled frantically with a Venatori swordsman on the ground, having abandoned her bow in favor of the knife. Rilien was juggling a trio of opponents, but they were slowly backing him up against a pillar with their shields.

“What? No! We can’t just abandon them!” She referred to her brother and Romulus and even Chryseis, of course, but also to anyone else they’d be leaving behind in such a retreat. Those who couldn’t disengage fast enough, or the injured. She tried to tug her arm free, but his grip was too strong for that. Gritting her teeth, she slashed at a guard who went in low for her unprotected side, kicking him square in the chest where she’d cut him. That would keep him down for a while, at least.

"We have to leave! Else we risk everything!," Marceline barked over the din of battle. Her hair was disheveled, and the fatigue was quickly seeping into her face. Her rapier and main-gauche flashed in her hands as she fended off a Venatori swordsmen, her back pressed up against Khari. "We must get back to Ser Leonhardt!" She called, her rapier biting deep into the shoulder of the Venatori. It stumbled him for a moment, but he replied with a backhand and opened up a cut under her chin. Her rapier went for the killing blow at his neck, but he batted it away and pulled back to drive his sword through her.

Not before she drove her own main-gauche into his belly, disemboweling him. "Now!" she demanded. Vesryn released Estella's arm, out of necessity more than anything, but still stood between her and Cassius.

Not more than a beat of time passed after that before Cassius gathered more magic to him. This time, the spell was a firestorm, recognizable as such only for the faint scent of brimstone on the air before flaming rocks began to crash down upon them from the ceiling. Each landed in an almost-explosive burst, clearly a very advanced and very powerful version of the spell. With almost casual ease, he threw a bolt of lightning right for where Vesryn and Estella stood, summoning a shield in another and then detaching it from his hand, letting it orbit freely around him. It caught half a dozen arrows with precision, and more importantly, left his hands free to hurl spell after spell at them—his ability to do so seemed almost inexhaustible, and his forces were clearly drawing from his apparent superiority and control of the field.

“Escape is beyond you!” He shouted the words over the din, his mouth twisted into a snarl. “Help is beyond you! The Elder One rises! Surrender the Herald, and the rest of your Inquisition may yet live to see tomorrow!”

Vesryn locked his shield into the ground, angling it up, and crouching low, so as to get himself somewhat under it. "Get down! Or get out!" he called, as the spells rained down around him. Powerful lightning spells blasted against his shield, little arcs of electricity snapping through the air around his body, until he was shaking violently with the absorption of it. When it became clear he could take no more, he flipped the grip of his spear in his hand, stood, and hurled it at Cassius. One of the shields deflected it aside, and the next bolt of lightning hit the elf square in the chest. He flew back, smashing into Estella along the way and tumbling to the ground face down and unconscious.

Vesryn in full armor was quite a lot of weight, and easily took Estella to the ground as well, where she slid on her back for quite a distance before she ran out of momentum and tried to scramble to her feet, only to be hit by an ice spell, one that pinned one of her legs to the ground. She attempted to lunge out of it, but it held fast, creeping up the length of her leg to her waist, locking her joints. A second one followed, striking her square in the chest, and try as she might, she couldn’t fight free of it.

Within moments afterward, she was surrounded by Cassius’s guards, who leveled weapons at her, one ambitious lance even flirting with the skin of her throat. She couldn’t so much as lean away, able only to glare at the Magister as he advanced towards her. This was it—she was in his custody now, at his mercy, and she knew far better than to expect him to have any of that to spare for her, or her comrades.

If only Cyrus were still here, instead of her, he could have stopped this.

It was the last thought she had before one of the guards cracked the haft of his axe over her head, and she fell into unconsciousness.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
It was all too much for Romulus to comprehend, but at the same time, the reality of it was so intense, so all-consuming, that he had no choice but to face it. It was the worst nightmare he'd ever had, because despite all of the appearances and all of the horrors, this wasn't a nightmare. This was real, and there was a distinct possibility that this would be the reality he was stuck in.

Cyrus and Chryseis talked about undoing the damage, going back and making sure none of this ever happened, but there could be no guarantee for that, could there? What if Cyrus couldn't figure out how to do it? What if the materials they needed, if there were any, were missing, or what if Cassius was dead when they reached him, and they needed him alive? It forced him to confront the very real possibility that they could be stuck here.

Here, in this place where the Inquisition was crushed, most were dead, and those that survived were tortured, maimed beings. He feared every new sight, around every corner.

Vesryn explored it with the purposeful gait of one who knew where he was going, and one who wasn't tentative about witnessing the disturbing. He carried a Tevinter sword and shield now, taken from the body of a slain Venatori guard, and led the group through the fairly labyrinthine Redcliffe dungeons. The castle was immense, and much of the ground it stood upon had been hollowed out as well. Romulus wondered if any of these routes were ones that Mother Annika had shown them. If the now dead scouts and agents had crept along these passageways.

"Asala?" Vesryn called, turning a corner into another cell block. "Asala, it's Vesryn. Don't be alarmed, I've brought some friends. We're getting out of here." Romulus followed, looking into each of the cells Vesryn passed for any sign of other prisoners, or even just the dead.

It was in the last cell that he found what he was looking for. In the far corner of the cramped room, a familiar white haired figure leaned heavily against the wall. A large vein of red lyrium was present on the opposite wall, oppressively looming over her unmoving form. Asala's white hair was matted and dirty, stained with dirt and crimson, but most noticable was the absence of her horns. Instead they were replaced with massive holes where they should've been, the broken roots just visible under the sea of dirty white.

She hung limply by her arms, held high above her head by shackles bolted to the brick behind her. Her knees were bent, as the shackles were clearly meant for someone shorter than her. She wore the same sleeveless unwashed tunic that Vesryn did, though hers faded with red from blood spilled long ago. Along her arms were a number of surgical precise scars, and they continued through her tunic. Even some of her veins possessed the strange orange hue that Vesryn's did.

She did not acknowledge his voice, and were it not for the steady shallow rise and fall of her chest there'd be no evidence that she was even alive.

Cyrus, his mouth compressed into the same grim line, re-summoned the glowing blue axe he’d used before, this time cracking through the lock in a single swing. Throwing open the door, he stepped inside and spent a moment examining Asala’s chains, his expression deepening into something like a scowl. Reaching up, he took hold of one of them with his free hand, wrapping it around his palm to absorb the weight from both sides and hold it in tension. Another few strikes with the axe broke the chain, and he eased her arm down very slowly, perhaps aware of the fact that a sudden rush of blood to her limb would be extremely painful.

“Easy now.” He repeated the process with the other side, placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her as she grew accustomed to freedom of movement.

Asala would've fallen to her knees, were it not for Cyrus catching her. The sudden rush of activity seemed to have jarred her out of whatever numbness she had been in before. Her eyes snapped wide to take in the visage of Cyrus, and the others on the other side of the cell door. Her eyes also held the red tint. She seemed confused as her face twisted in appearance and she opened her mouth as if to say something.

However, a realization struck, and her mouth snapped shut into a snarl. Her once weak hand snatched Cyrus's collar and forced him back with an uncommon strength. She slammed him hard into the iron bars and even lifted him a few inches off of the ground. She braced him there with her forearm while a familiar blue light flickered into her other hand. A barrier rose where the cell door had been, blocking the others from reaching them.

"Where have you been?" she hissed, her voice trembling with rage and desperation.

Vesryn was next to move towards the door of Asala's cell, and he made to put a hand on the Qunari's barrier. "Easy, Asala, it's not their fault." Romulus was perhaps more alarmed by the situation. Despite his sympathy towards Asala, he knew that above all, they needed Cyrus. He didn't actually think Asala could really hurt him in her current state, but still... there were so many individual things that could wrong and leave them stuck.

"It was Cassius's time magic, they were caught in his spell. I didn't even think they were real at first." He glanced back at Romulus, with a hint of a smile. "At least she's past that part already." Romulus didn't find much humor in it.

"Let him go, Asala. We need your help to undo this."

“He has the right of it.” There was a bit of a roughness to Cyrus’s voice, though from looking at him, it had less to do with pain or distress and more to do with restraint. He was clearly suppressing whatever instinctive reaction he would have had to being bodily handled in such a fashion, his legs hanging still beneath him, his hands flexing, fingers closing over little flickers of electricity that disappeared a second later. “If you would like the long-form explanation, I can elucidate the principles of time-distortion magic to you, but the important point is that I’m rather necessary to correcting the error, which I will not achieve if you strangle me first.”

The outburst seemed to have taken a lot out of her, because only a moment passed before the arm holding Cyrus against the bars began to waver. The rage and pain was still vivid in her features as she looked between him, Vesryn, and Romulus before she weakened. The anger and rage shifted to pained anguish. She let Cyrus slip through her grip, and the barrier with him, before she stumbled a step backward. Her hands went to her eyes first, before pushing upward through her hair and passing by her missing horns, before finally alighting on her ears as if to drown out all sounds.

"Undo this?" she asked, her arms still hanging around her ears. "You cannot undo this!" Asala cried, throwing her arms wide to reveal the countless scars that weaved across her body. Now that they were much more visible, it was clear that they served only one purpose: To inflict pain.

"You do not know what I have been through," she muttered, anger seeping back into her voice, but not before she brought her arms back to her ears.

“Actually, I believe I do know.” Cyrus said this quietly, rolling out his shoulders before tilting his head at her. “They attempted to make you into an abomination, did they not?” He turned, exiting the cell with one hand on his opposite shoulder, prodding at it with a grimace. “Make them pay for it.”

"I intend to," Asala growled as she followed him out of the cell, her hands throbbing with a now violet energy.

The group fell back into line, allowing Vesryn to lead them down several more hallways, and then up a slope of some kind, at least a perceptible grade in the floor. One hall looked markedly different from the rest, lined with wooden doors rather than iron bars, though they were reinforced with metal. One of them hung ajar, and a quick glance inside was all that was necessary to confirm that this hall was filled now with chambers of torture, whatever had been in them before.

Romulus and Vesryn led the way forward side by side, the elf wearing a near constant sneer of disgust at the plethora of torture racks and hideous devices. Romulus simply kept his eyes forward, and listened. He knew full well what many in Tevinter were capable of, and doubted highly that these all of these instruments of torture had been in the castle to begin with.

As they proceeded, voices became audible from ahead, to the right. “You will speak!” The first was male, accented with the Antivan purr, which had become rather harsher with increased volume, and, it seemed, frustration.

“Fuck you!” That snarl was more familiar, and could only have belonged to Khari. It was followed with the sound of something striking flesh, and then harsh, hoarse feminine laughter. “Death before dishonor. Try harder, filthy son of a mabari bitch!”

“And what if I cut your friend instead, hm? Would you be so defiant in the face of her pain, too?”

“Emma bellanaris din’an heem, you piece of shit! Break me first, I dare you!” The rattle of chains was sudden and obvious, as though someone were actively fighting their restraints. Weapons up, Vesryn was the first to round the corner into the room they sought, Romulus close on his heels.

What met them was certainly not a pretty sight. Khari—or someone who had to be Khari—was suspended from the ceiling by chains, her feet shackled to a metal ring embedded in the stone floor. She’d strained forward as far as her bonds would allow, producing the characteristic rattle-and-clank. Someone had hacked most of her hair off; what remained fell to her shoulders in a scraggle, covering half her face and leaving her to glare at the man in front of her with one bright green eye. Her ears had both been docked at some point, though probably in stages, since one of them was still at least an inch or two longer than the other. She seemed to show fewer of the red-lyrium-induced damages than the others, but made up for it in the sheer amount of physical mutilation. One of her arms was missing from the elbow down, so she’d been cuffed around her bicep rather than her wrist on the right side.

Whatever torment she’d endured was not near as precise as what had been visited upon the others—her belly was crosshatched in jagged lines, as though she’d struggled through the infliction of each and every one of them, causing some to bite too deep and others to skitter away entirely. She was yet decent, but barely, outfitted in what amounted to a breastband and breeches torn off below the knees. Her visible eye flickered to them upon their entrance, but then abruptly back to what was happening in front of her, which was that the interrogator was sharpening a knife with the rasp of a whetstone.

“Nothing to say now, asshole? Lost your chicken-shit nerve already? We both know this won’t achieve anything. It didn’t yesterday, or any of the days before that.” It was clear that she was talking now mostly to prevent the man from noticing the intruders in the room, and her volume was indeed sufficient, if the provocation didn’t accomplish that on its own.

“Listen here, you knife-eared bitch—”

His words were cut off by the rim of the shield Romulus carried crunching against his jaw. The bone clearly shattered, distorting the entire shape of his lower face, and he staggered away, dripping blood from his mouth. Romulus wasn't of a mind to let him get any further. He reached out, grabbed the torturer by the hair and pulled him back, forcing him to stand up straight. His blade then came down diagonally on the base of his neck, cutting down more than across.

It was enough to send a torrent of blood down to the already stained floors, and left the man choking and gurgling, but Romulus wrenched his blade free and sliced again, and again, raggedly hacking the man's head off on the fourth strike. He roared, shaking, and let the body fall headless to the ground on its back. He clutched the head tightly in his palm for a few seconds before tossing it away, and beginning to pace around the room.

Chryseis watched from the doorway, holding a closed fist under her nose, while Vesryn moved to the headless body, picking a set of keys the belt. "Let's get you down," he said, his tone gentle. He stepped up on a stool that had been placed so the shackles around her wrist could be reached. "Romulus, if you don't mind catching her..."

Romulus did not seem inclined to look at her, and spent a few more moments pacing, before he finally sheathed his blade and walked over to her, carefully taking hold of her hips while Vesryn worked on the locks. One came free, and then he unshackled the other attached to her upper arm, and she was allowed to return to the floor. Romulus made sure to support her if she proved unable to stand, which seemed likely given the circumstances.

Khari did indeed struggle to get her feet under her for a moment, but after a chance to shake out her legs, she was standing firmly enough. For a couple of seconds, she stared hard at all of them, particularly Romulus, with her visible eye, rolling out her shoulders and cracking her neck from one side to the other. In the end, though, her face worked into a grin. It was obvious from this close that her tattoos had been cut out of her skin, leaving scarring in the same pattern, save where occasionally there was an extra line or something, less deliberate.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it! Quintus owes me ten sovereigns; you’re alive! Ha!” If anything, she seemed genuinely, fiercely delighted to see them, and clapped Romulus on the shoulder with her remaining hand. “This is excellent—I don’t know how you got in here, but getting out’s going to be a trick. Leon’s not gonna know what hit him when we show up
” She trailed off, her brows knitting.

“You don’t
 uh
 look any different from how I remember you. Any of you three. I feel like I’m missing something.”

Romulus didn't seem to have any words, judging by the way his mouth hung open, and when it was clear she was standing well enough on her own, he backed away from her a few paces as well. He still seemed a bit stunned by all of it.

Vesryn, meanwhile, had crouched down to free her feet from their shackles. "What he means to say, little bear, is that he's very sorry for how late he is, but magical time warping is a bitch. They only just left the throne room, when we were captured."

“Huh.” Khari didn’t seem quite sure what to make of that, and shook her head, finally casting the hair away from her second eye, not that it made much of a difference. From the milky color of it, she couldn’t see out of it anymore regardless. “Well
 better late than never. We should get Zahra, too, she’s back here somewhere
” She turned towards the far side of the room.

In the furthest corner of the torturer's chamber lay a trembling mess of rattling bones. From the looks of it: a woman. An iron collar kept her anchored in place, though it was apparent she had not moved in awhile. Heavy chains trailed up the muck-encrusted wall, occasionally jangling together whenever a shudder enveloped her. The woman's thin arms were wrapped around her knobby knees, pulled tight against her bare chest. The remnants of an old shirt barely clung onto her emaciated frame, ripped and torn in many places, and clutched in her fists like an ill-fitting cloak. Her hands gripped onto the fabric as if it was the only thing keeping her in place. Several clumps of her hair had fallen out or been removed. Red, molted patches were left in their place. Old and new burns alike. Initially, she made no movements at all, except for the occasional quiver. She wriggled her toes. Or what was left of them.

A low, nasally hum wheezed from the woman's throat. A broken tune, hissing off into an exhaled breath. At the sound of approaching feet, the woman's face peeked above her knees. Revealing who she was, or who she'd been, an old husk of the seafaring creature: Captain Zahra. Bright, wild eyes swam in deep sockets. She appeared to startle at the sight of them. Though she remained where she was, blinking rapidly. Her sharp cheekbones warped whatever expression she was trying to demonstrate. Cracked lips pulled back to reveal several missing teeth. She made another garbled sound in the back of her throat.

“They, uh
 they cut out her tongue.” Khari grimaced, her brows knitting together, and held a hand out for the keys, which she used to undo the captain’s restraints. “We’re getting the hell out of here, Zee.” The collar came away first, followed by the rest, and Khari offered her hand to the other woman, so as to help pull her up. “Sounds better than staying, right?”

Another low hum sounded, apparently forgoing the garbled speech she had been attempting earlier. Zahra's thin fingers immediately itched at her neck when the collar clattered on the ground, freeing her from the wall. She only paused in her scraping when Khari mentioned leaving. Her head bobbed in a fervent nod, and she flashed another horrid, toothless grin. She snatched up Khari's hand and staggered back to her feet, unsteady as a colt. With her other hand, she maintained her death-grip on the shirt draped across her bony shoulders.

From behind them, Asala was hard at work pulling the bloodied coat off of the corpse of the interrogator. She was not gentle in her method, using her foot to rip it free from his arms. She then moved toward Zahra, a shoulder hitched up to an ear to block out some sound that only she seemed to hear. She glanced at the bloodied garment before she wrapped it around Zahra's shoulders and fastened it at her neck. The small act of kindness did not come with a smile, only a grim determination.

"You will want both hands," Asala explained, offering Zahra the interrogator's knife with one hand, the other covering one of her ears. "Come. They have gone unpunished for too long," she added with darkened eyes and made her way first toward the exit.

Romulus touched Vesryn lightly on the shoulder, pulling the elf's attention away from Zahra and the others. "Are there any others we can find?" he asked, cautiously, for the answers clearly were capable of causing pain. Perhaps this wasn't real for Romulus, or Chryseis or Cyrus, but this had been the reality of their companions for many months. "Is Estella here?"

Vesryn's eyes wobbled between Romulus and Cyrus momentarily, and he opened his mouth, struggling to speak. His eyes fell. "Ah... no. She is not."

Cyrus scowled. “Let’s go. While we’re walking, tell me everything.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
No one really seemed to want to linger anyway, so they followed him out without issue. After a pause in which Khari secured herself a loose black shirt and a sword, much lighter than the one he’d seen her with to account for her missing hand, they were moving again, generally heading up as often as the architecture would allow. Cyrus was simply attempting to contain his impatience—there were many reasons he wanted to know as much as possible about what had transpired in this world, many of them strategic. But all the same, he knew he had not been thinking about strategy when he’d made the demand. He’d spoken from whatever poor excuse for a heart he had.

He pulled in a deep breath. “Start right after we left, if you would.” He reminded himself that these people, these versions of people he knew, had never been separated from this reality, that even in the act of reversing the damage, he would be unmaking them, unmaking this timeline, and so, in once sense, effectively destroying them. It didn’t change his mind in the slightest, but it helped him remember to soften the way he said things, at least.

Khari sucked her teeth, then blew out a soft breath. “Right. So, you guys got dragged up into that weird
 thing, and then it disappeared, but the rest of us were still there. Cassius’s people overwhelmed us. They captured Stel pretty soon after that.” She frowned, shaking her head and disturbing several near-matted curls in the process. “It was pretty clear from where I was standing that our best chance of saving her was to get out, warn Leon and the rest, and try to retake the castle, so Marcy and I fought our way out.” Her eyes flicked to the others, clearly pausing to allow them to explain what had happened to themselves.

"I stayed behind," Vesryn pitched in, his eyes watching their surroundings rather than any of his companions. "Not by choice, obviously. Your insane former teacher caught Estella and I in a firestorm, while ranting about this Elder One. I held out as long as I could and then... nothing. They'd tossed us in the dungeon." Though his gaze kept wandering about, his eyes were distant, clearly remembering things that he was utterly haunted by.

"We weren't in the best position to know what was going on. The Venatori arrived in force, and used the castle as their base of operations in Ferelden. There weren't many of us imprisoned there, at first. Estella, myself, Lia, Zahra, some of the scouts..." His voice trailed off for a moment, and he swallowed. "Everyone went through it differently. Their mages experimented on my head when they found out what I carried. The Elder One had some interest in Saraya, they said. As for Estella... they studied her mark, tried to remove it. Experiments, interrogations... the mark eventually started to consume her again." Relaying the information was clearly causing him a great deal of pain. He looked to be struggling to hold himself together.

"We were in cells across from each other. She'd have these horrible nightmares. The Elder One, darkspawn, war and death. We talked... a great deal. I'd like to think we kept each other alive for a time down there." There were tears evident in his eyes now, and he finally looked at Cyrus, ignoring the surrounding halls for once. "She never gave up, you know? And she spoke often of you. She really did believe you'd come for her, and set things right. I will admit I didn't share her optimism... but here you are."

"Do you need to torture yourself like this, Cyrus?" Chryseis asked, clearly made uncomfortable by all the things she was hearing. "The world won't remain this way. The horrors visited upon these people will be erased." Ahead, Romulus had drawn up his hood, making it impossible to get so much as a reading of how he was reacting.

"In your eyes, perhaps," Asala replied sharply. When she rolled her head toward Chryseis, the others could see her pointed gaze.

"I did everything I could to care for her, Cyrus," Vesryn said, his eyes practically pleading. "Some nights my mind was hardly my own, but I tried. You have to believe that."

He did. Of course he believed it—how could he not? He’d always found it difficult to suppose that anyone could mean Estella any harm, even people who were, like himself, more or less without moral compass or concern. Her goodness was evident even to people usually blind to it. Another person who was fundamentally decent, as Vesryn seemed to be, wouldn’t be able to ignore that, and a situation such as the one he’d described
 Cyrus let a breath hiss out from between his teeth. Ignoring the byplay between Chryseis and Asala, he gave Vesryn a tiny nod, more a jerk of his chin than anything, which was about all he could muster at the moment.

Khari, her eyes flickering between the two for a moment, set them forward again as they searched for the next staircase. “It wasn’t too long after that battle when the Elder One made his big move. In one night, several high-profile assassinations were carried out. They got Marcy, for her spot in the Inquisition, but Rilien and Leon got theirs first. The bigger deal was that he also managed to get pretty much anyone in Orlais who could possibly hold the country together. The Empress, the Crown Prince, even the Lord-General...they couldn't have seen it coming. With no one to hold the throne, the entire country broke apart, even worse than the civil war. He set up a puppet of his, and suddenly they had the biggest army in the world, with most people unaware he even existed. Not until it was far too late.”

She was clearly getting to the worrying part, though, because her strides were suddenly more clipped, less sure, and she spoke with a hesitation uncommon in her. “About
 about four months later, we—what was left of the Inquisition—heard they’d set an execution date for Estella. It was, um. It was going to be public. Sort of a way to, uh
 demoralize us, and the rest of the world.” She looked back over her shoulder at him, but Cyrus’s expression as yet betrayed nothing.

“And you tried to save her.”

“Of course we did.” Khari’s voice was heavy with sorrow, and she shook her head. Asala quietly nodded, gently reaching up to cover her ears once more. “They said
 that if she claimed to be Andraste’s Herald, she could have Andraste’s demise.” She closed her eyes for a long moment, and took in a deep breath. “They burned her at the stake, Cyrus. We attacked, but they were prepared for us. Rilien, he
 he tried to reach into the fire and pull her out, but all he got for it was burns and arrows in the back.” She shuddered. “By the time anyone else got to her, it was too late. I got captured, and so did Asala, and a few of the others. Leon got the rest out, I think. They’re still out there somewhere, fighting.” She looked away, apparently unable to meet his eyes.

His sister. His little star—they’d—

Several of the torches lining the walls of this hallway exploded, raining ash down around them. Cyrus could feel, in a distant sort of way, that he’d caused it. His entire frame trembled with the force of his rage. “I’m going to kill him.” His voice shook with the same, his vision clouding. Lightning started to crackle around him, contained for the moment, though he was throwing sparks within a short radius around him as well. He didn’t bother to specify which him—it had become a generic term for anyone responsible, though the easy and obvious target was Cassius. Zahra made another mewling noise, an agreement. She straightened her shoulders a few inches and gripped her dagger all the tighter.

“Slowly.”

“He’s in another part of the building, from what the guards say.” That was Khari again, presumably under the assumption that he did indeed refer to his former teacher. “They say the best way to get there is actually to walk outside for a while, on the wall. Quintus tended to bitch about the cold a lot.” She paused a moment, then took a decisive left. Supposing that she probably knew better than the others where to go, Cyrus followed.

Eventually, the hallway they were in opened into what looked to be a lesser dining room, probably once used for servants or men-at-arms. Unfortunately, it was also occupied, with perhaps a dozen Venatori, by the look of their garments. Well
 unfortunate for the Venatori anyhow.

Cyrus didn’t even wait for them to be noticed before he flung a hand forward, a massive fireball crashing into the table at the far left, immolating four of the cultists, though two managed to at least survive it. Clearly his aim had been off. Well, he’d just have to get closer then. Wrenching himself through the Fade, he summoned to hand a simple punching dagger, a weapon that would, he knew, give him maximal contact and proximity with his foes.

Leaving the burning ones alone, he aimed himself at another grouping, throwing his fist up under the chin of one, punching right up into his brain matter at an angle, before he shifted his grip on the weapon and tore it out the left side, dislocating the dead man’s jaw and not even pausing to watch him fall. He didn’t bother to contain the magic any longer, and some of it spilled over, crackling lightning wreathing him from head to toe, a stray bolt occasionally lancing outwards at anyone who drew too near.

Without much finesse, Zahra wove in around Cyrus, careful not to stray too close to the crackling bolts. She slammed her bare foot into the nearest guard's chestplate. The man reeled backwards, into the burning men, possibly surprised by the rattling mess of bones weaving between them: wild-eyed and nearly silent. She snarled like an animal and struck out at any Tevinter close enough to reach, though her strikes often bit air. Her matted hair hung in front of her face, drawing a curtain against her lopsided expression.

As soon as her companions moved forward, Zahra ducked beneath a sword and stumbled to his side, gnarled fingers flashing the dagger Asala had given to her. She caught hold of the man's shoulder and swiveled around, plunging the dagger straight up through his chin. Into his mouth. Her own breath whistled from her lips, fluttering her ribs out like bellows. With an ugly squelch, and an uglier snarl, she retrieved the blade and hunched down behind Asala.

If the woman expected her to hold back and focus on protective barriers, she would be rather disappointed. Asala's golden eyes flashed wide, and the orange in them seemed to intensify for the moment. The now violet magic engulfed both her hands and arms, stopping only at her upper arm. A large violet bubble was thrown up around the two guards that had survived Cyrus's immolation and the one that Zahra had kicked into them. Immediately they began to beat against their prison, the words they tossed at her muffled by the solid barrier.

However, their scorn soon turned to fear as the walls of the dome began to collapse in around them. It grew steadily smaller and smaller until each were beginning to get crushed by the shrinking bubble and the body of the man next to them. Bones began to snap and crack as their muffled wailing added to the din of battle. One by one though, the wailing began to die down. The barrier shrank until it could shrink no more and shattered with force, leaving only a crumpled mass of flesh and shattered bones behind.

As that bubble had constricted, Asala directed another dome with her remaining hand. A sharp movement in Cyrus's blindside revealed a another Venatori who'd apparently attempted to brave attacking the man. Currently however, he was far more preoccupied with the bubble that appeared around his head. It was small, just big enough to fit the man's head inside, and by the way he clutched at his throat in an attempt to find purchase under the barrier, it was suffocating him.

Unlike the last barrier however this one did not shrink, but rather was content in allowing the Venatori to suffer.

Romulus had mounted one of the long tables the Venatori had been using, firing off a crossbow bolt into the throat of one of them before replacing the weapon on his back. He vaulted off towards the rear of the group, coming down on an archer and breaking the man's wrist with a slam of his shield. He kicked hard into the archer's knee, cracking it bending the limb grotesquely against its will. When the archer was forced down, Romulus firmly gripped the front and back of his helmet, and twisted his head sharply until the neck snapped. With a slice of his dagger he removed the quiver from the archer's back. Taking both that and the bow into his shield hand, he turned.

"Zahra!" He tossed the weapon and its ammunition forward, allowing them to slide along the ground until they came within reach of the silenced woman. Vesryn moved into place beside her to cover her while she moved. He looked none too eager to throw himself into the fray, content to allow the other rage-filled group members their moment of bloody retribution.

It was a moment that Khari took too, though not with her customary verve. Her face twisted halfway into a snarl, she focused her attention on anyone trying to flank the others, hewing them down with quick, efficient sweeps of her borrowed sword. It clearly took her some time to accustom herself to fighting one-handed, but once she was settled into the rhythm of it, she just kept moving, swinging from one hit smoothly into another, giving Cyrus a one-finger wave from the hilt of the weapon when he blasted down another Venatori trying to come in on her blind side.

All told, it wasn’t long at all before all the cultists in the room were dead, the largest portion of them clearly having succumbed to magic of one kind or another, Cyrus and Asala by far the battle’s most active participants, though no few bore the slash-marks of a knife or sword, either, and by the end, one or two even had an arrow sticking out of some body part or another. It was a bloody mess, the room filled with the stench of burning skin and hair, and perhaps that, more than anything, snapped Cyrus back into the present.

Burning.

The electricity around him fizzled out, and he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. Visibly shaking himself and blinking rapidly, he located the door to the outside and threw it open, stepping through and out onto the wall. A blast of cold air hit his face, but at just this moment, he welcomed it, for it chased the burning away from his eyes, and though the air even out here smelled stale, it did not have the scent of a pyre. He lingered at the doorframe for just a moment, one of his hands closing over the wood, before he gritted his teeth and forced himself forward, leaving five blackened cracks behind when he dropped his arm away to continue onto the parapets.

The world over the wall was nigh unrecognizable. He couldn’t say what time of year it was, only that it was chill, and the grass was a dull, dry red-brown-black, like all the life had been sucked from it. The sky was uniformly an ill gangrene, the color of disease, and he had no doubt that disease was as accurate a word as any. This was the worst parts of the Fade and the material world made manifest, all in the same place. Forks of sickly lightning speared amidst the smoggy clouds seemingly at random, and when some of them parted and he lifted his head, he could see it: the Breach.

It dominated the skyline, impossible to deny, and what was below it was nothing short of a wasteland. None who saw it could mistake that this was irreparable—without doubt, it could be seen from any country in Thedas, in the known world, with perfect ease. For a long moment, it held his attention, and his thoughts were somewhere else, sometime else, but nothing could deter him from his aim for long. Cyrus leveled his eyes back to the wall, peering down the length of it to the next door. In front of the entrance, a duller green even than the Breach, stood a naked rift, its crystals shifting sluggishly, almost as though it were spent somehow, exhausted of something. It barred their way about halfway down.

When he spoke, it was softly, almost flatly. “If you would, please, Romulus.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus wondered what would happen if he attempted to close the entire Breach at this point. Likely, it wasn't possible, and it would simply kill him. From how things looked, nothing could stop the destruction of the sky, and the death of the land below.

He nodded at the request Cyrus made, and moved to close the rift blocking their way. It wasn't spewing forth any demons. Perhaps they'd all come through already, and were now off wandering the forests of the Hinterlands or beyond. When he raised his mark to it and connected to the rift, it hardly seemed to resist, and in only a few moments he'd burst it into nothingness.

"It's clear," he said, to the group behind him. "They will know we're coming."

"Let them," Asala muttered. After she spoke, the glowing red veins under her skin seemed to pulse and both hands shot to her ears. She winced heavily and swayed where she stood, clearly fighting against something. "Parshaara!" she hissed to herself quietly, before mentally pushing whatever that something was back. She looked back up, the orange glow still present in her eyes. "We should hurry," she said, her hand lingering around her ear.

The door inside led into a room that, architecturally at least, mirrored the one they had just been in. There was no one inside, and it seemed to be mostly unused. It was a decent guess that any of the Venatori who’d seen or heard the rift close had gone straight to Cassius, and would be waiting with him when they arrived. By now, they were back in the parts of the castle they’d at least been near before, in the past, and so Cyrus took point, leading the way rather decisively through the hallways, bypassing most of the doors without looking twice. It was hard to say exactly, but he seemed to be aiming them generally towards the throne room, which must have been where he thought Cassius would be.

Khari lingered near the back, looking rather uneasy for her. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and her eye moved occasionally from Cyrus to Asala, but she shook her head, apparently choosing not to spit out whatever thought troubled her. She matched her pace with Romulus’s, shifting her grip often on her naked sword, as though she were uncomfortable holding it.

“So, uh
” She spoke quietly, and a fraction hesitantly. “I get that the general idea here is ‘kill the nasty Magister and fix time’ or something, which I’m fine with, but
 how exactly are we supposed to do that? Will we just, er, go back if he’s dead, or what?” She fixed her monocular gaze on Cyrus’s back.

“No.” His tone was clipped, but not sharp. “What happens to Cassius is, in the grand scheme of things, incidental. He will die so that he does not interfere with my own casting, but his death in and of itself will change nothing. What comes after will be a feat of delicate spellweaving that has, frankly, never been attempted before.”

“Wait. You mean you don’t know if this can be done?’

Cyrus turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes cold. “It can be done. I can—and will—do it. You have no need to doubt that.”

"So how is this going to work?" Vesryn asked, uncertainly. "When we go back with you... everything just reverts to how it was, when you left?"

"You're not coming back with us," Chryseis cut in, sternly, but by her standards gently. Romulus had seen her in both rage and sorrow, and knew that currently, she at least understood what was going to be asked of those they'd freed. He'd figured it out himself, only a few moments earlier, and was entirely accepting of it.

"Only those that were displaced from time should be sent back," Chryseis explained. "Nothing will be forgotten for us. The three of us will be the only ones in Thedas that remember this day, if all goes to plan. If you were to go back, you would carry all of your experiences since we left with you. And besides, this magic in untested, and very dangerous. We have no way of knowing the damage it might cause, the damage it has already caused."

"You shouldn't have to suffer like this," Romulus said, little above a murmur, delivered to Khari at his side. "The three of us will go back, and ensure the fight ends in our favor."

Chryseis nodded. "The rest of you must remain here. I'm... sorry."

Khari’s brows knit, but in the end, she just sawed a gusty breath in and out. “It’s kind of weird, to think that I won’t exist. Not like this, anyway. Feels
 like more than dying, somehow.” She looked like she was struggling to take hold of the concepts and bring them under her grip, and then a bit unsure. “Kind of the opposite of how I wanted to go out, not having had an effect on anything.” Her half-arm moved, as though she’d intended to gesture with the part of it that wasn’t there, and she grimaced down at it.

“But still. World like this? We’re all bound to die anyway. Just make sure to tell past-me that even if the future fucks up this bad, I’m still this awesome.” She grinned, with a fair amount of humor, even, but it faded quickly, and she continued under her breath, mostly to herself. “She forgets, sometimes.”

Asala simply grunted. The news didn't seem to phase her. Rather, it seemed to have the opposite effect as a grim determination set in her brow. "We will send them back. That will be our effect," Asala stated.

Crooked and hunched over, Zahra hobbled just behind Khari and Romulus. Her trembling fingers absently fluttered over the blistered skin around her neck and dropped away whenever someone's gaze strayed too close. She remained silent for the majority of the conversation, as the extent of her language only involved hand gestures and soft hums. It seemed as if she had already deemed it irrelevant to try and communicate, though her lips twitched up into a ghost of a smile when they spoke to each other.

The latter half of the walk was quieter, little but the sound of their actual motion to fill the space. Eventually, though, Cyrus pulled up short in front of a familiar set of doors—these ones led into the throne room. Oddly, there was still little sign of guards of any kind. If the Venatori here really did know they were coming, either they were doing a poor job of preparing for it, or else they had some kind of plan for such an eventuality that did not involve much by way of defending the Magister himself. Perhaps he was elsewhere, but when Cassius’s former apprentice flicked his fingers and threw open the door with magic and a bang, they entered to find that the old mage was indeed present, and appeared to be expecting them.

“I’ve had nightmares about this day.” He said it almost with a trace of good humor, though the small smile he wore quickly faded. “I have both dreaded it and anticipated it for a year and a half. The tear was unstable, and I had no idea when I’d sent you.” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped slightly. “You, Cyrus, I rather hoped had been propelled far enough into the past that I never had to deal with you, but in some way that possibility was even more alarming than this one. Chryseis, on the other hand, well
 I’d hoped for something a bit sooner.”

Cyrus’s face was thunderous, but he hadn’t moved yet. Instead, there was an element of clear calculation to his expression, as though he were trying to decipher something.

Chryseis's expression reflected more venom than anything else, and she stood before the rest of the group, studying her father after so much time. Romulus believed he didn't actually look all that different, something he found fairly insulting. How could anyone not be drastically changed by living in this wretched world he'd created?

"Did you find it easy, Father?" Chryseis asked, her eyes narrowed. She leaned on her staff, the blade hovering inches away from her face. "To cast my life away to the whims of chance? You had no idea what you were sending me into." Romulus recognized the hint of grief in her voice. He adjusted his grip on his shield and blade.

"I came to Redcliffe for you, Father. More than anything else. Despite whatever differences we had, I still worried for you. What did you do this for? What did you destroy everything for?"

“If I could have done what I did without involving you, than I would have.” Cassius seemed to reflect her grief back at her for a moment, the lines near his mouth deepening. “But I also remember which of the two of us attacked the other first in this very room, daughter. It was not I.” He stood from the throne he occupied, seeming to expend some effort to do so, as though his joints did not cooperate quite as smoothly as they had in the past. But when he reached his full height, his spine was straight and proud as it had always been.

“I did what I did so that House Viridius would weather history. So that we would survive. With or without us, the Elder One would have risen. Because I helped him do it, I run a nation. Had I resisted, as everyone else did, I’d have been crushed under his heel, as everyone else was. I have not the youthful arrogance necessary to believe that one mortal, however exceptional, can change the world that much.” His eyes slid to Cyrus, and he wore an ironic smile. “Even if I am wrong in that, I am not such a person.”

A breath hissed out from between the young Lord Avenarius’s teeth. “Your house may survive, but you will not.”

Cassius smiled sadly. “I rather expected as much, yes. I have committed the one crime you cannot overlook, haven’t I?” Despite his expression, there was a knowing, almost malicious undertone in the way he said it. “Imagine, had the Herald been anyone else
”

The sharp hum of weaponry being pulled from the Fade removed the need for a conclusion to the sentence, and Cassius raised his staff in preparation. Within the space of seconds, he needed it to fend off Cyrus’s assault, and the steel clashed with a keening note off the bastardsword the dreamer had drawn from the realm of magic. Sparks flew, but Cyrus buckled down, refusing to let the weaponlock relent, and slowly, the steel warped and twisted, the relatively thin pole of the staff snapping in two.

Cassius staggered back, throwing ice that cracked off a shield, then fire, which went wide, but struck Cyrus in one of his shoulders, burning away his left sleeve and scorching the skin underneath. In retaliation, he pressed forward, knocking Cassius in the head with the pommel of his summoned blade, which sent him sprawling backwards down the stairs of the throne’s platform. He smacked his head against the stone, clearly dazed, and struggled to stand. Cyrus descended after him with clear deliberateness, almost casually plunging the blade into the Magister’s stomach, letting go of the Fade-weapon and leaving it there.

There was a distinct pause, during which Cyrus’s eyes bored into his former teacher’s, and he seemed to struggle mightily with something. “Mercy is more than you deserve.” The words were as much spat as said. “She would have shown it to you anyway. I, on the other hand, will let you bleed out.” Another gesture produced a bluish knife, and he used that one to stake Cassius’s right hand into the stone as well. A third immobilized his left.

“You can watch while I change the world.”

As if heeding Cyrus's tall claim, the walls shuddered around them. Small rocks and dust rained down across their heads. Window panes rattled and shook and finally burst inwards, scattering glass across the floor. A great gust of wind whipped through the chamber, snapping the curtains like wild flags. There was a palpable sense of heaviness, but with no apparent source. Another tremor shivered across the floors like a great wave: the ocean violently slapping across the shore. With it came another sound not unlike the clapping of thunder, rippling in the distance.

Closer this time, a quieter, throaty rumble filled the air. It carried itself through the open windows. Besides the luminescence of red-lyrium playing on the walls in the courtyard below, nothing else could be seen outside. The rumbling died down for a few moments, and Zahra took the opportunity to snatch up Cyrus' elbow, attempting to pull him away from Cassius. Her bright eyes had gone wide and her mouth worked for words she could not speak. Instead, she pointed back towards the window, insistent that he turn his attention towards it. That was when a deafening roar bellowed from the skies, clamoring into a high-pitched shriek strong enough to bring them to their knees.

“Shit.” That was Khari, her expression dropped into a scowl, and she picked herself up from the floor, using her sword to leverage herself off her knees. “I remember that sound. The Elder One’s here. Whatever you’re going to do, Cyrus, you have to do it quick.”

The mage himself, using the fact that Zahra was still attached to his elbow to pull her back to her feet as he reached his, narrowed his eyes. “I believe I can create a tear of the necessary stability and destination in
 ten minutes, perhaps.”

Khari barked a hollow laugh, sounding more strangled than anything. The sound of the wind outside grew louder, and she shook her head. “You don’t have ten minutes. If we’re lucky, you might have two.” She readied her blade, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You want me to tear open time and space, stabilize both entry and exit points, and carry three people more than a year into the past, in two minutes? Would you also like me to just march out there and kill this Elder One while I’m at it?” For the first time, his tone, sarcastic though it was, seemed to betray a lack of confidence, though his expression was stony.

Khari took a deep breath, and fired back not with a verbal jab, but something else entirely. “She forgave you, Cyrus. She forgave everyone. Us for not saving her, you for not showing up in time, even the bloody Elder One, for causing this mess in the first place. You know what her last words were? Tell my brother I believe in him. You have two fucking minutes, and you’re going to succeed, because this is not how it ends.”

Cyrus’s jaw tightened, a muscle in it jumping, but she appeared to have silenced any attempt at protest he might have made. “Keep them off me.” He turned his back to the entrance and shook out both his hands, his fingers and palms slowly limned in opalescent light.

"I'll tell... you, what you said," Romulus said quietly, to Khari. "And if we can't stop this, I promise I'll be there to go through it with you this time." He wasn't a man that often made promises, of any kind. They were not words spoken lightly. If this was truly the world's fate if the Inquisition cracked and fell, then he didn't much care if he was supposed to remain a slave. There would be no point to any of it, and in that case, he wanted to see it through to the end, this mad quest he'd gotten himself caught up in.

"Rather morbid words, don't you think?" Vesryn cut in, wearing a half-smile.

“I’ll be glad to hear it. Both parts, even.” Khari grinned, savage and wide, strongly reminiscent of the version of her that he knew. Raising her good arm, she mock-saluted with her sword in hand. “Goodbye, Rom. Don’t make me say it again, okay?” With nothing more than that, she turned away, drawing herself tall as she could and heading for the doors, where soon the enemy forces would arrive.

"You'll fix this," Vesryn said. "You're a powerful little trio, you time-travelers. Oh, and... tell past-me that future-me is sorry, will you? For spilling the secret. I realize now that I was quite invested in keeping that from all of you at the time." Romulus nodded, prompting Vesryn to pat him on the arm once before he turned to head for the door. Romulus wasn't quite sure what the elf had been speaking of, something in his head, but if they did all survive and change the outcome here, certainly it would be inquired of some point soon.

Asala was hesitant at first, but eventually she stepped forward to stand in front of Romulus. Her hands left her ears and she gripped him by the shoulders, gently, and arched until she was eye level with him. The gold of her eyes were beginning to be replaced by orange, but her brow remained staunch. "Do... Do not let this happen. Do not force us to go through this again," she pleaded. Then she paused, and an uncertainity worked into her face.

For this first time since they'd arrived, Asala showed shades of the woman they knew before they were sent forward. "And Romulus? Keep... Look after me. Please?" she asked. Even underneath the dirt on her cheeks, a small blush could still be seen. She then pulled him in for a hug before pushing away, where she turned to follow Khari and Vesryn to the door.

Since Zahra had no voice to speak, and therefore no instructions to give, she simply clapped a hand across Romulus and offered a thin-lipped smile. Her hand drifted down to his elbow, where she gave a quick squeeze. There was an imploring look to her bright eyes, as if she were trying to say something through her expression alone. Whether or not it conveyed anything was another matter altogether. A soft hum sounded from her throat: imploring victory. It might have been an old Rivaini chanty of sorts, or simply Zahra's own raiding tune. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment and she clasped his forearm instead, huffing out a breath. She held it briefly before offering another lopsided grin. It was a shade of the proud woman she'd once been, only a brief flicker, before she released his hand and turned away, trotting behind Asala.

With that, the four of them headed outside the throne room, shutting the door behind them, though how long it would hold after they'd been overwhelmed was hard to say. It would seem that Khari had been correct—there was not much time at all before they were simply outdone by strength of numbers. The faint glimmer of a protective barrier gave away that Asala had reinforced it as well as she could, which would help considerably on that score.

In the end, the clash outside, followed by the aggressive beating-down of the door itself, lasted somewhat longer than Khari had predicted. They were nearly five minutes in when the Venatori entered the room.

Romulus instinctively directed his gaze to the fight that had occurred beyond the doors, and what was still taking place. Their four protectors had made the Venatori pay dearly for their entrance, and the room beyond was practically painted red, with Tevinter bodies and parts of bodies strewn about the room. Among them, his eyes caught both Vesryn and Zahra sprawled on the ground, hacked down by a dozen weapons, already dead. Khari and Asala still lived as they were forced back through the door, but only barely. Several arrows protruded from Khari, and a Venatori sword had skewered her through the abdomen. The hand that wielded the sword still clutched the handle, severed from its arm. She fell to the ground shortly after the door burst open, another Venatori blade soon ending her life.

Asala was grievously injured as well, but managed to throw up a strong barrier in the doorway, temporarily keeping the Venatori from getting all the way inside, and covering Cyrus in his final spell preparations. They raged against it with their weapons, steadily wearing it down, until it began to glow red, near the breaking point. Cracks began to form in the barrier, as the red veins hatching Asala's body intensfied and pulsed. The effort of keeping the barrier solid drove her to her knees and she began to scream. Slowly, the barrier was pushed back out of the door and encroached on them. Asala's screaming paused for a moment, before starting again, this time far more intense. The blood red barrier then slammed forward and pushed the Venatori back out of the door and some ways down the hall.

The barrier then shattered, leaving a bloodied Asala wailing and writhing on the throne room floor. Soon, her screams distorted and became something monstrous, as the woman's body mutated and altered into something else entirely. The screaming never stopped, even as the Venatori approached once more.

Cyrus suddenly grinned, and a bright flash of light threw his shadow long across the chamber before the tearing sound from the past incident repeated itself, and a rend, similar to the last one save that its shape was a defined oval rather than jagged at the edges, appeared in front of him. It was at roughly ground level, stretching six feet high or so. “Go through, now! I must be last!” His brow and upper lip were dotted with beads of perspiration, and his already-fair complexion had whitened almost to the color of a sheet, but the hands held in front of him were steady, and he spoke without waver.

Chryseis tugged harshly on Romulus's sleeve. "We must go!" He was smart enough not to resist, and aware enough to know that if he stayed any longer, the sacrifice he'd just witnessed would be rendered meaningless. But he turned and looked back as he was pulled towards the rend that Cyrus had created, just in time to see Asala's last screams cut off by half a dozen swords, preventing her from fully transforming.

The rend in time then swallowed him, and the nightmare was consumed by darkness.

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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#, as written by The Valkyrie
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: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Redcliffe's tavern stood like a beacon of warmth in the darkness. Zahra counted herself lucky that it was as charming inside as it was on the outside. Squared, wooden beams supported the ceiling and the hanging lanterns attached to it. The walls were clear of anything, though it showed signs that plenty of things used to hang on the walls, though they had probably been knocked off by customers who had too much to drink. It suited her just fine. It just meant less things that would end up broken. She hated paying for things she never intended to keep.

The tavern itself was packed. The Inquisition seemed to be the primary clientele here, which could be seen as a bad sign, though she was sure it was not. Several long tables were occupied by her own crew: men and women who were throwing up their arms and roaring as loudly as they could. They were, by far, the loudest ones in the tavern. The other, smaller tables were also occupied by people who were clearly having a good time. Even most of the stools at the bar were occupied, though nobody seemed to mind more company.

Another cheer sounded from their table. And a loud, snorting laugh that came from the smallest one who had just spilled her drink across the lap of her neighbour: a dwarven lass.

Several goblets sloshed and spilled whenever someone slammed their fist across the table. There were far more wine bottles lining the longest tables, accompanied by squatter bottles Zahra was hoarding in front of her. She'd taken a seat at the furthest end of the table, just in case she needed to duck around any rowdy elbows being thrown. She rested her forearms across the table and cradled one of the bottles in the crook of her elbow. Aslan sat to her right. Nursing the same goblet he'd ordered since they'd first entered. Still with the same lackluster frown idling on his lips. Being here with them was enough to put her mind at ease. Sometimes, nothing needed to be said.

The main door of the inn suddenly burst open, as it likely had many times that night. This time, the tall, handsome elf, Vesryn, came lumbering through, weighted down by a lighter body that clung to either arm. He'd cast off his armor, clothed instead in light trousers and a soft blue tunic, with the sleeves removed, and the laces undone halfway down his chest. The girl that wrapped herself around his left arm was human, simply dressed, probably from the village. On the other side was an elf, doe-eyed, a mage as evidenced by her robe. She stared up at him dreamily, while the human girl played at his shirt, biting her lip. By the way their eyes and bodies wobbled, all three had already had a fair amount to drink.

"A night of victory, is it not?" Vesryn called out, when the door had shut behind him. A raucous cheer went up through the tavern, and he grinned, leading the two girls over to the bar, and securing himself a large mug of ale. He turned to the rest of the patrons, raising the mug. "A toast! To driving the mad cultists from beloved Ferelden! To a better future for us, the people that would seize it!"

He earned himself another cheer, and the noise died down for a brief moment as many took a good, long drink, Vesryn included. Grinning, he made his way over to the pirate captain's table, observing her crew. "Care to make space for an elf in search of a table?" He glanced at the girls still drunkenly attached to him, and his grin expanded. "One seat will do. We can squeeze in, I think."

This one, Zahra had never met before. Her eyes trailed his retreating back as he swaggered to the bar with two women hanging on his arms. From what she could see, he wasn't a local. She was no stranger to Redcliffe, as she'd been here many times before without chancing onto someone like that. An elven lad with an easy grin that promised trouble and fun. Just the type of company she normally kept. Perhaps, he was one of the important fellows Asala hadn't had the time to introduce her to. Perhaps not. She straightened up and roared along with the rest of them when he proclaimed his own toasts, tipping the ember-colored bottle to her lips, and settling it back down with a sigh.

A throaty chuckle sounded as he approached their table. Zahra scooted closer to Aslan and patted the wooden bench with a toothy grin of her own, “By all means. The more the merrier.” She leaned her elbows back on the table, and propped her chin into an upturned palm, considering her new drinking companions. Her dark eyes, settled at half-mast, flicked from one girl to the other, and finally settled on Vesryn's face. Unusually pretty, an impression she'd already decided. Snowy hair. Green eyes like swirling gems. She wasn't sure if it was impressive, or awfully obnoxious that he was so aware of it.

“But there's a price for your seat. We like to know who we're speaking to, don't we boys?” Women and men alike slapped their hands on the table and heartened their assent. Except for Aslan. He seemed far too preoccupied trying to look like wasn't enjoying himself at all. “I'm Zahra. Captain of the Riptide,” she tilted her head to the side and laughed, “and that's my merry crew.”

"Zahra!" Vesryn exclaimed, delightedly. "I have indeed heard much about you." He eased himself forward onto the bench, the human girl sliding in next to him, while the lithe elven mage shifted around onto his back, draping an arm over his chest, the other idly playing with his hair. "My name is Vesryn Cormyth. Captain of nothing, though I've steered a heart or two over the years. I believe we fought together, in the castle hall."

He grinned, taking another long drink of his ale. "I'm a different man out of my armor, I'm told, but no less desirable." His eyes were caught by the stare of another mage from across the room, a young elven man with braided red hair. Vesryn threw him a mischievous smile and a wink, and the elf reddened in return, smiling despite himself.

"I am going to miss this town," Vesryn admitted, to Zahra. "Makes me want to go back to mercenary work."

There was a cat-calling whistle that came from down the line of rowdy crew mates, though there was no discernible source as to who it was. It might have come from the bearded man with his feet kicked up onto the table, bright blue eyes peering over the rim of his goblet. Leering, more like. Where his appreciation was directed was anybody's guess. Although, it was apparent he'd said something lewd as well. The red-haired elf-woman to his side elbowed him in the ribs and looked somewhat disgusted. Whatever bickering that was happening in the background was expertly ignored by their Captain, who seemed intent on picking apart the creature slouching beside her.

“Ah, that's where I remember that face of yours, Captain of Nothing,” Zahra slapped a hand across the table and grinned cheekily. Swinging a ridiculously large axe around with impressive strength. For someone so pretty, it seemed like a weapon that was far too rough. But there was a saying about deceptive appearances, and perhaps, this Vesryn Cormyth was a man of many surprises. She sucked at her gums and took another swig out of her own bottle before finally relinquishing her hold on it. There was quite a bit left. Seeing as this was her second bottle, and it had come from her own private reserves. A woman needed something proper to set her belly on fire. The offer was made with an inquiring eyebrow, following his gaze over to the seated elf across the way.

A jingle of a laugh bubbled from her lips, flashing her teeth, “Now, you've got my attention. Before I ask you about your old occupation, seeing as we've got something in common—do you always do that?” She tipped her head towards the bar and waggled her eyebrows.

"Only after victories, love," Vesryn said, leaning back and securing his arm more tightly around the waist of the human girl, who was likely not even half-listening to the conversation. "Of course, the word has a flexible definition. Tonight definitely applies, I think." He gulped down a swig of ale, apparently finishing the mug, and the elven girl grabbed it from the table, waving it over at the innkeeper.

"As for the mercenary work, I was with a small company, called the Stormbreakers, out of Orlais. Not half so glorious as our own Argent Lions, but a tough bunch, and a sure bet if a contract needed doing. Good place to hone the skills before I set out on my own." Left unsaid was obviously why he'd set out, but likely the armor she'd seen him fighting with in the throne room had a thing or two to do with it. It wasn't something an elven mercenary would just come across in that line of work, nor would the pay cover the cost of making a set like that. Clearly, by the glint in his eye, he enjoyed having some aspect of mystery around him.

Zahra didn't press him on any of his actions. He'd answered her question well enough. Even if she was a mite interested in why he behaved that way. From the long line of bright-eyed charmers she'd met on her many adventures, there were reasons why they needed to surround themselves with warm bodies. Inadequacies they were trying to fill within themselves. If he wanted to act like he was intending to board everyone's ship, that was his business. Another throaty chuckle sounded as she leaned back and stretched her arms above her head, dropping them back across the table, “May we have many victories, then.”

“Stormbreakers,” she rolled the word around in her mouth, as she often did with names she was unfamiliar with. It had a nice ring to it. One of her eyebrows raised. Orlais was an interesting enough place. Full of mask-wearing nobles with fancy tunics, laced up to their necks. A mass of peacocks, strutting about. Her initial impression was that he'd been raised elsewhere. In the Alienage. In the woods. Her understanding of elves, and their peculiar cultures, only went so far. But seeing how eccentric he was, she supposed she could've been wrong.

“A mercenary without a company is a sell-sword. There's a story there, I bet.” Quick as a viper, Zahra snatched up one of his free hands and turned it over so that she could look at his palm. She squinted her eyes, pausing for a moment, before releasing it: a grin lit up her dark features. Though, she gave no clear explanation, save for another question.

“So, was that when the Inquisition found you? Or did you find them?”

“That was the Fallow Mire. And I think there was a bit of mutual finding involved.” The voice belonged to Estella, who had apparently entered the tavern with little fanfare, beneath the notice of its rowdy occupants. Though she spoke from roughly behind them, she had soon enough moved to near the front end of the table, so at a corner with Zahra, and close enough to be easily heard by Vesryn as well, though she did not raise her volume above its usual modulation. She made no request for further room on the bench. It was, after all, quite occupied already; instead she dropped halfway into a crouch, so as to be at a decent level with the table’s occupants.

She was of course not in armor either, though whatever she was wearing was obscured by a considerably overlarge cloak, clearly a man’s and meant for someone at least six inches taller than her. It was thickly-lined, though, with what looked like sable fur. She smiled with her eyes, just a vague little change in their shape, and nodded to both of them. “You four look to be having quite the time. Perhaps I shouldn’t interrupt.” A smile did curl half her mouth then, though, and she arched one of her brows.

"Nonsense," Vesryn objected, turning to get his eyes on Estella. "I'm tempted to make a horrid joke about my sword needing to be sold somewhere, but... the point is, I believe my friends are growing restless." The increased groping was likely a sign of that. At Vesryn's behest, they extricated themselves from the bench, leaving Estella more than enough space in their absence, should she want it.

"I shall see your beautiful faces again come morning. Until then, farewell." He rounded the corner of the table, the elven girl half upon his back giggling, and somehow the young redheaded elven mage had fallen in behind them, adding another hand to the mix. Vesryn started up the stairs towards the room, managing to turn halfway after a few steps. "Remember, a night of victory!" Laughing carelessly, they continued on, until the sound of a heavy door slamming removed them from the hearing of those drinking below. Zahra snorted as the outrageous group retreated up the stairs. That was something she never thought she'd see unless she was in a brothel. At least the Inquisition wasn't letting her down.

In the wake of his departure, Estella blinked, then shook her head. “Well then.” She returned her attention to Zahra and smiled a little more fully, apparently not at all fazed by the rowdiness going on in all directions. “I’d hoped to catch you and yours before we left Redcliffe. I don’t suppose I could meet your crew? I confess I’m about to try bribing my way into their good graces.”

No sooner had she said it than the tavern’s staff were all amongst the crowd, passing out what looked distinctly like a free round of whatever everyone had been drinking before. “Compliments of the Inquisition, and the Herald of Andraste!” The grinning barman jabbed an arm in Estella’s general direction, and she grimaced.

“I thought I told him not to do that.” She sank a little lower in her crouch, as though hoping she might spontaneously become invisible.

Another full-bellied laugh came from the petite Captain. She knuckled at her eyes, wiping tears away and slapped her hands across her knees, accepting the goblet of ale that was pushed across the table. “We're lucky you did, ducky. You know, being the Herald might not be such a bad thing,” a lofty grin twitched at the corner of her lips as she leaned precariously backwards and grappled onto Estella's elbow, encouraging her to take the seat Vesryn had just recently vacated. How else would they do proper introductions?

For all her obvious discomfort with attention, Estella went along easily enough, sliding into the spot next to Zahra. Someone passed her a tankard of something, which she accepted with a word of thanks, bringing it up and taking a quaff before laying it gently back down on the table and wrapping both hands around it. From her body language, it was evident that she was one of those people who drank slowly, and not much—she was clearly settling in to linger over the tankard rather than quaffing it as quickly as possible.

“So these are the nefarious mercenary-pirates of the Riptide, then? I’m honored.” It would seem that the energy and humor of the situation had soaked into her, like she was a sponge of some kind. Or perhaps more accurately, a mirror: reflecting her surroundings, but more softly then they truly appeared. A kind mirror, then, if such a thing had ever existed.

Once Estella had secured her seat, Zahra straightened up in her own with a discerning wobble. She caught herself by plopping her elbows back onto the table, causing some of the drinks to slop over. Not that she seemed to notice. Her attention secured itself back onto the black-haired lass sitting at her side, bundled up so ridiculously in that overly large cloak of hers. Others were already turning in their seats, bumping shoulders or leaning back to get a peek at the one who'd earned them all free drinks. She bit her lip and chuckled softly this time, “Nefarious? No. Opportunistic is a little closer. Don't tickle our egos too much, dear. Garland's head will spin right off.”

There was another round of laughter, though a bearded, blue-eyed man crossed his arms over his chest and seemed to mutter something under his breath. Zahra inhaled deeply and allowed her shoulders to slump forward, eying Estella through narrowed eyes. In one abrupt movement she slapped her hand against the table and cried out something in another tongue. Heavy rolling syllables. Rivaini, most likely. A call to those belonging to the Riptide. Several heads turned. And there was a blasting roar in response. “Introductions are in order. This little lass here is Estella. She's come to meet you fine folk, so be on your best behavior.”

She slapped a hand onto the Qunari's hefty shoulder and crooked an eyebrow up, “You might've seen him bumbling about Haven, but this here's my best mate, Aslan. A man of few words. He makes up for it, though.” He granted Estella a low grumble and a curt nod, though his gaze quickly fell away. She didn't seem to mind, smiling politely and offering a nod.

“Over there, yes, right there,” Zahra's waggling finger pointed out a blonde-haired elven lass seated beside a much smaller individual. She lifted one of her hands and wriggled her own fingers in response, smiling brightly. “That's Brialle Maven. Used to be a wee cut-purse until she found her hands in the wrong pocket. Why I ever let her aboard, I'll never know. But our bellies are thankful she's with us.”

The Dwarven lass seated next to Brialle was growing restless and tossing her arm in the air, signaling for the barmaid to come back with more ale. She huffed over her tankard and scrunched up her face, clearly irritated. Zahra gave Estella a soft nudge and made a vague attempt to smother down the grin stippled on her lips, lowering her voice so that she had to strain to hear, “Beside her is Nuka Lenkasdottir. It's a mouthful, don't even bother trying. She's a little lass with a big temper. Picked her up on the surface, but I'm sure there's a story there. Someday...”

The Captain dropped one of her arms across Estella's shoulder and pulled her closer, as if they were secret conspirators and not two individuals making simple introductions, or amiable conversation. Her smile quibbled and she snorted. “Nixium Elenvaul. Yes, that red-haired lass there. Told me she'd come from some Dalish clan. She doesn't smile as much as she ought to. And always tells me when I'm toeing lines I shouldn't.”

Zahra blew out her cheeks and retracted her arm, crossing both over her chest. A fine imitation of Aslan if there ever was one. She glanced up at the ceiling and worked at the last introduction, chewing around words she truly wanted to say. Her brows drew together as her gaze dropped back onto Estella, “And lastly, Garland Langley. Cheeky bastard with the beard over there. Don't let those blue eyes fool you. Wandering hands. I wouldn't fault you if you slapped him.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Estella replied diplomatically, but touches of amusement remained in her eyes, before she turned slightly away from Zahra to address the rest of the crew. “I actually came to thank you all, as well as meet you. I’ve been a mercenary myself. Still am, actually. I know a high-risk job when I see one, and it means a lot to me—to the Inquisition—that you’re here with us. So
 you have my gratitude, in the form of free drinks.” She raised her own tankard, just briefly, but either she wasn’t one for overblown speeches or she just suspected giving one would bore them; whatever the case, she seemed content to leave it at that, and straightened herself back out on the bench so as to be able to talk once more to Zahra.

“Which goes doubly for you, Captain. Taking risks is one thing. Leading others into them
 that’s different. Especially when they matter to you.” Her expression darkened slightly, but the shadow over her features only lasted for a moment. “Something for thinking about some other time, though. I do believe this is a party.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Haven was less chilly than when Zahra had first arrived. Not in the sense that all the snow had melted. It hadn't become a tropical oasis in her absence. Much to her disappointment. These changes, however minute, were welcome things. Her presence was expected. Her face was recognized. People were growing accustomed to seeing her snooping around the buildings or finding some hidey-hole to curl up and snooze. If she wasn't exploring the mountains surrounding the small village, she was in the local tavern causing trouble with the locals. Or creating just a bit more fun. Besides, the brown-haired bard had a voice that could make her legs weak, if she was so inclined to indulge in it. However, she was not in the tavern today, as it so happened.

Instead, she'd chosen to walk around Haven and found an outcrop of rocks overlooking the frozen lake below. She'd been told that the first tear in the sky had been closed in the mountains. And only the Heralds of Andraste had the ability to close them: Romulus and Estella. Effectively saving them from whatever hell-beasts would rain down on them. It was almost too much to chew on. Whether or not it made any sense didn't particularly matter to her. As long as the Inquisition had her under contract, she and her crew would go through hell and high water to fight for them. Through beasts, demons, and humans alike. Land or water. She'd never thought about it before, so why now? A soft puff of white blew from her lips.

She'd chosen heavier garments this time. Things she'd procured from the holdings of Riptide's belly. A white linen shirt with a leather bodice, with leather pants and knee-high boots. She wore an old cloak made from several furred animals, pulled tightly across her hunched shoulders. She hadn't drawn the hood over her head, so that she could still tip it back and look at the swirling clouds. Zahra leaned back against the boulder, fingers wrapped around the copper clasp keeping her cloak in place. Even if she felt unusual being so far from the sea, she had to admit that there was beauty in unexpected places. Even in bloody cold places.

Some time later, after at least a good ten minutes of uninterrupted silence, there was a pointed “Ah-ha!” from somewhere below, and then the sound of someone climbing up the face of the rocks. Well, actually, it could have been more than one person, but the one was making enough noise in her passage upward that it was hard to tell. Indeed, a head of bright red hair soon popped up over the stone, and the rest of Khari followed, grinning as usual and pulling herself up onto the outcropping with what seemed to be little by way of effort, even considering the fact that she was wearing her armor. Romulus climbed quietly up behind her, clad in his warm clothes and heavy cloak as always upon going outside in Haven. By his general look he'd been persuaded to come along, but he didn't look particularly grudging about it.

With little ceremony and not so much as a by-your-leave, the Dalish lass plopped herself down next to Zahra, tipping her head back as well to look at the clouds overhead. The Breach still dyed much of the sky a vaguely-ill green, and Khari frowned at it, sticking her tongue out in its general direction for a moment before she tilted her gaze back down and to the side, to meet the pirate captain’s eyes. “Hope you’re not too bored yet, stuck on solid ground with the rest of us
 what’s the word? Land-lovers? Whatever it is.”

Zahra nearly jumped out of her skin when a familiar voice cried out from below—not that she would ever admit it. For a woman who bustled through the bush like a drunken bear, she'd been eerily quiet up until she'd revealed herself. She'd been growing weary of the silence that cut through the mountains, only offering soft whistles through the pines glowering beside her. Nothing like the sea at all. The rhythmic slapping of the waves was capable of lulling her to sleep on any given day. The leering silence put her on edge. While she hadn't expected anyone to find her, any company was welcome. She pressed a hand to her chest and exhaled sharply, willing her skipping heartbeat to slow back down.

She scooted to the side to give Khari and Romulus more room and pointed a waggling finger up to the sickly-looking sky, letting it fall back against her chest. Swirling plumes of white mingled with the shade of green a sea-sick land-lover might turn when they settled their legs back on land. Zahra tilted her head to the side and stared back at Khari, lips pulled back into a grin, “How do you all bear it? It's suffocating. Might sound strange coming from a pirate, but spending so much time on this rock feels like you couldn't sleep without waking to a knife at your throat.” She laughed. It wasn't a harsh laugh, just one that was acknowledging how ridiculous that sounded. Living on the sea was no less dangerous after all, “Land-lovers, that's right.”

Khari seemed to contemplate that for a moment, and then she shrugged. “I dunno. It’s ugly as shit and spews demons everywhere, but other than that I guess it doesn’t bother me much. Probably because I don’t spend an awful lot of time thinking about it. It’ll go away eventually; that’s what we’re all here for.” She closed an eye and reached up to scratch the back of her head, apparently doing a bit more thinking on it now that she subject had been brought up in that way. “Seems like you’d hear a demon coming anyway, right?”

She pulled her legs up underneath her, leaning back until her palms hit the stone, bracing herself at a slight incline. “Truth be told, life’s not that different for me right now than it would be if the thing weren’t there. Either way, I’d be fighting stuff. Bandits or demons—can’t say it makes much of a difference to me. I guess this is all a bigger change for you though, right?”

Ugly as shit accurately described what was happening in the sky at the moment. It was difficult trying to remember when the sky hadn't looked so ill. She hummed a soft tune and turned her gaze skyward once more, “Fair enough. I've seen a lot of things in my line of work. But the Inquisition and demon-shitting tears, those are things you don't often see.” She was certain she was leaving out far more things, like their mottled crew, and an awfully cold destination for their headquarters. A laugh bubbled up from her chest and ended with an unladylike snort, dark eyes twinkling mirthfully, “You're right. Suppose I would, if they're as noisy as you are.”

She rolled her eyes up at the third one, standing so silently. From what little they'd spoken about, Romulus was a mystery. One that she'd like to pick apart, if he was willing to entertain her curiosities. Zahra patted a hand above her head, indicating that he could scoot beside them if he so wished to join in on the conversation. He took a seat and drew his cloak tightly around him. She had no sense of personal space, anyhow. She, too, drew herself back up and readjusted the cloak around her shoulders, arms hidden within it. Bandits and demons seemed awfully different from where she was standing, but she supposed there was an inkling of truth there. Weapon in hand, it hardly mattered what it was that you were fighting. She wondered whether Khari had wanted anything else in her life, or if she'd simply return to fighting bandits when this was all over. A question for another time.

“Much bigger,” Zahra sighed and quirked an eyebrow, bumping Khari with her shoulder, “I suppose I'd rather fight bandits than demons.” She laughed again, softer this time. “It's much more simple at sea. You, your crew, on a ship. Sail anywhere, see anything. There's freedom there, and responsibilities of a different sort. No one to tell you that you can't do something.”

“Sounds kind of nice.” Khari furrowed her brows for a moment, as though thinking of something mildly troubling. “Though I’m not sure how well I’d do on a boat. Even the aravels used to make me kind of motion-sick, if the terrain was bad. Horseback is much better for that.” She sighed, the gusty breath stirring a few loose ringlets of hair, and flopped backwards onto the stone beneath them, letting her legs dangle over the edge.

“You’re a pirate, right Cap’n Zee? What kind of pirate?”

Zahra bobbed her head. It was nice. Her mouth pulled up at the edges and settled into a dreamy smile. She could have described it with hundreds of flowery words. It was mostly something she hadn't believed she would find: a home. One she dearly missed whenever she ventured too far way, as sentimental as it sounded. Everyone had one of those, even if it meant being astride a snorting, pawing creature. She tilted her head to the side, and glanced over her shoulder so that she could see Khari's face, “Aravel?” It came out as a slowly-pronounced question, because she'd never heard of such a thing. She made it sound like it was a land-traveling ship, which sounded impossible. These days, she'd believe anything.

Her small smile widened and broke into a grin that was hardly innocent. It dimpled her cheeks as she turned back to face the sky, already glazing over with different hues as the sun settled across the horizon. Zee was a fair exchange for Ginger, she supposed. “Wasn't aware that there were certain types of pirates,” she replied offhandedly, pausing for effect, before flopping down beside her, “Why don't you ask what you really want to know—do I peddle in flesh, slaughter spice-runners, steal from the rich and poor alike?” Her tone hadn't changed, it remained good-natured with furtive undertones. As if she were sharing childish secrets.

Khari shrugged from her position on the stone. “I don’t know a lot about piracy. Seems like the kind of thing that could have types. But if you want to answer that question instead, be my guest.” She grinned, but there was something faintly serious about it all the same.

Zahra settled deeper within the confines of her furred cloak and clicked her tongue, “Well, then. I don't do any of those things. We're an off-branch of the Raiders of the Waking Sea. No preying on sea-traffic. Got our differences, us. We're mostly a group of mercenaries. I'd be lying if I said we haven't gotten our hands in any dirty business, but who hasn't?” She knuckled her nose, and blew another puff of white from her lips, watching as it whisped up and disappeared, “I guess I'm the type of pirate that does right, sometimes.”

"Are pirates hunted often?" Romulus asked, breaking his silence with clear interest in the conversation. He leaned forward where he sat, placing his elbows on his knees and peering out at her from under his hood. "Do you ever come to violence with each other? Are there any rules to the engagement, if that happens?"

“Oh-ho,” Zahra's snorting laugh spoke volumes, though she wriggled her shoulders and turned to face him all the same, “You'd be surprised how awful we are to each other. You'd think that being fellow pirates would count for something. It doesn't, unless outsiders attack one of our own. We're like hounds fighting over a bone, on a great expanse of water. It's never made sense to me, but that's just the way it is. I guess, pirates aren't fond of sharing.”

She hummed another low tune, and chewed on his next question for a moment. Mercenaries certainly had regulations when it came to contracts, and how they would conduct themselves, but pirates were a different breed altogether. “No. I suppose there aren't any. The last man standing earns the right to breathe another day.” She drew her hands in front of her lips, and blew on them, “But we all operate differently. Squabbles are a waste of time.”

Khari frowned, though it was difficult to tell exactly why that was so. At least, until she spoke. “Waste of time and people.” She scrunched her nose somewhat, distorting her valaslin a bit, and moved her hands up to fold them behind her head, placing them between herself and the stone. “It’s damn foul, that people die because some asshole wants more for himself. Or herself, I guess.” There was a small pause. “Not that I’m accusing you of anything. You said you’re different, and I believe you.” It was unclear where this belief came from—quite possibly she was choosing to take the words on faith, so to speak.

“If you’re going to have friends, or family, or a crew or whatever—seems to me like you shouldn’t ask them to risk death unless what you’re after is worth dying for.” Clearly implied was that she didn’t think whatever they fought over out there on the ocean was likely to count.

Zahra's expression shifted. Perhaps, imperceptibly. A fraction of an inch less amused, mouth forming a smaller smile, if that could at all be perceived as seriousness. She took a deep breath and scrutinized Khari from the corner of her eye, not quite turning to face her, but simply listening. Sure, raiders sometimes operated as individuals, and hardly mourned the loss of their own, specifically if their band was too large. People became numbers. Disposable, expendable. Pirates were different. Especially if they only had one ship, and one crew; less so if they had entire fleets. That's when people lost sight of what was important. She'd made a promise long ago that it wouldn't happen to her. While she thought Khari's viewpoint was a tad naive, she agreed with the sentiment, “To hear you talk, you'd make a fine captain yourself.”

She arched her back in a cat-like stretch and sighed softly, plopping back against the boulder. She settled into her cloak once more, and rolled her eyes up towards the sky. Stars had already come up against the darker smudges, illuminating the eerie green tear in the distance. “There's not much I wouldn't do for them,” it came out as a soft whisper, a truer declaration that often frightened her. Just how far she'd be willing to go.

“Good to know.” Khari seemed satisfied, though what she’d been seeking in the first place wasn’t obvious, and the conversation mostly lapsed into comfortable silence thereafter, the three of them watching the sky slowly darken into night.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

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#, as written by Talisman
"Ahh, welcome back Chancellor, I do hope your travels found you well," Lady Marceline replied as politely as she could. However, despite whatever message she had written on her face, speaking with Chancellor Roderick would be the furthest thing from enjoyable. As it stood, she had awaited outside the double doors of the Chantry for the arrival of their local corsair, whom she'd sent Larissa to fetch not too long ago. Instead, now she had to deal with Roderick, who'd made it quite clear of what he thought of their Inquisition.

Or rather, heretics in his words. "I'm curious ambassador," he said, pulling up to Marceline and crossing his arms. The appearance of the Chancellor and the way that his voice seemed to carry had drawn the attention of some of the Inquisition's forces, as well as a few of the mages. "As to how the Inquisition and its Heralds will restore the order that you've promised." Marceline's lips remained in a tight, even line that's become her default.

"Of course you are, Lord Chancellor, however I unfortunately find myself asking the same of the Chantry. Tell me, has the Chantry sent you back in an effort to offer aid in closing the breach and recovering the peace we seek, or is it to just denounce us as heretics and heathens," she asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity. She already knew the answer, it was the only thing the Chantry had done since the conclave. The Inquisition seemed to be a unifying force, for both the right and wrong reasons.

Chancellor Roderick guffawed at the notion, "Offer aid to the rebel Inquistion and the murderers you call the Heralds of Andraste? I think not!" There was a grumble among the crowd, and it was not in favor of the Chancellor's viewpoint. The Inquisition had heard about the selflessness of Lady Estella, and they respected Romulus's efforts. To hear their Heralds called murderers did not sit well with them, and Marceline could not blame them.

She narrowed her eyes and her chin lifted as she looked down on the Chancellor. "Those two murderers as you say, have done more to restore order than the Chantry has even attempted," she said coolly.

Roderick returned her stare with one of his own. "Careful ambassador. What you say is blasphemy. Order can never truly be restored so as long as this rebellion is allowed to fester."

Lady Marceline simply allowed herself a tight smile and nodded. "We shall see about that Lord Chancellor. Personally, I am quite fond of our chances," she said, ending with a look at the gathered crowd. There were more grumbles, this time of agreement with Marceline's sentiments. She then tilted her head and curtsied, keeping ever polite. "Now Chancellor, if the Chantry decides to do something other than cry heresy, please. Allow me to be the first to hear." It would be immensely difficult to march upon the Inquisition without soldiers after all.

"As you all were," she called, turning to the crowd that had formed. Eventually they began to disperse as well, leaving only a rather upset looking Roderick glaring a hole into Marceline's forehead.

It was only then when Zahra showed herself. She'd been in the crowd, only revealing the wild-haired captain when they began dispersing back to their duties, or lack thereof, anyhow. Her expression spoke volumes, though it seemed to direct itself at the Chantry's representative. Her eyebrows were pinched together, hooding livid eyes and a bared scowl that could've tickled itself into a grin at a moment's notice. She took a few leveled steps towards him and turned on her heels, perhaps thinking better of it, though she clicked her tongue, in disgust rather than amusement and faced Marceline instead.

“Well. I'd say that went rather well, even without Mr. Dour's cooperation,” her comment might've held a bit of humor, but it was obvious that she held some sort of reservation towards the pious old man. She flagged an eyebrow, and glanced over her shoulder, leveling the Chancellor with a glare of her own, in order to force him to finally look away. A crooked laugh sounded as she placed her hands over her hips, and faced Marceline once more, “Shall we? I'm sure you've called me for a reason, and as much as I'd like to say that we're in good company...”

Larissa stepped out from behind Zahra and gave Marceline a nod before she stood beside her with her hands resting in her sleeves. Just like Marceline, she wore the same impassive face as she watched a vein on Roderick's neck grow in size. "Thank you, Larissa. If you would be so kind as to see to the Chancellor, I shall discuss our business with our good captain here." Larissa looked at Marceline with a slightly raised brow. She'd certainly have to make it up to the woman later, dumping the Chancellor off on her like that, but she doubted he'd approve of the business she was to discuss with Zahra.

Eventually, Larissa nodded and turned to Chancellor, and simply settled in. Marceline allowed an apologetic look to pass over her features before she turned to Zahra. "Come, we can talk in my office," she said and turned to enter the Chantry. They passed through the double doors and passed through the main hall, passing Michaël and Pierre along the way. Pierre sat on one of the benches with a book on Orlesian history in hand, his father watching over his shoulder. As they passed, both men looked up and waved, Marceline smiling at them genuinely and returned the wave.

They took a left and entered the small office that Marceline basically lived out of now. A desk sat in the middle of the room, full of scrolls of parchment and sheafs of paper in varying stages of being written. Marceline offered Zahra a chair that faced the desk as she went to a corner of the room that sat a small table that held a bottle of wine and accompanying glasses. She already began to pour herself a glass before she offered one to Zahra "Can I offer you a glass as well? It is a pinot noir, just arrived from my winery back home."

Zahra followed Marceline, matching her pace, in relative silence. She seemed awfully comfortable in it anyhow. A small smile played on her lips as they walked. Her bright eyes flicked across the main expanse of the building and seemed to be picking apart the tapestries, and the neat line of candles scattered against the walls. While she made no comment, her curiosity was obvious. When Marceline led them both into one of the side chambers, she immediately dropped down in the proffered chair. It was only when there was an offer of wine that her attention perked up once more, drawing her lidded gaze to the bottle she was holding. “You know how to steer your way into my heart. Of course, thank you.”

Marceline smiled and continued to pour the second glass as well, and when both were full, she crossed back over the room to hand Zahra the glass. Instead of moving around her desk to take a seat behind it however, Marceline instead chose to lean gently against the corner. "Forgive me if I do not sit with you, I have sat for far too long and I wish to stretch my back," she said, gesturing to the pile of neatly stacked parchments. "With the support of the free mages, we are starting to be taken seriously, and I find myself fielding inquiries from many inquisitive sources."

At that, Marceline put the glass to her lips and took the first sip of her wine. The taste held a sweet warmth with a tart ending. Upon swallowing, Marceline swished the glass and watched as the liquid spun around the bottom. "But we have come to speak business yes? It is because of the mages that I asked to speak with you today." She halted the spinning of the liquid and cupped the glass with both hands on her lap, straightening her back in the process. The sheaves of paper would make her into a bent old woman long before she got there naturally.

"To close the Breach, we are bound to require a large amount of power. The mages are only but a step in that direction. I have already set up a number of legitimate lyrium supply lines, but I am aware that you are, shall we say, a woman of resources, no? The Inquisition requires every advantage we can afford you understand?" She was dancing around the word smuggling of course. She did not intend to ask Zahra the details of the matter if she was in fact able to procure another source of lyrium.

Zahra accepted the glass gracefully and held it close to her nose, inhaling before taking a sip of her own. From the expression on her face, it certainly was a well-chosen vintage. She swished the contents a couple times, and took a much larger mouthful, closing her eyes for a few moments. When she opened them, she appeared mildly apologetic. “Swimming political currents, and still keeping up with the paperwork,” she noted with a curled lip, eying the piles of parchments tidily stacked across her desk, “I don't envy your duties.”

The captain bobbed her head in a curt nod, indicating that Marceline could continue explaining why she'd been called down here. Her eyes, half-lidded and perpetually amused, drifted away from the rim of her glass, and settled back on Marceline's face. Zahra's countenance changed at the mention of business, taking on an air of earnestness. Like an eel coiling for an opportunity. Her smile simmered down to an inquisitive line, though her eyes lit up with bright-eyed interest. “You've the right of it, Lady Marceline,” her voice had a tickle of laughter in it, though she disclosed no reasons as to why, “Say the word, and your mages will have another lyrium supply in their services.”

She tapped two fingers against her chin and tilted her head to the side, cradling the glass of wine in her lap, “Though I'll have to ask if you've any wagons to spare. And horses to draw them. I'm afraid a boats all I have, and unfortunately it isn't able to sprout legs.” Zahra finished the wine and leaned forward to place it back onto her desk, “That's all I'd require to do as you ask.”

"That is unfortunate," Marceline agreed with a small laugh of her own. Afterward though, her lips set into a thin line and she began to process. "You need not worry about the wagons, they will be supplied. I shall speak to Ser Leonhardt about requisitioning them, and also to Master Dennet to gather the horses to draw them." Marceline paused for a moment before she leaned backward over her desk and plucked a scroll of parchment expertly, bringing it back and depositing it into Zahra's hands.

"It is a map of the land between here and the Waking Sea. If you would indicate the routes you believe to be most efficient, I will send letters to the local Banns to ensure that the roads are safe to travel. I would not put anyone in unnecessary danger if I can help it," she said, though she neglected to reveal that she did not want the supplies to fall into the hands of bandits.

Zahra waggled her eyebrows, and fanned her hands out wide, “With both our efforts, what couldn't we achieve?” Even without the mirthful tilt to her tone, she appeared pleased by the prospects. She lounged back in her seat and crossed a leg over her knee, taking up the scroll of parchment Marceline dropped in her hands and smoothing it across her lap. She hummed a soft tune and traced a finger across various lines, where roads and smaller villages lied. An approving smile crossed her lips, as she looked back to Marceline.

“And I'll have Nuka accompany our little caravan to ensure the supplies reaches its destination all proper-like,” she added as she rolled the piece of parchment back up and tapped her knee with it, “So, this concludes our business. Seems to me, no loose ends that needs tying. Is there anything else you'd like of me?”

Marceline shook her head, "No, I do not believe so. Thank you for assistance Captain," she said with a grateful nod. Before she could stand and see Zahra out, however, the door opened behind them and Larissa stepped inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, the serene and even look she wore broke away into a furrowed brow and scrunched nose. It was clear that her time spent with the Chancellor were not altogether enjoyable. Marceline offered her an apologetic look before the elf spoke first. "I know many songs and stories, and even I was unaware of how many ways it is possible to call someone a heathen," she said. Marceline found it somewhat difficult to stifle a small chuckle.

Quickly, Marceline coughed to cover herself and spoke, "I apologize for putting you through that Larissa. You have the rest of the day to yourself. Mother sent a package from home, you are welcome to it," she said, indicating to the package that rested in the opposite corner of the room. Larissa's eyes alighted on the package and went to it, curiously checking the contents. Eventually, she produced a book, Hard in Hightown written extravagantly on the cover.

"Ah, give Lady LĂ©cuyer my thanks."

Zahra did little in the means of containing her laughter, though she had enough decency to offer her own apologies, “Who else could stave off his insults so easily?” She'd already risen from her chair and lingered closer to the doorway, peering curiously over Larissa's shoulder when she fiddled with the contents of the package. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes when she held the book aloft, and the quirking smile broke into a full-blown grin. “Lovely book, that. Best enjoyed in a quiet space, if you take my meaning.”

"That is the plan, Captain," Larissa answered with a smile.

Lady Marceline sighed, but a smile was on her lips as well. The poor girl deserved it after dealing with the Chancellor.

"Captain," Marceline nodded and stood to see the woman out, before turning to her desk to resume her work

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
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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
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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: 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

0.00 INK

#, 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: Zahra Tavish

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Skyhold had many hiding spots, it hadn't been very difficult to spirit herself away. Out of sympathetic sights, and far from any soft murmurs, belying condolences that only meant well. But Zahra wasn't sure what to do with those words. They lessened no burdens, and her thin-lipped responses shut whatever doors they were trying to pry open. She wasn't entirely sure what to do with herself in this case. Where should she go? What place did she have here, in these dark times? She'd been wholly unprepared for this kind of loss. Or maybe she'd never experienced it at all. Sometimes, she felt as if she were still sitting in those mountains, surrounded by glades of snow: numb, empty. As if she were distancing herself from the emotions she ought to have been feeling and coming up short. She knuckled at her eyes and drew herself tighter against the stone wall. She supposed she looked like a mess. An ugly, weak woman who'd boasted her worth to the Inquisition and her crew, and failed both.

If her clothes were anything to go by, it seemed as if her languid tastes had subdued themselves to ripped hand-me-downs. Old trousers, and a shirt that was obviously much too large for her small frame. Hanging from her shoulders as it did. Zahra didn't seem to care, bundled up in Skyhold's ramparts. She'd found herself a little nook. A flat expanse of stonework that led away from the towering walls, and roaming guards. A perfect spot to continue stewing in her grief.

Red-rimmed eyes were puffy from weeping in the darker parts of the fortress. Pathetic, how quickly she fell apart. The remainder of her crew had joined them and positioned themselves within the walls. There was a tavern in the making on the main level. Already drawing familiar faces inside, where a warm fireplace crackled and spit. No doubt serving drinks to those who would rather lick their wounds in prevailing ways. Once upon time, she might have done the same. But this, this was different. This couldn't be remedied with any amount of blackout nights, suckling at bottles until all of the wounds felt less raw. An untouched bottle sat beside her leather boots. She could, if she'd wanted to, but what difference would that make? None. Nothing would bring Aslan back to her. She drew shaky fingers through the mess of unwashed hair, pushing it out of her face.

She supposed she could have blamed the Inquisition or the heralds it supported. Perhaps, Leon for not dying instead. Or the damned tears in the skies, green toxic leeches spewing only the vilest creatures down across their heads. Might've made more sense to blame those twisted stone-encrusted abominations, serving whichever deluded leader that had deemed the Inquisition dangerous enough to slaughter. Or else, maybe the dragon that burned Haven to the ground. There were so many possibilities, so many scapegoats. None of them felt right. Most of all, she blamed herself. As ridiculous as she knew it was, she'd promised long ago that she'd protect everyone under her flag—the Riptide, who had become her family. They weren't children. They weren't incapable of defending themselves, least of all Aslan. But she'd failed them. And now she was too much of a coward to face her remaining friends, allies, family members.

Something with weight settled over her shoulders—it didn’t take long to realize that it was actually a physical weight, one that brought some relief from the wind outside. A blanket, it would seem, thick and soft. Someone had draped it over her. That same someone settled next to her where she sat, breathing out a soft exhale that could have been a sigh. A short, quiet metal-on-stone clanking accompanied the entrance of some kind of canister into her line of vision, and then the hand that held it moved away.

“That’s soup, if you’re interested.” The voice belonged to Estella, who’d sat herself with her knees pulled to her chest, and now wrapped her arms around them for warmth, probably. She didn’t seem to mind Zahra’s obvious lack of current cleanliness—she in fact gave it no acknowledgement at all. “But I’d understand if you weren’t.” She turned her eyes outward in front of them, not that there was much to see. Stone, a slight wall as the parapet edged the grey square they occupied, a level or two above the ground.

Zahra startled as soon as the blanket dropped across her shoulders, though it only showed in a flinch. She'd been far too fixated on her thoughts to notice approaching footfalls. How she hadn't noticed anyone descending the stairs, and coming close enough to lay a blanket across her shoulders, she wasn't sure. If this was a battle, she supposed she would've been at the mercy of a blade. But she was safe, in Skyhold. Surrounded by allies, friends, and friendly faces. She hadn't noticed how cold she actually felt until her hands drew away from her knees, drawing the blanket under her chin like a cape. Her shoulders slumped when she noted that the individual was in the process of sitting beside her. In the state that she was in, and even as miserable as she felt, she couldn't help feel the unseemly bite of embarrassment.

Her stomach gave a small lurch. A surprising gurgle. Hadn't she eaten? She couldn't remember. Either way, she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. She eyed the metal canister and glanced sideways, studying Estella's face for a few moments before reaching out beneath the warmth of her blanket and scooping it up in both hands, “Thanks. I, uh. I appreciate it.” She'd wanted to say that she hadn't needed to bring anything to her, and wondered how she had found her in the first place, but she was tired. Pushing people away took too much effort and there was a frankness there, in Estella's actions, that deserved better. She brought with her an unusual warmth, drudging up no judgments. She unscrewed the cap and took a sip. It was a rich broth. Hearty. Tasted far better than anything she'd eaten recently. Hunger had a funny way of doing that.

Estella's lips quirked slightly by way of response, but it faded quickly, and she simply nodded instead. She didn’t speak further for quite a while, letting Zahra consume her soup in peace and quiet. There was the occasional sound from below, where troops moved about the bailey area or trained, and a few snatches of conversation occasionally filtered up far enough for them to hear, but nothing too substantial.

It was several minutes later before either of them said anything. “I lost my whole squad, at the Conclave,” Estella murmured, her tone so soft it was almost hard to hear, despite the fact that she was sitting close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “My first real mission as their leader, as a Lieutenant. The first time I was the one responsible for their safety—every single one of them is gone, and I’m not.” The way she delivered the words was subdued, but there was no mistaking the ache in them. She turned her head slightly, tipping it back against the stone and angling it in Zahra’s direction, smiling sadly.

Finishing the last dredges of soup from the canister, Zahra settled it beside the lone bottle of rum and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She leaned her head on the back of the slanted stone at their backs. Perfect for reclining. How long had she been sitting here, anyhow? Far longer than was appropriate by anyone's standards. She was happy for the company, even if she didn't make for the best of company. Silent as she was, with little more than a twitch of a smile on her lips. A far cry from the woman who'd dragged Estella on the bench in Redcliffe's seaside tavern. How much had changed in such a short period of time. She tipped her head to the side, regarding Estella as she broke the silence between them.

She would've been stupid to assume she was the only wounded party within the Inquisition. Everyone had their own stories, though it still surprised her to hear that Estella had lost so much. She still managed to smile and laugh and fight for a cause greater than herself. And live, for herself and for others. How long had it taken her to recover? Her wounds might have sealed up into scars, but the same nagging anguish played across her features when she spoke of them. Leadership had an awful habit of burdening your shoulders and clamping responsibilities on your ankles until you felt as if you were solely culpable for their actions, their inaction, their livelihoods. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment and she feared as if she would crumble here, in front of someone else. She bit the inside of her lip and willed within herself a calmness she did not feel.

“I know it’s not my fault, intellectually at least. But it still feels like my fault, in here.” She tapped her sternum with an open hand.

“How did you move on?” Zahra's voice sounded off in her own ears, unfamiliar and hoarse, “I don't know how to stop feeling as if... I should have done more. How do you stop feeling that loss?” Avoiding how she was feeling wasn't the answer either, but navigating grief was not something she was familiar with. She needed to know with a desperation that frightened her. Any manner of salvation that could drag her away from the darkness that clouded her thoughts and made her mornings listless.

Who could she blame, if not herself? Zahra bit at her lip and swallowed around the lump in her throat, “You know. He was the one who suggested I contact the Inquisition. I thought it was, I don't know. A fool's errand. He thought differently. A greater cause, he said. He was the best parts of me, Stel.” Her voice cracked and softened to a whisper, “How do you keep leading if you can't even protect anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Estella admitted quietly, her eyes falling to her hands. “My teacher, whenever I encounter something I think I can’t do, but it’s really important, he just
 he reminds me that it’s not about what I think I can do. It’s about what I must do. I think that helps, somehow.” She sighed heavily, shaking her head a bit, a stray lock of hair falling free from her braid to tickle the side of her face.

“I keep going, and leading, I guess, because
 even if I don’t think I can, even if I’m worried about all the ways I could mess it up or get people hurt
” Her brows furrowed; clearly this wasn’t something she had worked out all the way for herself, either, and the words were slow to come, almost as if she had to fight to even speak them. “I have to. Your crew needs you, and I don’t think they expect you to be perfect as a leader. They just expect you to be there, and to do everything you can for them. Even when it hurts.” She took in a deep breath.

“Sorry. I don’t actually know if that helps you at all. I’m still
 trying to figure this out too. I just remind myself, as often as I can, that other people are suffering, and there’s something I can do about it. So
 I try to do that. Day by day.”

The whole scenario Zahra was concocting in her head was impossible. She would never again hear Aslan click his tongue against his teeth and look at her like she was out of her mind, never break the silence with his baritone, forcing everyone to listen because he seldom did, never linger at port side with her to watch the sunset. Never again. And even if Estella had no swift measures for mending weeping wounds, her words helped. What she was saying helped. Or maybe, just being there helped. She wasn't sure, if she was sure of anything at all. What she must do then. Like Lieutenants and heralds and commanders, being Captain meant that awful things would happen on her watch. She watched Estella from the corner of her eye and exhaled sharply. She should not falter as she did. It was a lesson she had difficulty wrapping herself around, but it was important nonetheless.

A short bark of laughter. Or a ragged sob, sifted from her throat. She mashed her palms against her eyes and sniffled. It took her a moment to regain her composure, and against whatever odds she was stacking against herself, she did. Zahra straightened her shoulders, imagined Aslan saying these same kinds of things, in less words and took deeper breath, softening the sharp edges of her face. She hoped she looked thankful, because she was. She wasn't alone. Especially not with these feelings. They were not unique. As sordid as everything felt, there was a connection there. A small comfort that made her shoulders feel a little lighter, “It has. It does. Thanks for coming here. I think I can do that. Take it day by day.”

After another bout of silence, Zahra knocked shoulders with Estella and chuckled. It was a small, feeble thing. But it was there, an improvement on the phantom who'd been sitting here moments go, “Suppose I should go wash myself. I'm surprised you managed to sit here this long.”

Estella huffed softly, a little touch of laughter entering her eyes. “Well, you know. I wasn’t going to say anything, but
” She wrinkled her nose a little bit, clearly in jest, then stood, offering a hand down to Zahra to help her up.

Zahra snatched up her hand and rose to her feet with Estella's aid, keeping a firm grip on the blanket. The brief flicker of humor seemed to rejuvenate, far better than a drink might have. She sniffed at her collar and sighed, “I'll have to take care of that then. I have a feeling that other people aren't as tolerant as you.”

“And
 you’re welcome. If you ever want to talk about it more, or about Aslan, I’m here.”

The Captain's smile was genuine when she said, “I may take you up on that. Maybe, under better circumstances. Inside. It's damn cold out here.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
While Zahra couldn't entirely rid herself of all those lingering fears, nor could she rightly face her crew until she pieced her words together properly, she'd been able to distract herself enough by exploring Skyhold's many hidey holes. Hidden alcoves, dusty spider-infested rooms, a crumbling window leading out into the open clouds, and a frumpy garden that had the potential to look splendid with the help of green thumbs. Whoever had made this their home before hadn't spared any expenses. She couldn't profess to understanding the complexity of brickwork, but she'd been around enough boats to know that carpentry of this magnitude would have taken skilful hands. She'd run her hands along the bricks and plodded underneath great statues, feathering fingers across their toes, before exploring the endless rows of books in Skyhold's library. Never had she seen so many books, but it was the scenery that seduced her back to the battlements.

And why waste such beautiful sights alone? Zahra made a stop in the kitchens and pilfered braided pretzel doughs coated with cinnamon and sugar. Fresh from the ovens, and neatly tied in a cloth bundle, tucked into the hem of her billowy white shirt. Fortunately for her prospective companions, she'd bathed herself and smelled every part of the dilettante, sauntering pirate-Captain of the Riptide they'd met on the Storm Coast's shoreline. Perfumed to the bones, as fragrant as a rose petals. She'd donned appropriate clothes as well. There were similarities between Haven and Skyhold. Both were cold as tits, and she'd rather not shiver around the keep as if she were stark naked. Heavy leathers over a loose shirt with a sash wound her waist. Leather trousers, patched at the knees and finished off with knee-high boots. She'd forgone wearing her cape. Instead, she'd found a soft pair of gloves and a checkered handkerchief to bind her exposed throat. For now, that was fine.

She rounded into the barracks and swept around tables, winking to the nearby soldier who'd looked up from whetting the pointy part of an axe. A laugh crackled from her lips, tipped them into a smile that felt unfamiliar. Like a long-lost friend who'd decided to visit. How long had it taken her to shake off that miserable stupor? Weeks. But someone had told her that that was all it took. Taking one day at a time. It was something she was willing to try. She didn't linger long enough to see whether she'd incited a reaction. Instead, Zahra tiptoed up the stairs and grinned between the wooden railings, waggling fingers creeping between them, “Khari. Khari. Are you awake?”

Of course, it was fairly early.

Despite the hour, the response was quick enough that she must have been awake already, and one of the doors at the hallway the stairs landed on cracked open, a head of red hair poking out around it, the particular wild combination of curls and waves unmistakable for anyone else. Khari grinned when her eyes met Zahra’s, and stepped out beyond the door, closing it with deliberate care behind her. Probably whoever else occupied it was still in bed.

It looked like she’d already been out and about—her face had the slight pink tinge of someone recently scrubbed, and her plaited hair was drying still, but her clothes were the ones she donned after her morning exercise routines: loose, dark, held to herself only where absolutely necessary, the wide neck of the dark blue men’s tunic nearly reaching out to the edges of her shoulders. She had freckles everywhere, it seemed. “Mornin’, Zee. You smell like breakfast. Don’t suppose you’re looking for someone to help you eat it?” She crossed her arms over her abdomen, hiking an eyebrow. Clearly, she thought that was precisely the case.

Curiosity itched at Zahra's elbows, flagging eyebrows high on her forehead. She pouted her lips, and thought better of it. She'd already jumped to the conclusion that Khari had someone lounging in her room. In her bed, more like. Even if she was mistaken, she'd like to think she wasn't. Besides, she could tease the details out of the flaming-haired lass later. Deft fingers fished inside her shirt and produced the still-warm bundle of pastry-goodness. She hefted it in her hands, mischievous eyes alight in the soft darkness. From the large window spanning the other side of the staircase, orange shades were already casting themselves off in the distance. A pastel glow of rouge, not unlike a painting. The sun would rise soon, so they would have to hurry.

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” she crooked her finger and indicated that she should follow her down the stairs, “but first we should creep down to Rom's chambers and smuggle him with us. Honestly, I'm not sure where he sleeps. I've found the perfect spot for a morning snack. I promise you won't regret it.” Zahra wiggled her eyebrows, plopped her elbow down on the landing and cupped her chin into an upturned palm. Bundle balanced on her hip. She looked every part a willing conspirator in a dastardly plot. Or else, a giggling gossiper with a penchant for plucking her fingers in everyone's pies. “Unless your bed-warmer is better company. But, I must say, these are the best smelling sweets I've gotten my hands on yet.”

Khari had looked like she was just as happy to be involved with the plan, and had parted her lips as if to speak, but then her brows furrowed, and she looked a bit confused, reaching up to run a hand over some wayward curls. They didn't get any neater. “My what, now?” It would appear she didn’t know exactly what to make of the last statement. Perhaps the term bed-warmer was somehow unfamiliar to her.

A moment of silence passed between them before Zahra pulled away from the landing and possibly looked just as confused. If Khari was acting coy or pretending as if she didn't know what she was talking about because she wanted to keep her bedroom liaison a secret... she was doing a mighty fine job. She slid her tongue on the back of her teeth and tilted her head to the side, eying the door Khari had carefully closed behind her, “A tussle. Making the beast with two backs. Shaking of the sheets. Boarding someone's ship.” She counted off the euphemisms with her fingers and looked mildly surprised when Khari's expression hadn't changed. She'd always been presumptuous about people, but she supposed she'd been wrong before. Not often, mind you. “You're not sleeping with anyone?” Her question was as frank as the wibbling smile twisting at her lips.

“Oh.” Realization dawned on Khari almost as slowly as the sun rose outside, and she met Zahra’s eyes. “You’re asking if I’m having sex with anybody.” For all the frankness of the question, its rephrasing was half again as blunt, and Khari didn’t say it with any embarrassment, just a lingering remnant of confusion. Her fingers moved to one of her tapered ears, and she tugged on it a bit. “Why are people suddenly so interested to know that?” She sounded perplexed more than annoyed, though, and shook her head, dropping the hand.

“Nope. The only person sleeping in there besides me is my bunkmate. Widget. Nice girl. Works with mechanics, if I understood her properly.” She shrugged, already unconcerned with the whole thing, and raised both eyebrows at Zahra. “If you want to see if Rom’ll join us, I know where he’d be.”

A laugh chortled from Zahra's throat. Far too unexpected to stifle down. It ended in an ungraceful snort before she managed to regain her composure. Coupled with Khari's utter disregard for sultry eventides, and a candor that rivaled her own... it was too much to take. Even without the toothy grin tipped across her lips, it was easy to tell how amused she was. She offered a simple shrug and appeared mildly disappointed by the news, “Who knows. I've always been the curious sort.” She licked her lips, and raised another eyebrow, already speculating on her words, “I do wonder why I'm not the only one who's asking.”

She let the subject die. For now. Organizations this large would never be without succulent scandals. Interesting buzzes, whiffed from careless mouths. Perhaps, someone in the kitchen would know about such meddling disclosures. Taverns often parsed traces, but nothing that would sate her palate. As a Captain anchored to the lands, she had to find things to amuse herself with. This would do, in between night-time explorations. Aside from her own dwindling prospects amongst the Inquisition's residents, her bed was disappointingly cold. She supposed that was partially her fault.

“Let's fetch him then. You lead the way. I would suggest scraping up something warmer.”

Khari shrugged. “Nah, it’s practically summer. I’ll live.” She bounded down the stairs, surprisingly light on her feet for someone who usually charged into any given situation, and led them out of the barracks building. The fabric of her shirt was thick, and the cold didn’t seem to bother her overmuch in the time it took them to cross the bailey, and then they were ascending the stairs to the main building, the castle proper.

A very small number of people were around for breakfast already, though at this hour, most of them sat by themselves and ate while still trying to wake up. One fellow even looked to have nodded off next to his plate, and Khari snickered, diverting a moment to bring her hand down on the table beside his head. The collision rattled tableware and shot him right up in his seat, to blink rapidly while she cackled at him.

It didn’t take him long to recognize her, and he scowled. “Oh, sod off, you.” He waved a hand as though she were a fly he could swat away, but Khari only grinned at him and flitted off in her own sweet time.

“Good morning to you, too, Goram. You still owe me twenty silver, so don’t forget to cough it up next time we get paid.” Returning to Zahra, still wearing the grin, she steered them through the main hall and to a door on the immediate right as they faced the dais.

“Rom sleeps in the undercroft.” The door led them down a short hallway to another, which Khari rapped on with bare knuckles, loud, but not alarmingly so. “Hey Rom! I’ve got Zahra, and she has breakfast. You wanna open up?”

“And an unforgettable sight,” Zahra catcalled from behind Khari's shoulder. She kept the bundle of sweets balanced across her hip like a wicker basket teeming with fish. Old habits died hard. She flagged her eyebrows up, and leveled her voice a little lower, “The Undercroft, hm? Skyhold's full of surprises.”

From the other side of the door, they could hear heavy footfalls thudding to the floor, before the room's sole occupant unlocked the door and allowed it to swing open. Romulus stood just inside, bare-chested but obviously not just sprung from his bed, revealing scars, old burns and other damage. He'd worked up a sheen of sweat all over his dusky skin, most likely from the weights and somewhat rudimentary workout equipment he'd acquired and assembled along the wall to their left.

"We eating here, or elsewhere?" he queried, turning away from the door and obviously allowing them entry if they wished. He made his way over to a metal bar suspended horizontally out from the wall, snatching a towel from the back of a nearby chair and wiping at his face and neck. A water skin had been laid upon the seat; he scooped it up and squeezed a drink into his mouth, swishing the water around momentarily before swallowing.

It wasn't a bad spot, if they wanted to eat there. Fresh air was constantly coming in from the outside, keeping the place cool but not uncomfortably cold, and the scenery visible made for quite the view. There wasn't a great place for a group to eat yet, but the floor was clear further in, and clean enough to lay a blanket down upon.

Zahra let herself in as soon as the door swung open and laughed as soon as she spotted the Undercroft's spacious opening into the wide world Skyhold sat upon. Stalagmites hung from the mouth's opening but mountains could be seen pebbled in the distance, creating an illusion of a grand city composed of peaks, crags, palisades. Fortunately, the sun had not yet crept up the sky. Despite the mentioned chill whisking into the chamber, it was pleasant. Whoever had been here before had found it prudent enough to build a balcony leading outside. Sturdy, she hoped. She could bring them elsewhere at a later date. She swung around on her heels, and prodded Romulus gently in the shoulder, eyes alight, “Who knew you were hiding such a sight.” Her mouth pulled up at the edges. If she were talking about anything more than the scene outside, she gave no indication.

“What about over there? Where we can see the sky properly,” she fumbled with the knot tied around the bundle and swore under her breath when it did not come undone as easily as she expected. Bloody sailors' knots. Perhaps, too effective. It took her a moment before she unraveled the damned thing, though she kept it closed. Her stomach flopped and made an unseemly grumble. After all that slinking around, even she had been growing hungry. Had she brought her cloak with her, she might've laid it down for them. Zahra glanced up and flagged her eyebrows, “You don't have a soft blanket we can use, do you?”

Romulus made his way over to the large chest beside his bed, pulling it open and grabbing a folded grey blanket from inside, which he proceeded to toss in Khari's direction. "It's a bit better than the last basement I lived in," he agreed, pulling out a shirt next and draping it over himself.

Khari snatched the blanket from midair with a short laugh. “A bit, he says.” With a snap and a deft motion, she flicked the blanket open to its full size and guided its descent to the floor, spreading it over the most obvious spot for their breakfast before taking her boots off with her feet and setting herself down on a corner. “All right, Zee, you’ve gotta stop holding out on us. Gimme.” She made exaggerated grasping motions with both hands, but clearly her demanding attitude was farcical. Romulus took a seat next to her, his feet already bare to begin with.

The Captain's laugh sounded more like hawking bird than anything else. It usually came unexpectedly. Her curiosity had already been piqued at the sight of Romulus's chambers. Weights strewn about on the walls. A place fit to train the most disciplined fighters. She'd taken note of the scars riddling his body. A flicker of a glance, barely perceptible. She'd seen such things before in her travels. Rivain rubbed elbows with its neighboring realm, Tevinter. All too common to have some of her own people snatched up and whisked away. Onto boats, into shackles. And now, there was mention of another basement? Much worse than this. She had no doubts that his past held many stories. Difficult ones to recall, no doubt. Another time, another place. As nosy as she was, wheedling him with questions was hardly appropriate breakfast conversation.

She, too, kicked off her boots and flopped down beside them. “Ladies and gents,” she carefully folded down the corners, revealing the aforementioned breakfast she'd been carrying around. Immediately, the smell of cinnamon, butter and nutmeg wafted up to meet them. Spices she recognized from her own village. Warm, gooey spirals of bread, drizzled with sugar. She'd brought six of them in total. Now that she thought about it... something this fancy might've belonged to someone else. An important figure. A visiting lordling. It was a strange thing to happen onto, in a chilly fortress. She shrugged to herself and studied their faces, “may I present breakfast. We can toast to the cooks of Skyhold.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Khari, hardly one to stand on ceremony, plucked one of the treats from its spot in the basket, electing to eat by unwinding it, breaking off chunks, and then chewing those. She hummed with approval in between bites. “I’m not normally much of a sweets person, but these are something else.” Refined she was not, but at the very least she didn’t stuff her face, and managed to avoid dropping anything in her lap. “Thanks, Zee. This was a great idea."

“Delicious, no?” Zahra's fingers danced a few inches from the warm swirls of cinnamon bread and stopped on one that had a large spattering of sugar on top. She tore her own into mouth-sized bites, and leveled Romulus with a stare. She'd brought this for everyone. Unless she'd chosen poorly. Given the state of his chambers, and whatever drills he ran himself through... perhaps, the breakfast was not up to par. She'd always assumed soldiers dined on gruel. Things scrounged up from the forests. Romulus, however, did not look like a soldier. Maybe he just didn't like sweets. She licked her fingers and leaned back on her elbows. Propping herself up just so.

“I didn't get the chance to say,” she began to say, staring out into the open space cut into the Undercroft. Already, the sun was crawling up the sky and peeking between the mountain peaks, casting smears of blistering red. At this time of day, even the sickly green tears couldn't rob the sky of its beauty, “that I was happy to see both of you. After Haven.” Zahra snorted and shoved the remainder of bread in her mouth. Stifling the awkward laugh bubbling up from her guts. Of course, she'd heard of their return but hadn't immediately sought them out. To see her in such a sad state, she wouldn't have that. Now that she was doing better, she could face them properly. “I'm glad both of you survived. Wouldn't be much fun without you.”

"I'm glad we made it, too," Romulus said, testing this cinnamon bread for himself, and clearly finding it to his liking. He leaned back, propping himself up with a hand on the blanket while the other carried the delectable treat. "I'd thought the Inquisition was almost done before," he said, chewing through a mouthful, "but now it seems like we've only just gotten started." Khari hummed an enthusiastic agreement, but she was clearly busy chewing.

“A dragon, a crazed tall man and an army of bejeweled Templars,” Zahra said as she smacked her lips and let herself flop entirely onto her back. If she didn't know better, it sounded like the beginning of an awful tale. Something a bard would sing around a campfire. An unlikely happening that children sniggered at. Though it was anything but funny. She might have once said that the seas were tumultuous. Far more dangerous. An arbitrary ocean of privateers, pirates and smugglers alike. But these lands were surprisingly treacherous. The dangers, thus far, spanned Thedas. The world seemed much larger in the Inquisition. She looked up at them from her vantage point and smirked. “Let's make a pact to stay alive until the end of this, then.” She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes skyward, “It's a pirate thing. Sacred as a spell.”

It was a lie. An obvious one. Though she doubted that they'd know the difference. She'd made one with her crew. Each and every one. And while she could not guarantee any effectiveness, it meant she cared for their welfare.

“Why not? I’ve got no plans to die.” Khari grinned, holding up a hand like one might swear an oath or something. “Still have other important stuff to do when this is done, and all.” By now it was common-enough knowledge that this particular elf fancied herself a knight-to-be, or something of the sort; she didn’t go around shouting it from the rafters, but she didn’t hide it, either, and rumors did tend to circulate, especially the bizarre ones.

“So I won’t get offed if you two don’t. Seems fair to me.”

Who could argue with that logic? Pleased to hear Khari's enthusiasm, and fool enough to continue on with her embarassing tradition, Zahra raised her hand beside hers and swung an expectant gaze towards Romulus, lips still quibbling with a smile.

Romulus had to swallow his food first, but then he grinned. "Deal."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
Someone had been bringing him food.

The most perplexing thing, to Cyrus, was that he’d noticed this. He normally didn’t pay mind to anyone coming by when he was busy with his research—in the past, it had been only servants or slaves slipping in and out with the meals Cassius had ordered them to bring to him. He ignored those delivering the food in the same way he ignored the food itself. It was kinder that way, but it also just came naturally to him. Problems had been more interesting to him than people had for most of his life, and eventually he hadn’t needed to exert any effort to not acknowledge them anymore; it had simply become automatic.

So he was quite nonplussed to learn that he had, in fact, noticed that someone was bringing him things to eat. Probably at regular intervals, though his concept of time tended to fade as he focused as well, so it was difficult to say. It wasn’t Estella; he would have actually been drawn from his internal world if it had been her. He knew no one else who would bother.

He stared for a moment at the plate as though it had offended him. It was still faintly warm, from the steam rising off the potatoes, which meant it had been brought recently. No others remained beside it, his mysterious courier perhaps having cleared away the untouched priors when the new ones were left. He tried to decide when this had started, but found he had no idea how many days he’d been up here to begin with. He took a mental inventory and found himself to be still functional, so less than a fortnight for certain, but when he finally registered the gnawing in his own stomach, he cringed. Definitely more than a few days, then. He’d never required sustenance at the same rate as others, but it was still a necessity.

His eyes narrowed, and he considered the innocent-looking platter before him. The smell was enticing, given his present state, but he resented the idea that someone thought he needed looking after. He was perfectly capable of remembering these things in his own time, and if he hadn’t died from malnutrition yet, he was unlikely to.

“What do you think, Pia?” A short mewl answered him from the worktable he stood at, the still-very-small cat recognizing the name he’d given it. His eyes fell to her, curled atop an open book and regarding him with extremely large green eyes. He frowned. “Yes, I rather thought so, too.” Electing to ignore the plate on the far table, he moved across his workshop, contemplating his cloak for a moment before he decided against it. It was full summer—even in Skyhold, that meant such things could be foregone. “Watch the atelier for me, would you?” Another meow.

Cyrus descended his tower mostly unnoticed. Aside from being dressed better than most, he supposed he didn’t really look that different from anyone else around here. Or rather, the Inquisition’s people were diverse enough to begin with that he wouldn’t stand out. Besides that, he wasn’t about nearly often enough to be immediately recognizable as some of the others were, a marked change from how things had once been. He found he liked it—no one knowing or caring about who he was left him free to do much the same, and pursue whatever interested him with the vast majority of his time.

It was dark outside, which didn’t surprise him as such; he’d had no expectations for what time of day it was, and hadn’t bothered to check out the curtains of his tower windows to find out. The kitchens would probably be closed this late, which left the tavern as far as potential eating locations were concerned. He glided in with little fuss, taking a spot at the near-empty bar and ordering himself something to eat and drink, folding his arms on the counter and leaning against them while he waited.

Near-empty, save for the Riptide's captain slipping into the seat to Cyrus's left. From how quick she'd inhabited the space, it was evident that she had already been in the Herald's Rest. Perhaps, in one of the corners, or traipsing down the stairs leading up to the rooftops. Difficult to say with the dark-skinned woman. As loud as she seemed to be in everyone's company, her footsteps were feather-light and innocuous. Aside from the now-apparent sounds of shifting leathers, easily noted by her close proximity, and slender fingers drumming against the bar top, Zahra seemed comfortable in the silence stretching between them. Wearing a mixture of loose clothes, set low to bare her shoulders, leather trousers, and knee-high boots, she looked as if she might step out and set sail at any moment. Or step into a brothel.

The Herald's Rest was unusually empty, omitting the remnants of her crew strewn about the chairs in the furthest corner of the establishment. Hunched together, tankards full, playing a heated round of Wicked Grace. Bartender, bard, and stragglers remained. Deft fingers plucked at strings, piecing together a mellow tune that filled the reticent spaces. A few moments passed before there was movement beside him. Dusky eyes slid towards Cyrus and appeared to study his face, full-faced and unabashed. She leaned her elbow on the bar top and leaned her cheek against her fist. “To rest, recoup, and persevere,” she lamented and nodded towards the doorway he'd walked in through. Her lips settled into an imploring smile, “which is it that's brought you all the way here?”

Cyrus slid his eyes to the side, cutting a glance at Zahra from the corner of his vision, and his mouth turned up at the corner. The barkeep brought by his tankard, and he hooked a finger over the bottom curve of the handle, dragging it closer towards him over the surface of the polished wood bar. The room smelled like warm spice and alcohol; they probably had some kind of mulled wine going in the back. “Perhaps all three.” He didn’t see the point in giving the bland, factual answer—he didn’t really think it a question asked in spirit of getting one. “Perhaps only a change of scenery.”

He lifted the tankard to his mouth and took a long draught, setting it back down on the bar with a soft clink of tin on wood. “And yourself? It’s a little stereotypical, isn’t it? A privateer in a tavern?”

Another tankard slid in front of the leering Rivaini. It was accompanied by an exasperated grumble and a waggling finger pointing towards the corner of the tavern where her crewmen were growing rowdy, tossing their heads in laughter and shedding garments. A shirt or two, at least. She glanced sidelong and shrugged her shoulders, toothy grin flashing across her features. No one was quite naked. Not entirely. She seemed far too comfortable with the circumstance for it to have been the first time. Her nonchalance did little to pacify the frazzled barkeep. Vigorous scrubbing ensued, though the polished wood had naught a speck of dust or spilled ale on it. Zahra turned her attention back on Cyrus and regarded him with lidded eyes, reaching out with her free hand to drag her tankard closer. She pursed her lips and nodded.

“Haven't you seen the bright-eyed lasses in the Inquisition? They all have a thirst once in awhile,” she sighed and took a long swig of her own ale, setting it back where it had been resting before. A snorting laugh sounded as she straightened her shoulders and slunk a little lower in her chair, draping her arms over the back of it. Like a feline rearranging itself. Languid curves and a devil-may-care expression dancing on her face. There might have been a flicker of disappointment, barely perceptible, “For a place so large, it's certainly bland. Plenty of pretty faces. But, filled with a less adventurous sort. If you take my meaning. What is a privateer to do.”

Cyrus laughed, a rolling chuckle that shook his shoulders more than it projected any sound. His eyes sparked with mirth, and he turned his head to better meet her eyes, a half-smile on his face, a brow angled upwards. “Why captain. When fun cannot be found, it must be made.” His smile spread until it was a bright grin, capricious and fey, with a wolfish slant to it. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers dancing absently across the smooth handle of his tankard. In a conspiratorial tone, he continued.

“And I speak from experience when I say that sometimes, the staid and 'bland' women are much more than they seem. Just because she won’t approach you, or drape herself all over you in public, doesn’t mean there’s nothing interesting there. Sometimes, all it takes is a little subtlety to find it. I’ll wager that’s true even here.” He could say with great confidence that people were much more intriguing when they were genuinely more than they seemed. When he had any cause to interact with them at all, he preferred that—talking to, or in this case, bedding, those who had a bit of complexity to them. Coyness wasn’t required, just nuance.

“Though I suppose that depends on how much time you’re looking to sink into your
 endeavors.” Perhaps he was assuming something untrue, but Zahra seemed quite straightforward in this one respect, and more likely to choose her partners for, as she put it, their evident adventurousness. It was all a matter of taste, really; he wasn’t criticizing anyone, though he supposed it might sound like he was.

Zahra's grin widened slightly, queried with a flagged eyebrow, “Now, where have you been my whole life. I'd swear that I was surrounded by sourpusses. Sticks in the mud.” She straightened up in her chair and crossed a leg over her knee, fingers weaving around her tankard. Her golden-flecked eyes almost glowed in the soft lamplights swaying overhead. It was difficult to tell if she was a nefarious pirate beguiled by furtive banter or simply a vixen-of-a-woman prattling about the Inquisition's latest gossip. It appeared as if she walked a fine line between predatory appetites, and girlish delights. As soon as she Cyrus leaned in, she followed suit: clearly rapt.

She rolled her eyes skyward as if she were chewing on his words, “You've a point.” Then Zahra laughed again. Far less harsh this time. She pushed wavy hair away from her eyes, dragged slender fingers across her crown and down the nape of her neck. Her lips curved back up into that grin of hers that's half-grin, half-smirk. All amusement. It appeared as if he'd piqued her interest at least. Leaning back into her seat, Zahra polished off her drink with a sigh and settled the tankard back across the table, turning to face Cyrus properly. “Time?” Her eyes danced. “I prefer quick and easy. Messy in all the right ways. You've someone in mind?”

“Quick, is it? I hope that’s not your attitude during the act, dear captain, else I’ve discovered the root of your problem.” His grin was positively salacious by that point, and he supposed this scene would look like something quite different than it was from the outside—as though he were propositioning Zahra herself, perhaps. He wouldn’t have minded in the least, but he’d picked up from cues in her words that she preferred her diversions much more feminine than Cyrus could ever be. Pity.

Zahra tossed her head back and laughed, raking errant strands of thick, dark hair behind her studded ears, looking every bit entertained. One might've been offended even if they'd walked straight into that, but it appeared as if she took everything in jest. “Seems whorehouses have spoiled me,” she reflected with a shrug of her shoulders, rubbing at her chin. Her chuckle was low and intimate, inviting him to share the joke with her. There was story there, hidden between her words. Perched on her lips. Perhaps not. Her inflections were disarmingly candid. Explicit windows into whatever adventures, and conquests, she'd experienced on the open seas. In any case, it appeared as if she was in no mood to share.

He huffed, clearly amused, though not inclined to pursue the thought. “But
 let’s see.” He turned around on the bar stool, Leaning back against the counter with his forearms and elbows, crossing an ankle over a knee and considering the other patrons with sharp eyes. “I’m going to assume you prefer to keep such things outside the crew, for the sake of simplicity.” Likely, if she’d wanted to be sleeping with any of them and they were willing, it would be occurring already, so he felt it a safe assumption.

She, too, swiveled around in her chair and mimicked his posture: elbows and forearms leaning against the counter. Despite being a woman of such diminutive stature, masculine mannerisms suited her. Zahra's smile was almost cat-like in its ferocity, scanning the outlying crowd as one might seek a mouse. A pretty mouse. She jiggled her foot across her knee, obviously relishing in whatever game Cyrus was playing. The Captain's expression was open and guileless, clever and cunning. Clearly, easily enticed into mischief. While her words might have slipped out like silken promises, sultry demands and immediate inclinations, she looked like she was having fun.

He lifted his tankard to his mouth and drew down another swallow of ale. This was a popular party trick of his, with the right audience, and he did so love an audience. “That leaves us with five women, three possibilities.” One of the five was with friends, and her body language made it evident to him that she wanted it to stay that way, meaning that approaches would be unwelcome. He might be a bit of a rake on his own time, but Cyrus did have boundaries. Another was already with a lover, quite obviously, narrowing the field.

He observed the others for a minute, then shrugged. “The little blonde’s your best bet. The brunette wouldn’t sleep with a woman and the elf’s too much of a romantic to enjoy anything casual.” He didn’t explain how he knew any of that, but he stated it as though it were fact nevertheless.

She nodded and glanced towards the furthest corner of the Herald's Rest. An exasperated sigh followed suit, “Alas, some fruit aren't meant to be eaten. It's a rule. Pity that.” Zahra looked back at Cyrus and followed his gaze towards various corners. Her smile might have posed as an effective compass for specific interests, though it never faded. Often quirked into a wolfish grin that rivaled his own and tempered itself into a smirk. Lidded eyes wandering across shoulders, faces, and mouths.

For a moment she seemed silent as she regarded the little blonde across the way. She clicked her tongue and turned towards him, “I think you've got a gift, love. Supposing it works.” She inspected her fingernails, turned her hand around and flagged her eyebrows, “and the approach? In my experience, women in these parts aren't partial to aggressive pursuits.”

He considered the question. She might be a bit out of her element, with soldiers instead of port-dwellers, but he could say the same, to an extent. Not as much—martial types did mingle with nobility to some extent, of course, and so he’d some experience in the matter, but still, he was yet a long way from Minrathous, and the culture was different. “Not aggressive, no. And one must inevitably warm up to directness, though one can reach it eventually. Start light, I should think. Funny. Clever. Sweet, even, if you like. I doubt she’d turn down a free drink, either. She likes darker beers, if you cared to know.” He also didn’t justify how he knew that. Explaining the ways in which all of this was just careful observation took the fun out of it. The magic, so to speak.

He polished off his tankard and set it down behind him, fixing his eyes on nothing in particular as usual. “I have always found that the application of a little charm goes a long way. Aggression might save time, but it’s still a waste if it doesn’t work, don’t you think?”

Zahra seemed the sort who would have normally scoffed at anyone's advice when it came to wooing potential ladies. Instead, she hummed her accord. Captains, sailors, men and women of the sea chased unbridled furies and tended to dance far too close to the flames just to see if they would burn. Hungry lips, feverish touches, desperate kisses. A lack of control that felt a lot like sailing. Freedom from the tedious task of cooing soft lullabies into necklines and whispering sweet words like a songbird. Those were efforts reserved for those who remained buried in sheets. Promised a future they could not give. Woman or no, she behaved every part a pirate. But Cyrus had a different approach in mind. Things she might not have never considered. A small smile curled on her lips, drew up dimples.

She slipped from her stool and leaned towards him. Stopping so that she was looking up into Cyrus' face, albeit at shoulder height. Slender hands, bedecked in rings, drew up to cup his cheek and drag him closer. She swept the pad of her thumb down his jawline and grinned, “I like you, Cyrus. Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.” He, not quite used to uninvited touch, blinked but did not flinch back. Zahra dropped her hand away, sidestepped in the empty space beside him and drew herself up on her tiptoes, tapping the counter top. “One dark beer, please—and stop that scowling, it'll ruin your pretty face.”

With tankard in hand, Zahra turned on her heels and wove through the growing crowd. Tempering her approach as much as she could manage, to look less like a stalking predator licking her chops. Planting a hand against the brickwork and flagging an inquiring eyebrow towards the bard strumming by the fireplace, she spoke just softly enough that the woman had to lean closer to hear. The conversation went fairly well. And the bright-eyed lass gave a surprised smile when she pushed the tankard into her hands, how did she know that that was her favorite drink? She laid out her charm. Smoldered. Offered witty banter and reached out to tuck errant strands of hair behind her ear, laughing. For a few moments, it appeared as if they were talking intensively. Loose gestures, giggling. Then Zahra offered her arm as any good gentleman would and inclined her head towards the door. For all her talk of bluntness and aggression, she did the other sort of wooing quite masterfully. He chuckled to himself.

The blonde settled her tankard down and took up Zahra's extended elbow. Perhaps, instinctively. It was only when they reached the door that Zahra looked over her shoulder, wolfish grin flashing teeth back towards Cyrus. He nodded with mock solemnity, then ruined the effect by winking. A loud laugh carried the women from the tavern and into the night.

Cyrus snorted softly through his nose and turned his stool back to face the bar, where his dinner had just arrived. It was with half a smile still lingering on his face that he picked up his utensils and tucked in.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
“What took you so long?”

The Herald's Rest was considerably less crowded that day. Seeing that it was the afternoon and not on the cusp of nightfall. It was only then that harried individuals sifted through the welcoming doors and into the warmth the tavern provided Skyhold. At least in here, there was some kind of normalcy. A sanction away from all of the strange happenings in the world. Unchanged, familiar. Taverns were the same all across Thedas. Varied hearths with licking flames. Scattered chairs and stools, centered by long wooden tables. Bards plucking strings and singing tales that swept across their lands. This place was no different. The individuals who called it home, however, were a motley crew. In the furthest corner of the building lied a neat spread of pirates in varying shades of disarray.

It was a straw-haired dwarven lass who had broken the silence. Small hands planted on her hips, much like Zahra did whenever she was scoping out a place. Or a person. Although the atmosphere felt far too bristly. Her face was pinched up. Thick eyebrows drawn over her blue peepers. A seriousness resonated over her. One she wasn't sure she'd ever seen cloaking the wee spitfire. If Zahra didn't know any better, she might have thought that Nuka was rounding up to kick her in the shins. Luckily enough, her speculation didn't develop. She was standing near their table. For once in her life, she wasn't sure what to do with her hands. One crept behind her neck and rested there while she tried to scrounge up an appropriate explanation for her disappearance. For actively avoiding the only ones she considered family.

Someone thumped her shoulder. For all of her misgivings against the bearded man and his suspicious intentions, it was Garland's face that swung into view, accompanied by that shit-eating grin of his. Infuriating and reassuring. Even if she wanted to boot him in the shins, she was happy to see him. For once. If he resented her absence, he made no mention of it. Only inclined his head. Pale eyes lidded. Beside him stood her fiery-haired beauty. Incessantly frowning and nearly swelling with unspoken impatience. Zahra could almost taste it in the air—just how much Nixium wanted to tear into her for skulking back in this manner. She'd forgotten along the way, perhaps. Aslan hadn't just been hers to mourn. She wasn't the only one who had been hurting in all of this.

“We'll speak of this later,” Nixium's tone was an even slate, belying promises that were shrouded by a subtle twitch of her slanted eye. No doubt it would involve some sort of verbal lashing. As per usual. Zahra had the good sense to feel somewhat embarrassed. Or at least uncomfortable. She simply nodded. It would do her no good to sputter out any nonsense. The elf had an aptitude to see straight through any of her falsehoods. A laugh like bells sounded behind her shoulder. Soft blond curls and a dimpled smile revealed themselves as Brialle tottered forward and snatched up both of Zahra's hands, drawing them in front of her, “We're just glad you're back, Captain. You kept us waiting.”

Aslan's absence was felt. There was no need to bring awareness to the fact. She could feel the heaviness clinging from their shoulders. Drawing them together rather than apart. They'd mourned in their own ways, she was sure.

Zahra had taken a moment to sit with them before excusing herself. Told them that she would return later on. Discuss things further. Celebrate Aslan in their own way. As they usually did when they lost someone they cared about. It'd happened before. Pirating could be nasty business. Certainly not without its risks. They all understood that before they'd stepped aboard the Riptide, but confronting the cold reality was still difficult. Even for her. Zahra swept out into Skyhold's courtyard. For a place that rivaled Haven for its chilly weather, she was pleased that the sun was beating down. She would always prefer sweltering heat over goosepebbled climates. Alas, she would not be so lucky with the Inquisition.

She hummed softly under her breath as she cut around training soldiers. Pausing only to greet anyone who cared enough to call out to her. People around Skyhold had grown accustomed to the wild-haired pirate and her crew. Remembered her name, even. It was strange. As if they were setting roots down. Never had they stayed in one place for so long. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not. For now, it would do. There was something she wanted to know. And there was only one person she was aware of that could help her. Whether or not she would be inclined to share the information was another matter altogether.

Pausing in front of Asala's chamber, Zahra idled beside the doorway and lifted her knuckles to rap against the door.

There was a moment a silence, and then a rustle of activity behind the door. Even for all her meekness, Asala could not hide the weight behind her frame and her footfalls were easily distinguishable as they approached the door. The knob twisted and pulled ajar, the familiar shocks of white poking through the doorway. At first she she glanced down the hall away from where Zahra lingered, and when she swung it in the correct direction, she recoiled a bit apparently surprised by the proximity. "Oh, uh, Zahra? Is there... Can I help you with some-something?" she asked, stumbling over her words as she usually did. The door had swung open wide enough to allow a Zahra a peak inside.

The room was settled in, with just enough disorganization to tell that it was being lived in. Ruffles in the blankets on her bed, books tilted haphazardly on their shelves, and papers strewn across her desk. A book also lay open on the bed, but the most eyecatching thing, due to its adorableness, was a marmalade kitten snuggled into a blanket-lined box off to the side of her desk, snoozing comfortably.

Zahra tilted her head and stepped away from the wall. Turned to face Asala properly. She might have tried drawing herself on her tiptoes, but even then she wouldn't be able to peer into the young Qunari's face. Full of blushing embarrassment. The little, adorable flower. Of course because of her vertical disadvantage, she hadn't immediately seen her. She delighted in her reaction all the same. A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she casually peered around Asala's elbow. Her fault for not holding the door, “Ah yes, I had some questions—”

Her eyes widened. Gaze snared themselves on the fluff of fur kneading its little paws in a blanket. A laugh bustled out before she had time to stop it. This was meant to be all about business. Stark business involving solemn affairs. A swift conversation. How could she ignore such an adorable sight? She imagined for a moment... the curvy Qunari scooping up the kitten in her arms. Kitten snuggling a kitten. She smothered down the urge to bully her way inside and flagged an eyebrow, drawing her lips into her best pout, “You'll invite me in, won't you?”

Asala hesitated for a moment, her golden eyes wide and confused. A flurry of hair came next as she gently shook herself and nodded her consent. "Uh, yes. Oh, I mean, uh. D-do you wish to come in?" she asked, her ashen skin flushing. Asala sunk back into the door frame to make way for Zahra to follow. Apparently, the question had only been rhetorical, and only for her to tell Zahra that it was fine. Asala then threw herself into a flurry of activity, straightening up her room as much as she could. She straightened the blankets on her bed, before turning toward the desk and trying to quickly organize the papers into one neat stack.

Once she did everything that she could to clean the room, she threw her gaze around as if searching for anything else out of its place before alighting on Zahra. She smiled apologetically and shrugged. "I am... sorry. I do not get m-many visitors." Chances were, most of the visitors she recieved were in need of her skills. Asala then turned erratically toward the sole chair in the room and pulled it out. "Uh, you can have a, uh, seat. If you want," she offered, though she herself remained standing, most likely to see what Zahra would do first.

“Of course!” Zahra slipped through the opening Asala created. Quick as a snake slithering into a hidey hole. She swept into the room as if it was hers to peruse. Of course, it wasn't and she had no intentions of plucking through her personal effects. Plenty of snooping could be done where she was standing. She planted her hands on her hips as she scrutinized the Qunari's chambers and hummed a low tune in the back of her throat. Spun in a lazy circle as Asala scrambled around the room and tidied her things. Though she had to admit that it hadn't been particularly messy to begin with. Compared to some of the Riptide quarters—it was bloody spotless, albeit bookish. She wasn't sure why she was fussing about.

“No need to apologize, kitten. Or rearrange anything. After all, I'm the one that dropped in on you.” Zahra tilted her head and looked mildly apologetic. It may have been the lighting. Because she was anything but sorry for dropping in on her. Seeing her as flustered as she was had made the trip all the more worthwhile. It wasn't why she was here, however. She closed the distance between them and brushed past in order to plop down on the chair. Seated backwards, so that she could cross her arms over the back and face Asala properly. Or improperly. However way she wanted to look at it. Her smile softened around the edges, lopped pensive. “Actually... I came here because I had some questions. About Qunari culture.” While she hardly staggered when speaking to attractive women... she floundered.

“I wanted to do something special for Aslan. But I never got the chance—I guess, I didn't know much about him. His past. I need to do it right.” Zahra nodded and swung her gaze upwards, meeting Asala's eyes. She hoped she would understand. Even if she wasn't willing to divulge any information on the subject, she had to try.

Asala had curled her legs under herself and opted to take a seat on the bed, taking the nearby book and dog-earing the page she was on before she sat it aside. Apparently from what little Zahra could catch of the title, it was a Fereldan tale. She raised her head for a moment, and made eye contact with Zahra before her gaze dropped, breaking it as fast as it was made. Her head remained lowered, and the conversation seemed to bring melancholy veil over her. She was quiet for a time, as she thought hard over something before she finally spoke, though her eyes never rose from her lap. "The... Qunari. They..." She frowned, "They respect and... celebrate the spirit of the one that has passed."

She closed her eyes and gently sighed, wincing at something that was happening inside her mind. "Shok ebasit... hissra. Meraad..." She paused on the word and inhaled, before shaking her head and forced herself to continue. "Astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra... Anaan esaam Qun." With the prayer, she turned toward Zahra, though Asala's eyes never rose to meet hers. "It is... a Qunari prayer for the dead. It means... that despite the ups and downs we face, life is... unchanging. And that victory is in the Qun."

Asala was quiet for a moment before the frown deepened and she shook her head with little more zeal than was expected. "No, that does not work," she said rather vehemently for her, "The Qun would have Meraad and I shackled, and life does change. There is no victory in the Qun," she said, seemingly talking to herself for a moment, at least before she realized that Zahra was still there. She flinched and her gaze dropped again. "I.. I am.. sorry. I-I understand your, uh, desire," she added quietly.

Small details hardly eluded her scrutiny. Neither did the book she had scooped up and neatly dog-eared. Something Ferelden. A familiar title. Only because Rivaini ports acted as gateways to other destinations. With each journey it picked up pieces of another place. Dropped them off as mementos. She tilted her head after it but could not discern the title in it's entirety. Too soon put away. Set aside for later perusal. Zahra imagined that Asala busied herself in many books. Carried herself away into worlds that were less frightening and easily managed between flipped pages and scrawled ink. Her expression thinned and set itself into a frown as she awaited Asala's answer. Perhaps, she'd send her away. Either way, this was time well-wasted.

It took her by surprised when she wasn't turned away. Zahra's frown lifted. Not quite a smile. It hadn't reached her eyes, but she was listening. Intently. Absorbing her words as if she were filing them away for later use. Even if it was slow-going... Asala was grieving too. She'd known before slinking her way down to her chambers. Heard from the others. Of all the losses felt in Haven. Selfish or not for dredging up painful memories, she wondered if they could both benefit from this. If she hadn't already put him to rest already. “Meraad,” she repeated his name and let it linger in the air, “I was fool enough to think I was the only one with losses. I'm sorry for yours, Asala.” Perhaps the only time she'd ever used her name properly. No cutesy nicknames. No fluttering of eyelashes and lewd comments dripping from her tongue.

Zahra perched her chin back down on her forearms and remained quiet for a few moments. While she could never profess to understanding the Qun as Asala did, she understood enough to know that neither Meraad nor Aslan had felt like their ways had been home. They'd found it in other places: far, far from where they had been raised. What did that say then? They were not their stations—much like she'd been told she was. Shackles? So, they had escaped a miserable fate. When Asala turned to see that she was still there, it seemed, as if she'd go anywhere else while she was talking and she caught the briefest glimpse of gold, Zahra straightened her shoulders and drew her chin up.

“No. You've answered what I asked. Thank you,” she tapped her fingers across the back of the chair and finally nodded, “but I think we're both going about it the wrong way. How would we celebrate their lives?”

She grew quiet again, though this time Asala appeared to be in thought. "I... I think I would wish to return home." Her eyes did not turn upward to Zahra yet, but still remained in her lap. Her hands now rested there as well, the palms turned outward so that she sat inspecting them, as if the lines within held some sort of answer she was searching for. "Tammy, the one who raised us. She... still does not know. Meraad..." She hesitated a moment after speaking the name, and audibly swallowed. "Meraad should be mourned by all of us, and not me alone."

There was another quiet moment, but during that moment Asala's head slowly tilted until she faced Zahra, and though her eyeline never rose above her chin, it was closest she had come to making eye contact on purpose. "Perhaps... she began before she shook her head. She tried again, this time her tone one of optimism "Perhaps, one day, I may return. If... you wish to, you... and your crew, could join me." A weak smile played across her lips, but the pain they still held was clear. "My home... Ash-Rethsaam, is on the northern coast between Antiva and Rivain. We could celebrate their memories... Together."

With that, Asala's gaze fell to the legs of Zahra's chair and she shook her head. "I am sorry if that sounds... Foolish."

It didn't take Zahra long to decide. No, not when it involved Aslan. Never had. She doubted it ever would. He was more than a wayward memory on a long voyage. He was something precious she'd always hold close. A cherished gem from her treasury she would never part with. As soon as the words parted from Asala's lips... she knew, with a voracity, that it was the proper thing to do. A proper farewell in a familiar place. That the mousey Qunari would allow her to come along meant far more than she could piece into words. Meraad and Aslan. Ash-Rethsaam. A destination cradled between her homeland. Somehow fitting how she would find herself so close to the place Aslan had freed her.

Harnessing every stealthy ability she'd cultivated in her childhood sneaking out windows and tiptoeing through midnight promenades, Zahra swept up from her chair and stood directly in front of Asala. She did not immediately answer. Nor did she initiate any physical contact. God knows how uncomfortable that made her feel. Instead, she offered her own upturned palm. Swarthy-colored, calloused and laughably small. Shiny baubles and bracelets hung from minute wrists. Rings clacked against adjacent rings. “Foolish?” She rolled the word in her mouth and shook her head, “No. Anything but. I would be honored if you'd let us come with you. Like you said, together.”

She let the words linger and tilted her head. It hadn't occurred to her before. The word that she'd never truly understood. A small smile tipped across her lips and the lines at the corner of her eyes seemed to soften. “Kadan doesn't really mean idiot, does it?”

Asala gazed at her hand for a moment, as if confused as to what to do with it. Instead, she finally found Zahra's eyes and smiled sweetly. "No," she said, shaking her head.

"It means family."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
The leaves were beginning their change.

From green to their orange and red hues, autumn was quickly approaching. The summer's heat, while not still not so hot in the mountains where Skyhold nestled, started to bleed away, and soon a crispness would return to the air. Autumn's arrival also signified Pierre's departure. It was this occasion that had Marceline out of her office this afternoon. A cart and a team of horses to pull it had been requisitioned for their use. Along with Pierre, a few of the Inquisition's soldiers were given leave and were hitching a ride to their homes along the way. They'd hear no objections from Lady Marceline, the more people that traveled with Pierre and his father, the safer they'd be along the roads.

Marceline watched with her arms crossed and a tight frown as Michaël checked the horses and their tetherings. Though both Michaël and she believed it best that their son stayed the autumn and winter at their home on the West Banks, it did not mean she wouldn't miss him. The boy himself was busy nearby, helping the soldiers organize their belongings in the back of the cart. Standing beside the men, Marceline couldn't help but notice how fast her son was growing. It wouldn't be but a few years now that he would be a man himself. An imperceptible wince came with the thought, that she would miss more time with him. She hoped that he wouldn't grow even more while he was away.

Both Larissa and even Asala were present as well, to see Pierre off. Larissa laughed and joked with the soldiers as they packed, but Asala stood quietly further away, almost as silent as Marceline was. Eventually, their work was done, and they climbed in back of the cart themselves, settling themself in for the trip to come. Pierre and Michaël approached Marceline, and she put a practiced smile on her lips. They could see through it, of course. They always could. "That should be it," Michaël said, tossing a glance to the cart behind him. Marceline simply nodded. "Come on, Marcy. We'll be back before you know it," he added with a big, genuine smile.

The plan was, Michaël would travel back home with Pierre, and then a few weeks later return to Skyhold with the other soldiers. Larissa would then travel at the beginning of Spring to fetch Pierre and return to Skyhold. "You both know that is not true. Skyhold will be rather lonely without my men," she said with a gentle laugh. With that, Marceline approached her husband with her arms wide, pulling him into a hug, before he suddenly lifted her up off the ground into a spin. She tried her best, but she couldn't hide the surprised squeak she made. As he set her down, she laughed and turned toward Pierre. "Do not give your father any trouble... And make sure that he and mother play nice," she said, before wrapping him into a hug too. Rather unexpectedly, he too lifted her in the air, though without a spin. When he set her back down, Michaël and him shared a laugh. "You two need to stop," she said firmly through a smile.

"We will be fine, mother. I will write, every chance I get. You know this," he said. Then Pierre turned toward Larissa, "I will miss you too, and I will make sure to send you the newest novels in Val Firmin," he said.

Larissa beamed for a moment before collecting herself bowing. "Thank you Milord. And I will be sure to keep in touch about how Lady Marceline is doing," she added.

With that, Pierre walked past them and to Asala who stood nearby. She recoiled half-a-step before digging her heels in and blushing. It seemed that having his parents eyes on her put her off-balance. "And I'll be sure to keep you in my letters too, Asala."

"Uh... Th-thank you... Oh! I almost forgot. These are for you," Asala said, producing a small package from under her cloak. "They are, uh... Snacks. For your trip," She added with a shaky smile. She then inclined her head and spoke "Pan-panahedan." Asala hesitated for a moment before wrapping him into a quick hug and releasing him just as fast, the blush spreading across her face.

Pierre chuckled and returned to the cart, before hopping into it's seat beside his father. Marceline approached them both and took a hold of Michaël's hand. "You two be careful, and have a safe trip. Please," she asked.

"Of course," Michaël answered, before leaning down to kiss her. "And you try not to work yourself to death. I love you."

And with that, Michaël bade the horses forward through the gate and over the bridge leading out of Skyhold, Marceline waved to them as they departed, and she was aware that Larissa and Asala were doing the same behind her. Slowly they faded from view, and though Larissa took her leave, they watched as they vanished over the horizon, leaving only Marceline and Asala.

A hum sounded above the retreating din of clopping hoof beats and rolling wagon wheels. Accompanying the intrusion were deft fingers plucking at Marceline's sleeve: a pinch of fabric between forefinger and thumb. It wasn't readily apparent just how long she'd been there. Or if she'd simply skulked up on them as they were waving Pierre and MichaĂ«l off. Lidded eyes followed theirs into the distance. Zahra watched as the wagon bounced and rolled and ebbed further away. Her expression softened as she released Marceline's sleeve and took a tentative step backwards, “They'll be fine—those two, if they're anything like you, Sunshine.”

The Captain had chosen a mixed fare of clothes for the season. It appeared, in any case, that she was always cold. At least if her colorful mix of words were anything to go by. Cold as tits, she'd say. A light tunic with a leather vest cinched around her waist. Leather trousers and knee-high boots. A decorative sword dangled at her hip. Bright red tassels hung from the pommel. She inclined her head towards Asala and grinned. A form of greeting if it was anything at all. Or else she'd found something else amusing. The distinction was difficult whenever Zahra was involved. She planted her hands on her hips and rolled one of her shoulders, bright eyes moving back to Marceline's face, “I was hoping you had some time to spare.”

Marceline first looked to Asala, who'd been watching the Captain herself. Eventually though, she realized that Marceline was looking at her, and caused her to wince and avert her gaze elsewhere, but not before shrugging. Marceline's breath hitched in humor toward the woman and she smiled as she turned her attention back to Zahra. “I suppose it would all depend,” Marceline answered with a manufactured smile, “with what you intend to do with that time.” Despite the words, there were humor behind them. Larissa could handle what paperwork she had to do, and in fact was probably doing it as they spoke. The meeting she had with various individuals about expanding their trade routes to Skyhold wasn't for some time yet, so it was not as if she was immediately busy.

“But no, there is nothing that requires me as such currently,” she added.

If there was anything awkward about the silence that passed between them, Zahra was nonplussed by it. It didn't seem at all possible that she could be bothered by anything of the sort. She took a step back from Marceline and idled to the side, casually glancing over to where Asala stood. Her fingers tapped against her hips. A tuneless sound beating against her leathers, “Nothing you'd regret.” She let the words hang in the air for a dramatic moment and pursed her lips, “I was hoping you could show me how to use this thing.” She patted the blade swinging at her hip affectionately and toyed with the brightly-colored tassels. Running them through her fingers, “You know I'm good with my bow, but there are times when... something else is needed.” It appeared as if she didn't want to clarify her reasons, or else she thought that it was good enough of one.

She swung her gaze back to Asala and inclined her head. A smile pulled at her mouth and appeared all the more mischievous, “You wouldn't mind if I borrow Lady Benoit, would you? I promise I'll bring her back before nightfall. Captain's honour.” A strange way of asking whether she was interrupting anything, perhaps. However skewed. Asala looked up and shook her head in the negative, throwing her white hair across her face.

“Oh, well, you see... I, uh, I mean, we... weren't...” she tried before unsurprisingly stumbling over her words as usual.

Marceline decided to make it easy for the woman and raised her own hand. Asala drew into silence from the gesture, and let Marceline speak. “We had nothing planned, she just wished to see Pierre off,” she explained, smiling at the young woman. Asala blushed, and her gaze fell, but she said nothing else, nor did she start to leave. No doubt curious, and Marceline couldn't blame her. The Captain was a rather interesting individual. Her gaze fell upon Zahra's sword, and Marceline's smile turned into a thoughtful frown. She looked at it for a moment, before she reached out and held her hand open, gesturing with a wagging finger to let her see the sword for a moment. Still, it was quite strange that Zahra would come to her to ask how to use the blade.

“There are better swordsmen than I present, why is it that you wish to learn from me and not them?” The Lions came to mind, as they were the ones training the Inquisition's soldiers.

Asala's spluttering caused Zahra to laugh. Though it was without malice. Her smile pulled back to reveal teeth and her hands drifted towards the waxen rope binding the scabbard in place. It loosened and fell away as soon as soon as she pulled the knot inwards: an unusual sailor's tangle. She caught the blade before it touched the ground and turned towards Marceline. Offered it in both hands, palms facing upward. From the looks of it... it may have been a decorative piece, or at least meant for extravagance rather than bloodshed. A pretty piece. She took a step forward and dropped it into Marceline's open hand. A softer laugh sifted through her teeth. It sounded somewhat flustered. As if she'd been caught with something she was not supposed to touch.

“You do yourself no credit.” Zahra pulled her now-empty hands back and settled them back at her hips, toeing the rope she'd left at her feet. Her eyes rolled skyward for a moment and resolved themselves back on Marceline's face. As if she were collecting her thoughts. Or deliberating on a reason good enough to serve. “Not all styles would suit my purposes. I'm not like Khari. Or Rom. Brute strength? No. Finesse? Grace? Fluidity? I see no better teacher. I may seem,” she tilted her head and chuckled, “harsh, sometimes. But I'd like to learn from someone who fights to win. Honor be damned.” From her choice of words, it appeared as if her mind had been made up on anyone else in the Inquisition. Lions included.

Marceline's eyes focused on Zahra for a moment. It was a fair assessment, though she still believed that there were others better suited to teaching than her. Marceline knew that she was unsuited to combat, but then again, she did not claim to be a soldier. She was a diplomat, with enough experience to protect herself. However, Zahra was an archer, and few lessons in swordsmanship could only help. Her attention then turned to the sword in her hand, gripping it by the hilt and bringing it closer to inspect. She ran a finger down along the blade and then tapped the point. Nodding to herself, she turned away from Zahra and held it straight up in front of her, perfectly parallel to her body and perpendicular to the ground. Her off hand settled into the small of her back as she thrust the blade forward twice, and slashed on the third.

“The blade should be sharpened, and the weight better distributed. It is very lovely, however, and nothing that cannot be fixed by a quartermaster,” Marceline smiled, before turning the blade over in her hand and offering it back to its owner. “Very well, if you wish for lessons, then I cannot deny you,” she said with a smile, “Though I've never taught this particular subject. MichaĂ«l is the one who teaches Pierre self-defense so forgive me if I am not the ideal teacher.”

She then crossed her arms and held Zahra in her eyes for a moment, before she nodded, “Come, we will go to my office. There is enough room to learn the forms there, but,” Marceline said, beckoning with a finger, “understand that the best weapon is not the one in your hands, but the one in your head,” she said with a smile.

Zahra watched as Marceline scrutinized the blade, hands on hips. Her mouth set itself into an expectant smile. If she could've bristled with energy—a desire to get down to all the nitty grit of swordsmanship, she probably would have. Instead, she tipped towards Asala and bumped her shoulder with a blooming grin. As languid and lewd as the Captain could be, there where instants like these where she appeared more childlike and unreasonable. Had Marceline outright said no, the woman certainly looked as if she would not take it as an answer.

She ticked the impressions from her fingers as if she were creating a schedule of chores in her mind. When Marceline back towards her, Zahra waggled her fingers and retrieved the blade from her hands. Settled it back into its scabbard and nearly rocked up on her tiptoes. Green eyes bright against the sun blazing in the background: nearly as wild as Khari. “Just what I wanted to hear!” she butt in, all hurried, before licking her lips and settling back on her feet, “Leading and teaching are one in the same, aren't they?” Not always true, though she appeared as if she had no misgivings on her decision to approach her about the subject.

She nodded her head and fell in beside Marceline. It was clear that her expectations had already run their course. Fancies best left in storybooks. Perhaps, towards something involving clashing swords in the yard or leaping onto tables and skittering parchment paper across the tables. Certainly not what Marceline had in mind.

In reality, what Zahra received was a number of guides written on the matter of fencing, as well as a few hand-written notes of Marceline's own design. They were piled up on a desk that Marceline had placed Zahra at in her office, while Larissa sat at Marceline's own with an amused look. The woman herself stood nearby with a tilt to her head as she looked upon the gathered materials. She did not know how the Captain would take to being issued mostly theory at first, but Marceline would rather Zahra get acquainted with the theoretical aspect before they dove into swinging swords around. Without a good baseline, Marceline surmised that she may hurt herself or someone else in her attempts to learn.

“You may borrow this material, it will give you a good idea of the basics you are to learn.” She then smiled and nodded, “It is dry, I understand, but one must first gather all the information they are able to before they act.”

If Zahra's expression was anything to go by, she certainly hadn't expected being seated at Marceline's desk with a pile of books, dog-eared and well-worn, surrounding her. She pursed her lips and leaned over the assorted papers she'd been instructed to look over. She dragged her fingers across the letters and finally leaned back in her chair. There might have been a sigh poised on her lips, though she made no noise. Glassy eyes rolled towards the ceiling for a moment before she leaned back into her work. Scrawled notes in a small empty book bound with strings. Certainly not something she would have owned. Marceline had instructed her to read through several books and mark down prudent information pertaining to footwork and movements. She paused in her work and smoothed her hands across the loose pieces of parchment.

“I, uh,” she seemed to hesitate before a smile tickled at her mouth and widened, “wasn't exactly expecting this. At all.” Zahra looked up from her work and tapped her fingers against the table, “Is this truly how you were taught all this? For curiosities sake. With the way you move, I thought you'd had a savvy teacher. Leaping and darting and all that.”

Marceline laughed softly to herself. She shook her head gently and began to lean against the desk Zahra sat at. “My studies began the same way when I was a young girl, and Pierre as well. The leaping and darting followed soon after.” The corner of Marceline's lip turned upward and she continued, “Though, I doubt there is much leaping in reality. Lifting your feet off of the ground is not an intelligent maneuver.” There was a tone of gentle chiding mixed in with her amusement but soon she shook her head and tried to give her something Zahra could work with.

“Some of the others, yes, they may start you off with sword in hand immediately, but it was not how I was taught. I would never be as strong, or even as quick any who may would wish me harm, but I could be more intelligent.” Marceline quieted for a moment and reflected. “We will never be able to overpower or outrun everyone, but we can outmaneuver and out-flank, and all that begins inside those pages.” she said, pointed toward the collection of books and papers. “And yes, once you have attained a basic understanding, we will move into the practical application. You can be as intelligent and observation as possible, but it means little if you do not know how to hold a sword correctly,” Marceline added. The smile had returned to her face.

This would prove interesting.

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: 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: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Zahra offered a slight lift of her shoulders, shrugging at Leon’s sentiment. Had she been in Borja’s place, it might’ve proceeded in the same fashion—though it was a difficult circumstance to imagine in the first place. She’d never been married. Being engaged to someone she hardly liked didn’t count. Loving someone and having them snatched away from you? Impossible. She hummed low in her throat and glanced at Asala, sidelong. Wondered absently what she’d thought of the violent encounter. Seeing as the compassionate Qunari wasn’t quite someone who’d submerge themselves in anger and hatred and spill it out on someone you considered an enemy, she supposed it would’ve been a shock.

Whatever revelations that had taken place in the candlelit chambers hadn’t been lost on her, though she’d taken less out of it than Anais and the others. She understood less, anyhow. Hadn’t fully understood Anais's feverish desire to rifle through Rom’s late ma’s journal. However burdensome the situation was, she hoped that Romulus came out of it relieved. Lighter, in a sense. There were few things worse than dredging anchors to your ankles, trudging through uncharted waters without any clear answers in sight. She hoped he wouldn’t drown in the process. Unresolved, bitter. Disappointed in the past he’d been cheated of. In any case, it appeared as if they were making progress, and that’s all that counted.

She hooked her thumb towards the stairway leading to the upper decks and exhaled softly, “Join me?” She hadn’t waited for a response. Stomping up the stairs as she usually did, impossibly heavy for a woman so lithe, Zahra greeted the crisp air with a satisfied sigh. All too happy to put those spear-waving Qunari behind. As brutal as it was being pin-cushioned with arrows, she’d imagine having a broomstick-sized pole protruding from your belly would be infinitely worse. And they’d been getting worryingly close near the end of their chase, even if she’d shown it by laughing. If it hadn’t been for Khari’s quick-thinking and creative distractions, she wasn’t so sure they would’ve fled unscathed.

Zahra perched herself near Riptide’s right side, elbows propped over the ocher railings. Narrowed eyes trained on the horizon, searching for the old, familiar piers swaying in the distance.

Asala followed behind as she stepped onto the deck. Unlike the Captain, her footsteps were silent in the night, having since discarded the boots at some point after boarding the ship. The only indication that she followed behind was the unmistakable sense of her presence. Once they reached the railing, Asala began by leaning against it, but eventually she seemed to melt, sliding downward until she sat, staring out into the water between the gaps in the rails. She rested her forehead gently against the cool wood as she sat crosslegged.

Every so often, she ventured a glance toward the captain, as if she wanted to say or ask something, but could not quite get it out.

Zahra sighed. It wasn’t tinged with annoyance, but rather belonging to someone who just knew she’d have to be the one pinching and prodding to loosen someone’s tongue. She tapped her fingers across the wooden knots spiraling through the railing she was leaning on and leaned precariously backwards, stretching her arms in front of her as she grappled onto it. She swung down to Asala’s level with the grace of someone who was used to standing on edges, especially one so close to the seas they swayed on. However, instead of sitting as the young Qunari-woman had, she stuck her legs between the gaps in the rails and let them dangle down and planted her palms down.

As quiet as she tended to be around her, perhaps for good reason
 she rather liked her company. It was unusual and refreshing. Fortunately, very unlike the stern-lipped reticence she elicited from Nixium—always looking at her as if she’d said something stupid. Forgetting that she was Captain and not the other way around. She supposed she’d always needed an anchor to keep her from plunging head-first. But Asala’s silence was thoughtful. Empathetic. In a sense, kind. When hadn’t she seen that kindness radiating from her core? She could hardly imagine her reeling in anger. Hands balled into fists. Though she’d been surprised before. She hummed low in her throat and leaned her forehead against the rails, and tilted her head so that she could see her face.

“Something on your mind?”

She didn't answer immediately. No, instead she simply sighed and let her forehead lean against the lip of the railing, the base of her horns resting easily against it. "Yes," she answered, with a tight smile and an inflection on the end of the word that acknowledged how obvious she was being. She didn't elaborate for a time, opting instead to take in the rolling waves beneath their feet. She chuckled to herself, though the sound itself held a tone of melancholy.

"My home is not too far from here," she answered, looking out over the water. "I do... not know if you remember," she said, finally looking toward Zahra, "but Ash-Rethsaam lies north of here, along Rivian's coast." She was quiet for a moment again, her gaze sweeping across the ocean once more before she continued. "That is... what has been on my mind," she answered, with a small, slightly apologetic smile cast her way.

Zahra let the words sit. Idle in silence, as she regarded Asala’s sheepish expression. Even if she hadn’t the heart to ask it, she heard the question loud and clear. She remembered the conversation vividly. Remembered seeking her out in a moment of vulnerability. They both shared similar losses, and a means to mourn properly. She hadn’t forgotten—would never forget it. Every time her gaze roved across the Riptide, it reminded her of Aslan. Of everything they achieved together. How they’d managed to scrounge up such a motley crew, sailing the seas as if they hadn’t a care in the world. She imagined the same thoughts plagued the Qunari’s mind, especially since they were so close to her home.

She felt
 somewhat lighter being able to share in that same grief. Her smile softened around the edges, and she hoped it belied an understanding of sorts. As the waves rolled across the hull and rocked the ship, she nodded. “Of course I do,” Zahra said, a breathless whisper against the railing. How could she forget? In this, they were sisters, both tasked to send off the ones they loved. She felt grateful to Asala in ways she couldn’t express, because she could do right by him. In a sense, she believed she couldn’t move on otherwise, and perhaps, she felt the same way. “We could go, if you like, you need but ask. I don’t think the others would mind.” A soft sigh pushed from her lips, as if she were combating truer feelings, “I’d like to.”

Asala was quiet as she thought about it, her eyes cast downward to the waves crashing against the hull of the Riptide. Her lips were pursed, but that had only lasted a moment before they cracked into a smile. She nodded eagerly, an air of excitement suddenly fluttering about her. "Yes, I would like that," she said with a wide smile. Her smile hitched for a moment as if there was something he had realized, but she pushed it back and said nothing of it, the smile returning back to its full form soon after. "We should probably tell Romulus," she added. It seemed only right to let him know that their return to Skyhold may be pushed back a few more weeks, considering the importance of his own task.

“It’s decided then!”

Zahra’s smile crackled back at her in full-flight. She was happy that Asala had decided that yes, this was an opportune time to head home. She feared that she’d decided it was too much of a bother. It wasn’t, in her eyes. Besides, if Asala had truly wanted to return even after they reached Skyhold, she would’ve taken extraordinary measures to reach it. She doubted Romulus and the others would object to their request, though it was only proper to run it by them. She reached up and grabbed onto the railing she’d been leaning on in order to pull herself back to her feet. Time was of the essence, and if they wanted to go, telling the others was a priority. Afterward, they’d set the course and inform their taciturn navigator.

What was another few weeks at sea? This was her home, after all. Delaying their return to Skyhold’s mountains suited her just fine, if she was being honest. However selfish her desires were, she’d grown accustomed to taking others into consideration. Some might not consider her so pirate-like these days, casting from the shores for favors instead of gold and treasures, but it made her laugh all the same. She’d changed. Though it didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. Relying on others was
 refreshing. She offered Asala a hand and grinned wide, “No time like the present.”

Asala offered her a warm smile and accepted the outstretched hand, and pulled herself to her feet. She allowed Zahra to take the lead, apparently having figured that the Captain knew better which cabin Romulus had called his. Together, they slipped under deck and navigated the ships belly until they pulled up to Romulus's door. They could hear the sounds of movement beyond the door, and surprisingly, it was Asala who'd issued the knock on the door. Apparently the thought of returning home so close to her grasp managed to embolden her, as there was no longer any hesitation in step nor actions. However, after a moment she did offer Zahra an apologetic smile. Probably thought it should've been the captain that should be the one to knock, but as was becoming the usual of late, it did not last long.

The door soon cracked open, and it was the red hair and annoyed features of Anais that filled the gap. She stared up the considerable height difference at the Qunari woman in front of her.

"The Herald and I are in the middle of important work. We are not to be—"

The woman cut short any bravery Asala had shown, causing her to instead quietly take a step backward and let Zahra take point once again.

"Anais," came Romulus's voice from inside, sternly. "Open the door. Let them in."

She looked back, and almost hesitated before she let the door swing open wide, revealing a desk with her notes and the recovered journal, as well as Romulus sitting cross-legged on the bed by the other wall. Anais stood aside and allowed the two to enter the room, while Romulus stood.

"What's going on?" he asked.

If Zahra was in any way stifled by Anais’ frankness, she certainly did not show it. As soon as Asala stepped backwards, revealing stark-red hair and an annoyed face, the captain sidestepped into view with a toothy grin of her own. Steeped across her lips like an amused feline. She was used to this kind of response, after all. A light laugh sounded when Anais turned back towards the chamber, answering Rom’s call. She noted the hesitance, and shrugged her shoulders as if to say I thought this was my ship.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

She pressed her hand against the door and pushed it wide enough to free it from Anais’ fingers, and stepped aside so that Asala could enter freely. There was a moment of silence, as Zahra’s eyes roved across the chamber. Noting the files, parchment papers, and journal they’d just acquired. Though it wasn’t any of her business, and besides, her heart was already set on other matters entirely.

“I’ve a request—,” she rubbed her chin and shook her head, “or rather, a favor of my own. A change of course. We’d like to go to Asala’s homeland. But it’d be another few weeks delay from returning to Skyhold. Now, usually I'd just sail off wherever I please, but I’ve never had so many guests aboard my ship, and I suppose that’d be rude. So, here we are.”

"Yes, it would be rude," Anais agreed, sullen. "Especially considering the identity of your guest." She turned to Romulus. "Your Worship, when we finish translation we may well know how to proceed immediately. We should return to Skyhold immed—"

"Anais," the Herald interrupted again. "Stop." Anais looked thoroughly annoyed at being silenced again, but as she always seemed to do, she obeyed any wish Romulus had. He smiled at Zahra, apologetic. "Won't be a problem. Translation's going to take a while anyway."

"We may not even need all of it, Your Worship," Anais offered, more cautiously. Romulus did not move his gaze to her.

"Well I want all of it. And we're not stopping my friend from visiting her homeland." He looked like he might throw more of an explanation on to the end of it, but in the end decided against it. Anais let her mouth hang open for a second, before she shut it and turned back to her desk.

Asala had been silent during the exchange with an expectant look on her face. Several glances had went Zahra's direction, as apparently she'd not forgotten whose ship she stood on. Though, once it was decided that it would not be an issue, Asala beamed and nodded deeply. "Thank you," she said, before turning toward Zahra with a wide smile on her lips.

A bark of ill-contained laughter bubbled from deep in Zahra’s chest. She couldn’t help it. Really. Seeing Anais’ face shift so quickly. If the red-headed lass could wring her hands around her neck without fear of consequence, she probably would have. Of course, even with Rom’s newfound title, and awfully complex family history, she’d never considered changing her demeanor towards him. They were friends, weren’t they? Besides, kneeling didn’t suit her. As soon as the words left Romulus’ mouth she was closing the distance between them in brisk, swaggering steps, wholly ignoring Anais’ presumed reaction to such insolence, sweeping down to plant a quick kiss atop his head.

“Knew we could count on you!” She stepped away from him and offered a roguish wink, “Your Worship.” No, it didn’t sound quite right after all. With another wry grin, Zahra turned on her heels and barked another rough laugh as she opened the door and disappeared through it. All coattails and jangling bangles, announcing her departure. They could already hear her excited footfalls bounding up the wooden stairs, cries rasping up to Nixium to change their course immediately.

Asala offered them one more smile before skittering off behind her.

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: 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: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
She should have been with them. That was all Asala thought about ever since Romulus and those who attended his ritual returned. They were in pretty bad shape when they arrived the day before. Asala and most of her staff had spent the entire previous day tending to their injuries, and currently they were all in stable condition. She still preferred it that they did not move for another day or two in fear of tearing or reopening their wounds. Asala was especially firm in Khari's case, fearing the woman would probably try to escape if the opportunity presented itself. Still, they were all alive, and if they took their recovery slow, and she and her assistants did their jobs properly, then there should be no lasting danger either.

She couldn't shake the guilt, and it remained with her even as she measured out a dose of potion into a vial. Donovan stood next to her, carefully folding clean bandages into a tin tray to change out the soiled ones. Asala couldn't help but feel things would've been different had she been there. No, she probably could not have changed the outcome, but she could have at the very least tended to them while their wounds were fresh, if not prevented a number of them to begin with. Asala had not asked for details, and in truth she did not want to hear them. It was clear that whatever they were supposed to prove failed, and she had seen Anais led to the dungeons in chains. She could infer enough from that alone.

With the potion measured, Asala set it on the tray with bandages and took it with her as she went to Romulus's bedside, and sat it down on a small stand beside her. Asala gave him a sweet, if a little sad smile when she handed him the vial before she began to undo the bandages on his thigh. The wound was mostly closed now and beginning to scab over. She was extremely careful as she worked; he had broken a number of bones and was no doubt very sore, if still not a little pain.

In the bed beside them, Bibi purred softly at the foot while Millian worked with Khari, cutting the bandages on her hand and inspecting the wound there. She was efficient, though she lacked Asala's... bedside manner.

Khari didn't seem to care much; she was surprisingly compliant with the tranquil's commands. The only resistance she'd put up so far was insisting that she was well enough to sit up with her back to the wall next to the bed she'd been assigned. Aside from the wound on her hand, most of her abdomen had been bandaged under her shirt due to multiple stab wounds there, and there were more around her head, covering a deep cut over one of her brows.

Indeed, she was uncharacteristically solemn in general, and didn't even keep up much of a running commentary, as she otherwise would surely have done. Instead, she stroked the cat with her free hand, rubbing at his ears.

Where Khari was solemn, Romulus was despondent, and had said almost nothing that wasn't absolutely necessary since his arrival back at Skyhold. His injuries had been extensive, the majority of them consisting of broken bones from being repeatedly struck with blunt force. His right arm was the worst break, requiring him to keep it tied up in a sling despite the best efforts of Asala's considerable healing magic. His jaw had been broken, his cheekbone fractured, even part of his skull had required healing. His ribcage was a mess, which had led to a number of internal injuries varying in severity, and there was the stab wound through his side and the deep slash through the muscles of his left leg to work through.

Despite it all, it was obviously not his physical injuries that troubled him, as he'd been clearly withdrawn inside his own head, where nothing good could be occurring. He slept often, but not well, either the pain of his injuries or his intense dreams waking him repeatedly. He ate only the bare minimum, and if Asala's comforting presence was having any effect on him, he was hiding it well. He did not sit as Khari did, but lay still and stared at the ceiling while she worked.

The door to the infirmary opened, and Vesryn entered, for once seemingly unsure what to do with himself. He closed the door quietly behind him, rubbing his hands together for the warmth. "How are we doing?" he asked, in a carefully casual tone. "On the mend, I hope." When Romulus didn't so much as acknowledge him, he nodded uncomfortably. "Well... is there anything I can get you, Asala? From the Keep, or the tavern maybe? Thought I'd see if I could be of service somehow."

The only one from the Riptide occupying another bed was its small-statured boastwain. Tucked neatly into the corner. Apparently she’d suffered the worst of the Northern Sword’s initial attack. She’d been in the Riptide’s belly when the cannonball crashed into its side, sending a spray of thick splinters through the upper portion of the ship. Her arm had taken the worst of the blows, and it’d needed to come off. Too much damage to salvage. They’d done a good job, though she hadn’t woken up for more than a handful of minutes before drifting off.

Zahra had visited several times throughout the night to check on Rom, Khari and Nuka. Most of the time, she’d just fill in the empty space between them with rambles, trying to cast light in the dark situations they’d tumbled through. Even if it didn’t have any effect
 she was relentless. She’d had scrapes and cuts but hadn’t suffered nearly as much as the others had. Bruises would blossom and disappear, but she looked none worse for wear. The upper portion of her arm was neatly bound in fresh bandages where they’d extracted an arrow. Besides that, she’d been lucky.

She, too, filtered through only moments after Vesryn had. There was a bottle tucked under her arm, though it was difficult to tell what it was. She paused at the door before stepping through and shutting it behind her. Her eyes roved across the occupied beds, stopped short when they reached Rom and Khari before they slipped towards the farthest corner of her room. Her mouth formed a line, before it shifted into an easy smile. “How’re the patients, kitten?” Zahra closed the distance and idled beside Vesryn. She fished the bottle from beneath her armpit and prodded him in the shoulder with the corked end, “Just got back from there.”

Asala paused her work for a moment to turn and greet both Vesryn and Zahra. There was nothing really more to do except to keep their injuries clean and supply doses of healing medication until they were well enough to start moving again. It was not the external injuries Asala was most worried about however, but the ones that lingered in their heads. Broken bones and cuts could be mended, but maladies of the mind was something on an entirely different scale. In fact, their company were perhaps the most important thing right now than the things they could get.

She turned, but before she could even ask, Donovan was already to work fetching the chairs. "They are... healing," Asala answered Zahra. Her eyes did linger on the bottle disapprovingly for a moment before she shrugged. "I believe we have what we need but, if you would like, you are more than welcome to stay awhile," she said, though by the way Donovan was bringing chairs, it was more of a request than a suggestion. Their company would perhaps give them something to think about over whatever dark thoughts were swirling around their heads. She sighed again, but offered a smile to Vesryn and Zahra before returning to tend to Romulus. She should've been there, she told herself not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

Khari roused herself a bit at the presence of company, still leaving her hand within Millian's custody but turning her head so she could smile wanly at the visitors. It was hardly a smile compared to the face-splitting grins she so often wore, but she seemed tired and concerned enough to warrant it. Her eyes frequently flicked across the room to where Romulus was.

“'Fraid we're not at our most entertaining right now, but thanks for dropping in. Don't worry too much though—you should see the other guys."

"Oh, I have," Vesryn assured her. "The ones able to make it into our dungeon here, at least. I suspect they didn't fully understand what they were getting into when they fired on the likes of you. Safe to say they do now." Seeing that Zahra was a step ahead of him on the gift from the tavern, he shuffled his feet a bit awkwardly in place, before smiling and bowing his head a little. "Well, I should be going. I hope your recovery is swift, all of you, and... Saraya expresses her concern as well." He took his leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Zahra appeared as if she wanted to call after him
 but he’d walked through the door as quickly as he’d come, and she was left standing there, bottle held in both hands. She made a humming noise in her throat before plopping down on one of Donovan’s proffered chairs. She’d caught Asala’s opposing stare, and shrugged her shoulders, “It’s a gift. What can I say? I don’t go back on promises.” She bounced the bottle on her knee and tilted her head to the side, “Well. You’re alive, at least. Counts for something.”

Khari's smile grew, just a bit. “Well, we promised, too, after all. Can't break a promise on breakfast."

At that point, the door outside opened up again with a blast of cold air. It admitted Lady Marceline first, who held a cloth covered parcel close to her chest, and behind her Estella, who was laden with a heavy-looking tray bearing what looked like a couple of decently-sized pots and several empty bowls stacked upside down, along with the glint of tin spoons.

Steam gushed liberally from the top of both pots, and Estella moved with exaggerated care, careful to place each foot before adding weight to it. She made it over to an empty side table, where she gingerly lowered the whole tray, breathing what sounded like a sigh of relief. Turning towards Asala, she gave a small smile, brief enough to be little more than a twitch, and folded her hands in front of her.

“Um... I made soup. That's okay, right? I wasn't sure if anyone had any stomach injuries, so it's not very spicy or anything..."

"Larissa sends her regards," Marceline said after Estella, "Along with these." She then began to pull the cloth away to reveal a set of novels which she turned over to show them. "I find her choices to be... subject, but nonetheless she assured me that you would enjoy them," she said. From the glance Asala took, she read Hard in Hightown on one of the covers before she returned to her task, setting the old bandages back into the tray beside her.

Khari snorted. “I've heard of those. Some guy from Kirkwall wrote them, right?" Admittedly, she seemed more interested in the soup at the moment; as soon as Millian was finished wrapping her hand in fresh bandages, she was pushing herself out of the bed. Apparently the concept of bedrest was a little lost on her. Millian even put a hand on her shoulder to try and dissuade too much movement, though it seemed to be ineffective, and the tranquil did not try to fight her over it.

“Rom, you want to eat something?" She glanced back at him, turning an empty bowl over in her hands quite heedless of the injured one. If she was still in pain, she was remarkably resistant to it.

Romulus blinked, turning his head at the sound of his name and taking in the sight of the soup, Estella, and Marceline. "Uh... yeah." It wasn't the most enthusiastic response, but perhaps the smell of it was enough to convince him to acquiesce. Carefully he worked himself back into a sitting position with Asala's help, though he wasn't able to perform much movement with one of his arms and one of his legs. "Thank you," he said quietly in Estella's direction.

Asala picked the tray with the empty vial and dirty bandages up, handing it to Donovan as he came to retrieve it. She then reached into one of the pockets in her robes to produce a clean rag and wiped down the table she had been using with the intention of using it the hold the soup.

“You're welcome." While Khari was serving herself, Estella started serving bowls for the others in the room, handing the first one to Asala, indicating with a small nod that it was intended for Romulus. Others went to Donovan and Millian to distribute; Estella seemed inclined to stay clear of where the healers were working.

Khari sat back down on her bed, holding her soup steady in her lap with her injured hand and using the other to manipulate the spoon. It was a little awkward, since she'd been stabbed in her dominant hand, but this didn't seem to pose a significant problem. “It's pretty good, Stel. Thanks."

"Will you need help?" Asala asked Romulus softly. While she wanted to, she did not want to make him feel useless by stealing any independence that he could have. If he wished to feed himself, Asala would make sure that he would be able to do it.

"No." Romulus said, somewhat quickly. "Thank you."

With that, she smiled and nodded, pulling the table close enough for him to reach without straining himself and set the bowl down on to it, with another clean rag beside it. She stood and backed away to give him space. The rest of her staff went about distributing the soup, and helping those who needed it with their eating. For a moment, she felt lost for a moment before her eyes hungrily fell onto the bowls of soup and she realized she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. Asala had spent so much time tending to everyone and making sure that they were comfortable that she had forgotten to eat. Even so, she did not immediately go for the soup, and instead hesitated, looking around in case there was someone else who needed her.

Estella must have noticed, or she looked more tired than she realized. In either case, the Inquisitor handed her the next one, pointing to a chair near the wall with a little half-smile. “I know enough about magic to know it's exhausting," she chided mildly. “You should eat, too."

Asala took the soup with a little surprise and was about to refuse before her stomach betrayed her and grumbled. She could feel the heat of the blush blossom across her face, so she meekly accepted both the bowl and the chair, slinking into it and leaning against the wall. As she began to eat, she couldn't help be begin to feel tired, and before long her eyelids began to droop. Soon after, she slipped off to sleep, with the warm bowl of soup in her lap and spoon still in her hand.

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: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
“Thanks for coming, everyone." For once, Estella allowed herself to wear a smile openly, glancing between her assembled friends with a little bubble of warmth in her chest. She'd invited all of them to her rooms for the afternoon, with the promise of something to do to take their mind off everything else going on, and a chance to get out of the cold. She'd pretty much counted on Khari and Lia being there, but she was glad Asala had been able to get away from her work for a bit, and that Zahra was feeling up to it.

Of course, now she had to explain exactly what she had in mind. At present, her bedroom, located at the top of one of the smaller towers on the castle itself, was bare of what sparse furniture it normally had, and she'd laid cheesecloth over the floor. Several large ceramic jars sat nearly against one of the walls, an assortment of large brushes next to them. She'd had to ask Leon, Hissrad, and Reed for their help moving the jars and her furnishings, but apparently they hadn't minded.

“I... may have decided I'd like to paint in here," she explained, gesturing to the blank walls. “I thought maybe you all would like to help? If it just seems like work, you don't have to, obviously, but I thought it might be fun if we all did it together." Folding her hands behind her, she rocked back on her heels.

Khari, who'd looked confused up until that point—likely due to the absence of furniture—grinned broadly. “I can't draw for shit, but if you don't care about that, then I'm in. What kinds of colors did you get?" She crouched next to one of the jars and removed the lid with a soft pop. When the hue in question turned out to be a verdigris pigment, her eyes lit up.

“Oh, this is nice. Let's do it!"

“Glad you like it," Estella said with some humor. “I wasn't sure what colors to choose, but thankfully we had a bit of everything leftover from the renovations to Skyhold, so there's all kinds of things there." She turned to the other three with a smile. “Give us a hand?"

"Absolutely!" Lia jumped quickly to the task, and searching until she found a dark enough shade of green. "You know, I tried to decorate the Alienage sort of like this when I was little. I don't remember where we got the paint from. Nothing as nice as this, though." She stooped to pick up one of the jars and carried it over to a wall she deemed in need of her services.

"'Course, I had to use my fingers for that. Father wasn't too pleased when he found me decorating the inside of our house." She smiled wistfully at the thought, and got to work, dipping her brush into the paint and starting on a design.

"Tammy gave Meraad and I each a side of the wall of our home to paint as we wished," Asala added, popping open another can with a thin barrier. She then dipped the edge of the barrier into the paint, and when she pulled it out, a thin film of burnt orange lined the barrier. She nodded and let the barrier dissipate, letting the paint fall back into the can with a quiet splash. "He was... liberal in his application," Asala added with smile.

Apparently satisfied with the hue, Asala reached for a brush and inspected the walls, as if to try and find the best place to begin.

“Sounds like fun. I’m in too,” Zahra stood around them as they fished through the collection of paints. She scratched at her chin and walked between them. Perusing the assortment Estella had scrounged up. She stooped low to expect them and strode away, hands plucking lids off and popping them back on. “Might ask one of you to paint the new figurehead. Riptide will be needing one.”

“We always painted our own boats. Little one-sailed shifts. Ridiculous colors, most times—they hated that,” She offered. A scoff of laughter followed. Whatever memory she was recalling probably had more to it then that. She’d been smiling more lately. It appeared as if this get together had worked on her, at least, in softening her bristled edges. She popped a few more open before idling her hand on top of one particular shade of blue: turquoise. She scooped it up and claimed a spot of her own beside Lia, already working out a pattern.

She paused occasionally, glancing at everyone else’s pallets.

Estella herself started with a shade of blue, though she spent considerably more time staring at the wall than she did actually painting anything. It was a fault of hers, she knew; she'd work herself up so much that the specter of failure nearly paralyzed her, even failure at something so simple.

But... everyone else was starting in on their parts, and they were doing it for her, with her. She took a deep breath and tried to let go of the need to do this right—what did it matter if whatever she did wasn't spectacular? There would be no one up here ever to see, beyond these people that wouldn't mind in the slightest.

She'd just made the first stroke when a rapid series of patters on the cheesecloth alerted her to Gil and Elia's arrival. While Bibi spent his time at the clinic, Hanne lived in Leon's office, and Pia never left Cyrus alone, the other two tended to wander, and return to her quarters when they wanted to sleep or avail themselves of willing human attention.

Of course, 'human' wasn't really the right modifier. Elia twined himself around Lia's feet, meowing up at her in a plaintive tone, while Gil made straight for Zahra, apparently very interested in the laces of the captain's boots.

Zahra paused between strokes when the small ball of fur bumbled up and began swatting at her boots. Her grin widened as she stuck the brush behind her ear. She hadn’t gotten very far in her design but it was clear that she intended it to be nautical-based. Loose sweeps of waves. Perhaps, a boat would be the feature.

She plopped down on the ground and loosened her laces enough so that she could pluck one end between her fingers, dangling in front of Gil so that she could entice him to play. It worked well enough. He, too, plopped on the ground and slapped at it with his paws while he squirmed on his back. “More the merrier, right? Kitten,” she glanced over at Asala and her workspace, before laughing and resuming her play.

"Wha-huh?" Asala stammered, both surprised and confused. It seemed like Asala thought Zahra was speaking to her, and she appeared to be too deep in concentration to tell whether or not Zahra may have been speaking to the actual cat or her. "Wait... Uh, sure," she said, nodding along regardless, though it still seemed like she was somewhat confused.

Near where Asala sat, a geometric shape was beginning to take form. A rather large triangle sat askew on the wall, with two orange edges slightly bowing inward while the third was straight an an arrow. She seemed to be just starting on the interior lines, with a light blue one stretching from the straight line to one of the bowed ones, itself slightly bowed outward. Judging by how perfect her line work was, it appeared that her barriers were vital.

Khari apparently found Asala's confusion hilarious. Certainly at least funny enough to look like. Her painting wasn't quite as terrible as she'd suggested with her previous comment. The tree she was painting was at least basically passable, in a more stylized way than true realism. “You have no idea what she just said, do you?" It seemed to be a mostly rhetorical question.

"Nooot... really," she said, answering the rhetorical question.

There was an audible thump as Zahra flopped onto her back and regarded Khari and Asala across the way. She absently wriggled her fingers in front of the kitten’s face, as she propped herself up on one elbow. She blinked up at their work spaces, and her smile broadened, “I’ve never seen straighter lines. Reminds me of the streets in your village.”

"Would you like a better look?" Lia asked the little cat at her feet. She crouched down a scooped the little creature up in one arm. He seemed not to mind, far more interested in pawing at her than observing what she was painting. "These symbols are for Sylaise. She keeps the hearth." Lia had been working with a pair of colors so far, the green being used to create a fairly complex pattern of twisting vines, along with a vibrant pink at various points, where flowers bloomed. Her amateur work actually wasn't all that bad, and she seemed somewhat proud of it.

"Her fire will keep our Lady Inquisitor warm even in the cold winters here," Lia continued, educating the kitten, "and her care will heal her after hard battles." The kitten began to lick at her face, where similar markings had been tattooed years ago. They were of a different goddess, however, one more suited to Lia's lifestyle. The scout pulled her brush away, smiling through her slight annoyance. "She won't do anything, however, if you mess up my painting, so behave yourself."

Estella snorted softly. Her own selection, a cluster of constellations with the lines traced between the individual stars, was taking up decent shape on the wall, but she set her brush down for a moment, moving over to Lia. “Here," she said. “I'll get him out of your hair. I think I've got a bit of string..." She rummaged through her pockets until she found what she was looking for, then reached out to take Gil from her friend.

He was easy to satisfy, fortunately, and preoccupied himself batting around the snippet of yarn for a while. They'd been working for about an hour when someone knocked on the doorframe. Estella turned, spotting Livia hesitating at the threshold, a tray in-hand.

“You can come in," she assured her, offering a smile. “Were you asked to find one of us?" She didn't recall making any requests, and Livia was a bit too retiring to venture here without some reason or another.

Livia returned the smile, shaking her head a little. Her braids knocked together, producing a soft metallic chime from the cheap ornaments woven into them. "Cyrus asked me to bring you this. He said you'd have friends by for something." The tray was laden down with what smelled like coffee and tea, with small containers of the cinnamon and nutmeg Estella preferred in her coffee, as well as more ordinary things like sugar, milk, and honey. "I'll just leave it here, shall I?"

Estella was more than a little surprised Cyrus had even known to do something like that. She'd mentioned her plans for this only once in passing, and she could have sworn he'd been completely in his own head at the time. Still, the refreshment was welcome, as far as she was concerned. “That sounds good. Thank you, Livia. Does anyone want tea or coffee?"

Just at a glance, most of the designs looked nearly finished; she was eager to see what they'd come up with.

Khari finished filling in a bit of green on her tree; it wasn't especially skillful, but from the way parts of it were shaded and highlighted in other versions of the same color, it did have a certain kind of depth to it. “Oh, tea. Yes please." She took it with quite a lot of honey, but no sugar.

There was an appreciative sniff from Zahra’s corner of the wide chamber, followed by the sound of hands scuffling against knees, and approaching footsteps, “Smells good. Thanks, love.” She’d snatched up her own odd mixture of coffee, tea and an unhealthy dollop of cinnamon and nutmeg in equal proportions. From the looks of it, she had a major sweet-tooth. With her cup in hand, she resumed her station.

What had appeared like the sea’s waves, hadn’t been the ocean at all. Rather, it was the sky. Fat white clouds mixed with light grays filtered through a sea-worthy sky. A red-wood ship was painted in vibrant, wild strokes, as if it were cutting through them—flying rather than sailing. It’s sails were black as night. Given her lackadaisical attitude, there was a surprising amount of details. As if she’d done it before. The jolly roger she’d drawn flapping on the mast was of unknown origins: a red hand grasping an arrow.

"I'd love some tea," Lia said, heading over to Estella and trading her brush for a cup. Her work was just about finished, covering a good portion of the section of wall she'd chosen to work on. "Do you like it? I thought maybe Mythal, but this seemed like a better fit for a room. Some of the flowers don't look quite right from here, actually. Need to fix those..."

“It's lovely," Estella replied honestly, adding a dash of cinnamon to her cup. She loved the way it smelled. “And I like the flowers. I wasn't sure there'd be any use for the pink, but it's such a pretty color." She glanced over at where Zahra was still working. “I seem to have acquired my own pirate ship as well, which is something I never thought I'd say."

That left one. “Asala? Can I see yours, as well?" She was willing to bet it would be precisely-executed and colorful, but beyond that, she had no guess at all.

Asala was sprawled across the floor on her belly near the tray that held the tea and coffee, her hands just reaching a cup that held coffee and a carafe of milk. She'd been in the middle of pouring milk into her coffee when Estella called. She looked up from her prone position before turning to look at the painting on the wall, though she made no move to get up. "Oh, sure," she said, using a leg to gesture toward the wall.

The orange triangle was now filled in with several blue lines, each bowing inward until they finally met in the middle. The lines gave the painting an illusion of depth, as if the triangle continued beyond the wall. She pulled the coffee closer to her mouth before she took another glance at the painting. "The corners stand for the mind, body, and soul while the angle represents balance," she explained, taking a sip of the coffee. Her eyes lit up for a moment and she stared at it before continuing the explanation. "The lines gives it strength. This coffee is good," she added, quickly.

Taken together, the designs were an almost-comical mismatch in style, color, and honestly even the skill with which they were applied. Estella loved them. “Thank you, everyone. These are beautiful."

She took a sip of her coffee, watching Zahra finish up the last parts of the boat's design. Even without any of the furniture, the room felt more like home than it had since she'd moved into it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
At its heart, the city of Jader was a fishing port. It borrowed from both the Fereldans and Orlesians, creating a chaotic miss-mash of architecture. There was a practical simplicity clearly reminiscent of Ferelden stonework, coupled with Orlesian whimsy of columns and vibrant colors. Bright and loud. Where one faltered in sophistication, Orlais offered its fancies. Ferelden tempered it with a genuineness it would have lacked otherwise. Besides, as impressive as its aesthetics were, it wasn’t what Zahra was looking for. Seeing as it was the closest shipyard in relation to Skyhold
 it was the best they could do. She readjusted the bundle in her arms and swung her gaze skyward.

The Riptide was neatly anchored in Jader’s dry dock. Surrounding the ship were several neat piles of timber, binds, and pad parts. Thick rope, as well. Fortunately the main mast hadn’t been hit. Replacing it was far more trouble than it was worth—the holes, however, were just as much of a pain. The railings had been ravaged by one of the cannonballs, and its midsection had been pierced as well. They’d had to cut and remove some of the boards; bowed in as they were. The holds were a mess. The first cannonball Borja had fired hadn’t pierced through the entire vessel, and had rolled about inside. As soon as they’d returned, it was the first thing to be removed. Nixium had taken her station next to anyone who’d begun placing down boards. Smoothing her fingers across the gaps, until the wooden pieces molded and merged together.

Zahra had instructed the others to clean up the holds, carry boards and set about with hammers, nails, and ropes. There was much to do, and the weather had held enough not to feel uncomfortable. Hefting wood up and down the gangplank would’ve warmed them up anyhow. She, too, bustled around the shipyard. She’d also visited the local tavern in order to buy a few bottles of wine for anyone whose thirst couldn’t be quenched by the casket of water settled beside the nearest building. Damn Borja. Her collection of vintages had perished in the battle. Shattered and wasted on the lower decks. A damn waste.

“More work than it’s worth if you ask me,” Garland guffed from beside her, scratching at his beard. He seemed more irritated the usual, but it was probably because of the influx of work he’d been handed. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hair was slicked back from his face.

“Good thing then—I wasn’t,” her grin cracked wider when she turned to face him, dumping the load of wood into his arms without waiting to see if he’d catch it. He did. Barely. They were empty, anyhow. He made a noise, clearly annoyed before clambering up the gangplank and onto the deck.

Among those who'd joined the crew in their repair efforts was Estella. It was clear enough that her knowledge of ships and the requirements of repair was minimal, but she'd made herself useful clearing away broken boards and glass and the like from the lower decks until that was done. Now, she mostly ran supplies to people who knew what they were doing, hauling boards and buckets of nails up and down the gangplank with diligent steadiness. She'd tied her hair up and away from her face and neck; she dressed like any of the others working on the Riptide, with no indications of rank or position.

On one trip down for more supplies, she passed Zahra by and smiled. “The fore hold is shaping up pretty nicely; the crew down there say they'll probably be done in half an hour." She shifted her grip on the laden buckets she was carrying and wiped her forehead with her sleeve near the shoulder.

“Appreciate you coming up here, we’re making good time,” Zahra said, offering a soft smile and a free hand for one of the buckets Estella carried. She didn’t mind helping out anyone who wasn’t Garland. His whining was a small victory, in a sense. If he wasn’t such a damn good shipwright, she would’ve thrown him off ages ago. Anyone who couldn’t understand the value of salvaging Riptide as long as possible, didn’t deserve to call themselves a raider. He’d never ran under different sails before, as she had. This was her first ship. Her first crew. Assembled by her and Aslan back before they’d scrounged up their motley crew.

It was the closest thing to a home she’d ever had.

Fortunately, she’d acquired extra hands on her way to Redcliffe: Estella, Vesryn and Asala. She was grateful they’d come along with her, even if they hadn’t needed to. It lessened the workload and would make Riptide seaworthy far quicker than if she’d had to rely solely on her crew. Asala’s magical prowess proved invaluable, shifting the larger boards with ease. Estella’s eye for detail had proven equally useful. The ship’s inner belly looked even more organized then it’d been before. And for an elf so pretty, Vesryn was stronger than he appeared. His humor, as well, seemed to brighten the sour mood as of late.

Once they stepped down the stairs, the smell of shallots and garlic met their noses. Brialle was busying herself in Riptide’s kitchen, preparing lunch for those who’d grown hungry after toiling for hours. A soft, melodic hum came from that direction. A sea-chanty she recognized. Her stomach lurched and gave an unseemly growl. Zahra grinned and gently bumped her shoulder into Estella’s, “Looks like it’s about time for a break anyhow.”

They encountered Vesryn underneath, the elf lugging a very heavy looking canvas sack over one shoulder. He'd been working tirelessly at collecting anything and everything that needed to be removed from the ship, which mostly consisted of things blasted apart by the cannonballs or damaged when the ships had crashed together in the storm. He'd set to the work cheerfully, and indeed gave them a smile in greeting as he passed. "Ladies. Lunch sounds fantastic."

He looked to be enjoying himself, honestly, despite the dull manual labor. He'd worked up a sheen of sweat and managed to get his shirt half-unbuttoned so his chest (and most of his torso) would have room to breathe. It remained to be seen if the shirt would end up in the trash pile, too. He paused at the base of the stairs. "Looks like she held up pretty well, all things considered. Under Qunari cannon fire, no less. No small feat." His expression seemed to grow a bit more serious and genuine. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there. The whole affair was a bit over my head."

Zahra settled the bucket down by a neat stack of crates and stretched out her arms above her head: cat-like. She cracked her neck from side to side, and set to work dragging extra chairs to the long table settled in the largest hold Riptide had to offer. They had all their meals down here, as a crew should. Stale biscuits and salted meat be damned when you had a decent enough cook aboard. When one could afford better ingredients, and expensive wines, it would’ve been a shame to punish themselves with poorer fare. While she’d never boast of all the things they’d had to do to accumulate their fortunes, it was obvious that they didn’t lack in that department.

She plopped herself into one of the chairs and kicked up her feet on the table, boots and all. The sound of food snapping in the foreground was all the more apparent the closer they ventured—just around the bend was Brialle’s kitchen. A place christened by the little lass herself. Off-limits to anyone else, she’d say. Unless they wanted to help with dishes. It smelt of butter and some sort of mild fish, mixed with the shallots and garlic she’d noted earlier. She looked over her shoulder and waved Estella over, hooking her arm over the back of the chair so she could swing her attention onto Vesryn’s face, “Can’t say she’s been through worse.” She shook her head and arched an eyebrow, “And risk that face?” Her wicked smile diminished a few inches, and softened around the edges, “Don’t worry about it. You’ve more than made up for that.”

"Hardly," Vesryn replied, dismissive, "And I do have a helmet, you know. Keeps this face of mine intact. Dare say I look rather dashing in it." With that, he made his way up to remove the refuse he'd collected from the ship. No doubt he would soon return for the food.

A dull thump drew their attention to the door. Asala stood slightly outside of it, rubbing her forehead while pouting at the top of the door frame. Judging by the bruise already blossoming, it'd not been the first time she'd ran into one of them. One of the crew, whom she'd been following apparently, turned and quickly hid his grin. "Wh-what?" she stammered, hiding the bruise, but the crewmate said nothing and continued on his way.

Asala had her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing the base of her horns and giving door frames a clear shot to her forehead. She wore a thin sleeveless shirt with a wide neck and which cut off at the midriff, her crimson cloak tied into a knot at her waist. She, like the others, had worked up a sheen of sweat. "Th-they, uh, said it was cl-close to lunchtime?" Asala asked, apparently reverting back into her shell while around the rest of Zahra's crew, whom she had not had a chance to get to know as much as Zahra and Estella. The blush on her face said that she'd rather them not had seen her bash her head on the door frame either.

Estella smiled in a way likely intended to be reassuring, and patted the seat on the other side of her. “It is. Sit next to me?" She made no mention of the blunder against the doorframe, as though she hadn't noticed it in the first place.

Asala smiled and nodded, quietly taking the offered seat.

Zahra had a harder time ignoring the fact that Asala had bonked her head on the ship’s door frame. Her mouth stippled itself into a wavering smile, before crooking into a simpering smirk. Her laughter sputtered out like a leaky facet. How many times had she seen Aslan smack his horns into the wooden frames? Dangling ropes? Unfortunately, Riptide hadn’t been designed to cater to anyone whose stature was above average. While she hadn’t seen it firsthand, she assumed Leon had had the same troubles when he was aboard. A shame, really. She would’ve liked to see him as flustered as Asala seemed to be. She nodded her head and unhooked her arm from around the chair in order to face them properly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said as she knuckled at her watering eyes, clearly thinking it was much more amusing than anyone else, “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen that happen.” As soon as she regained control of herself, she cleared her throat and smoothed her fingers across the wooden surface of the table, “Ah. Yes, it’s nearly ready,” she added with a conspiratorially wag of her eyebrows, “It might just be the most delicious thing you’ve tasted—”

“Don’t listen to her. It’s fine on an empty stomach. Nothin’ fancy,” a slight elf-woman with blond curls interrupted with a sheepish smile, hands occupied by a large pewter-platter. A peculiar item for a pirate ship, but given their prior affairs
 perhaps not so surprising.

Brialle set the platter in the middle of the table, and brought out a few more platters. One had an arrangement of fragrant fish toppled on top of each other, garnished with shallots and wild mushrooms. Others had fresh bread and a round of old cheese. Diced fruits, as well. Afterward, she set smaller pewter plates in front of them and retreated back into the kitchen with a content hum. “Nothing fancy she says,” Zahra snorted.

"You know," Vesryn said after he'd come back down the stairs, free of any heavy load, "I don't think I've ever been served a meal by a pirate before." He slipped into an open seat at the table, surveying the array before him. "Seems I should make a habit of it, though."

Zahra’s clapped the table, making platters jump, before she laughed, “Well, you’re always welcome aboard this ship.”

Estella carefully served herself from the platters nearest her, occasionally diverting the spoons on their way to her plate to someone else's instead, if one got shoved in her general direction. Eating meals in a large group that wasn't too stuffy about their manners meant it happened more than a few times.

“Oh, nectarines. I haven't had one of those in years." She seemed quite excited by the prospect, and lifted half of one to her plate with something approaching reverence. “I suppose I should be questioning your supply lines, but I think I'm going to selfishly enjoy this instead of asking." She bit into the tender fruit with relish.

Asala was busy helping herself to fish, shallots, and mushrooms when Estella spoke. She leaned over and whispered, though quite loudly enough for Zahra to hear, though from her expression it wasn't meant to be some sort of secret. "Pirate," she answered with grin and a flutter of fingertips.

“Say it isn't so," Estella quipped back in the same stage whisper, apparently unable to help the slight smile she wore.

Zahra was busy stuffing her face, though she’d noticed the conversation going on to her side. She leaned towards them and grinned wide, arm hooked behind her chair. “I prefer the term
 opportunist.”

“Then I guess this is an opportunity to remodel the ship. Should we put in anything new while we're at it? A bar, perhaps?" Estella nudged a tankard a little closer to Zahra, perhaps sensing that she was going to need to wash all that food down at some point. “Day spa? New cannon? We might actually be able to get you one of those, eventually."

“You’ve read my mind. Maybe, on all accounts,” Zahra tapped a fork to her lips, and dropped it in lieu of the tankard slipped in front of her face. Who was she ever to turn down a drink? Opportunities and all that. She settled her hands around it and arched an inquisitive eyebrow, “I’m thinking it’s time that Riptide had a little more kick.”

Sailing fast no longer suited her purpose. If she had more bite? It’d mean all the difference. A Qunari-crafted cannon with those damned cannon balls?

It’d suit her just fine.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
It was a few days' ride out from Skyhold to this part of the Orlesian countryside. From what the others had said, it was somewhere near a place called the Exalted Plains. This region, though, was a bit hillier than anything properly called a plain, and at times the road led them into wooded areas, surrounding them with the pale bark of ash trees and dimming the natural illumination from the sun overhead.

Khari rode at the front of their little group, astride the sorrel horse Dennet had initially provided her. Romulus rode quietly beside her. Despite his injuries having almost entirely healed, he didn't look very comfortable atop the horse. Behind them, Asala rode at a close clip. Primarily because Khari held the reins to her horse. She still hadn't quite learned the basics of riding a horse yet, and mainly focused on gripping the saddle pommel to try and not fall off. Estella, perhaps the only other particularly experienced rider, had elected to take the rear guard position. Zahra rode slightly in the back, closer to Estella. If she was having any difficulties astride a horse, she was doing well to hide it. Gripping the reins in both hands, she seemed to busy herself by looking at their surroundings.

The stippled sunlight made the shadows in between the trees seem longer, deeper. A slightly-uneasy feeling hung over the place, almost like there were eyes on their backs, looking out from someplace Asala couldn't quite find. Every once in a while, Khari would turn her head sharply, glaring towards a different part of the wood, a frown slowly etching its way deeper into her face. But then her attention would turn forward again, a muttered something under her breath the only indication that it was more than mere watchfulness.

Though the weather was still mild in the part of Thedas they were in, Asala still clutched her cloak tightly. She felt that they were being watched, but could not figure out from where or from whom, no matter how intently she stared off into the trees. Perhaps it was simply paranoia, of being so far away from Skyhold in an unfamiliar land. Despite the reach of the Inquisition's influence, she herself had not ventured far into Orlesian land. Still, she couldn't quite buck the feeling that something was off.

"So, uh..." she began, if only to break the silence, Are we th-there yet?" she asked, though the answer truly didn't matter. She only wanted hear something that wasn't the crackle of leaves or brushing of tree limbs.

Khari shook her head in response, glancing back over her shoulder at Asala. “We're close. Ser Durand doesn't usually cross into the forest, but this path will put us back out in the hills within another couple of miles." She sounded certain enough that she must have been personally familiar with the trail. Pushing a breath out of her nose, she spoke a little louder, probably so that her words would carry back to Estella and Zahra.

“Don't mind the prying eyes. They know as well as I do that this is nobody's land. I'm not even sure what they're doing here—it's not like them to get this close to the edge of the woods." She shifted a bit in her saddle, dropping her feet out of the stirrups and rotating her ankles.

“You mean the Dalish, right?" Estella spoke up from a few meters behind them. She also seemed to have the vague sense that people were around, but like Asala, it didn't appear that she could pinpoint anything specific. “If... you don't mind me asking, would the clan or clans around here be yours?" The question was tentative; perhaps she anticipated it going over poorly.

“It's usually only the one, this close to the Plains." Khari shifted her line of sight to peer deeper into the trees. “And yeah... that'd be the Genardalia. Mine, once." She shrugged; it wasn't really clear how she felt about that. The tone she used to discuss it was oddly uninflected, for her.

“We could... I mean, if you wanted to see anyone, I don't think it would hurt to make a stop," Estella suggested, trying to follow the direction of Khari's eyes and evidently not finding anything. “Just, you know... a visit, or something."

Khari snorted, shaking her head emphatically. “That's kind of you, Stel, really. But it wouldn't be some kind of warm, happy reunion. They probably think I'm dead—and honestly, it's better that way. I'm not exactly the pride of the clan, if you know what I mean." The trees around them began to thin, admitting more sunlight, and gradually, the feeling that they weren't quite alone started to fade.

While Zahra hadn’t outright made any inflections on the creeping sensation of being watched
 she did appear more at ease when the trees thinned out.

"They'll know you're not dead now," Romulus added, visibly relaxing a bit once they got clear of the thickest wooded areas. "Assuming we were being watched by someone that would recognize you." He paused for a bit, observing the landscapes around them. He'd seemed much more at ease, all things considered, since leaving Skyhold for a while. The traveling seemed to be doing him some good. "We're not expecting any trouble from them, right?" he asked. From his tone, it was obvious he didn't think so, but Dalish clans did often differ on how they treated outsiders.

Khari made a noncommittal sound, but apparently decided that was insufficient as an answer. “No. They're not friendly, but they're not hostile, either. They won't—"

Whatever she was going to say next was interrupted by the sound of something very much like an explosion. From the noise, it had happened somewhere in front of them. Khari immediately tensed, hooking her feet back into the stirrups. “Hold on, Asala. We're gonna go a little faster now." She nudged her horse's flanks with her heels, goading him into a canter; Asala's horse followed suit with no input needed from her.

As they drew closer to the source of the noise, they could make out other sounds: people shouting, the occasional clang of metal. Clearly, someone was also using magic; a plume of smoke rose from behind the hill in front of them, the roar of fire intensifying in the way that only spells had—all at once, in a burst that faded again soon after.

When they crested the hill, Khari let go of Asala's reins, drawing her sword from behind her. The scene was chaotic, for how few people it seemed to involve. A group of about ten men, rough-and-tumble looking, wielded maces, clubs, and swords against what seemed to be a pair of Dalish. One of the two was already heavily-injured, doubled over and pressing a hand to her side, unable to fire her bow.

The other was the source of the magic; he threw bright handfuls of fire at the oncoming humans, but he kept casting worried looks at the covered wagon behind them, as though hesitant to do anything with it so close to his targets.

“Shit." Khari grimaced, quickly turning to Asala. “Can you shield that wagon? Zee, cover fire?"

“Gotcha’!” Zahra spurned her horse and broke away from their troupe. She was already unslinging the bow from her back in one smooth motion. For one who preferred the rocking decks of a ship, she appeared to be doing just fine, even as the horse jostled her in its saddle.

Asala nodded and looked down at the horse she sat upon. She hesitated, worried about what would happen once Khari let go of the reins. Feeling that she would be best suited on the ground than helplessly flailing around on a horse, she drew her staff from the saddlebags and pulled her foot out from one of the stirrups. However, her grace left something to be desired. As she went to dismount her other foot got caught and she fell forward. The horse was spooked by the sudden impact, but Asala was fortunate enough that she was able to swing her foot free before the horse began to leave.

She scrambled forward to take a hold of her staff and rose to her knees, driving the end into the ground. The staff lit up in a blue glow as a wide barrier materialized in front of both the wagon and the injured elf, but behind the magic wielding one so that his vision remained unimpeded. With the barrier erected, her offhand fell from the staff and took on a blue glow of its own. Though the barriers from that hand would not be as strong because of the other's strength, they would still prove useful in the right spots.

With the barrier erected, she rose to her feet and slowly began to advance toward the wagon, dividing her concentration there and the battle in front.

While Asala had taken a more practical route, conjuring a glistening shield that kept errant arrows at bay, Zahra’s technique was not so well thought out. Lady luck must’ve been on her side, because none of the arrows scored its mark. Her horse, however, did not seem to like being pushed so hard. Its hooves kicked up dirt and one arrow hissed close enough to spook it. She nearly took a tumble, but managed to unseat herself and roll neatly out of the way of its legs.

She came up as gracefully as she could manage and shook herself off. She was even quicker to scramble behind Asala and notch arrows, as they both approached the wagon. She loosed them into the line of grungy-looking individuals, not particularly careful with her aim until they reached it. Only then did she hunker down and squint her eyes, exhaling on each release. One arrow bit into a man’s exposed neckline, straight through a slit in his rusted gorget. For a moment, he didn’t seem to be aware that he was dying. Hands clawed at the air, before he toppled over with one final wet gurgle.

Every other arrow was aimed at their knees, legs and arms, in order to incapacitate them enough to be finished off with gusto.

Khari didn't have anything remotely approaching a ranged combat option, but that was apparently just fine by her. She shot a glance at Estella and Romulus, jerking her chin down to where the gap was swiftly closing between what were obviously bandits and the two Dalish. “Trust me, those guys are bad news. Mind lending a hand?"

She didn't really wait for the answer so much as went for it anyway, letting go of her reins and squeezing her horse with her legs, guiding him down the hill at a charge, taking a doublehanded grip on her cleaver. By that point, the bandit group had noticed them—as had the Dalish. They didn't have much time to react, save that the cluster of men she was charging at tried to scatter. Doubtless, being trampled was not something they wanted to risk. But Khari adjusted her trajectory, and swung down at one of the men as she passed, the momentum of the horse's charge cleaving his head from his shoulders. She jerked with the impact, but kept her seat, steering for the next.

Estella's charge wasn't quite as direct, but she maneuvered her horse almost as well, pulling around to flank those that attempted to retreat. The height advantage of being mounted worked well in her favor; she felled another man with a broad slash to his chest. One tried to sneak up on her from behind, but one of Zahra's arrows swiftly prevented that from becoming a problem, and she was able to meet the next head-on.

On some cue that Asala could not see from where she was, Nox reared, his front hooves catching one of the other bandits in the temple. When the horse landed, he caved the man's ribcage in. Estella grimaced, but did not pause.

Romulus used his horse only for closing the distance, not really having any weapons on his person that were suited for mounted combat. He pulled his crossbow from where it was secured on his back and loosed the already loaded bolt, striking a bandit in the back of his neck. He would not die immediately, but he was removed from the fight, falling backwards and choking. Returning the crossbow, Romulus dismounted while Khari and Estella charged through them, following in their wake.

He was more than willing to capitalize on the opportunities from men getting out of the way of Khari's horse. One had to dive face first, and he was unable to get back up or even see Romulus coming before he'd plunged his dagger first deep into his side, then into his chest after he'd rolled the man over. An adrenaline-induced shout gave away one of the bandits coming to strike him, and Romulus was able to parry away the bandit's club with his shield. He slipped his dagger into the exposed ribcage, and elbowed him down. He searched warily for more threats, but the shock of their charge had easily scattered the bandits away from the Dalish.

No few of those scattered fell to the ground aflame, either, and in truth, their interruption turned things around extremely quickly. Without an overwhelming advantage of numbers, the bandits lost morale almost simultaneously. None of them seemed all that skilled to begin with.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes before all of them were dead or unconscious; only at that point did Khari swing down from her horse, pushing her hood down and stomping to the back of the covered wagon. “Fucking Jackals, always after the same damn thing." There was, Asala was close enough to spot, a rusty-looking lock on the back of the wagon, holding its back doors shut. “Hey! If you can hear me, move back in there!" Khari wasted no time in heaving her cleaver over her shoulder and slamming it into the wood. Like she'd split a log, the doors splintered and cracked; She reached into the hole she'd made and ripped away chunks of wood.

"K-Kharisanna? Is that really—" The two Dalish had moved closer. The mage had his archer companion half-supported over his shoulders. She wore a wary expression, casting her eyes about at all of them as though she wasn't quite sure if they should still be fighting or not. His face, though, had quickly shifted into a look of clear surprise.

Khari seemed to ignore him, if she heard him at all. Her focus was on dismantling the doors, and it quickly became obvious why: the wagon contained living cargo. Three elves, two with the characteristic tattoos of the Dalish, and one without. All had been expertly gagged and trussed. “Help me untie them, guys? Don't really want to cut ropes with Intercessor..."

“Of course." Estella moved forward immediately, but with a great deal of deliberate slowness, as though she were worried about startling the occupants of the wagon. Carefully, she drew her dagger. “I'm just going to get the ropes off, I promise." It didn't totally seem to assuage the evident fear the captives had, but the first offered up his arms for her help readily enough. She delicately slid the knife through the bindings, then repeated for the ones on his feet, allowing him to remove his own gag.

Romulus was quick to move to the back of the wagon after Estella, and also quick to wipe the blood from his dagger. He gave the two elves that had been fighting a respectful berth, watching them seemingly only to confirm that they were not also a threat. At the rear of the wagon, he seemed content to not add anything after Estella had assured them of their intentions, instead only slicing the bonds from the first prisoner willing to be freed by him.

While everyone else worked to free the elves, Asala approached the mage and the archer. "Um," Asala began trying to get their attention. She held a tight grip on the collar of her cloak, and now that two pairs of unfamiliar eyes were upon her, she slunk into her shoulders somewhat. Regardless, she continued, pointing toward the wound in her side, "Would you, uh, allow me to-to take a look at that?" she said gently. She wanted to immediately check the wound, but these were strangers, and any out-of-line movement would only put them more on edge.

It took the Dalish woman a second to realize that Asala was speaking to her specifically, it seemed. She frowned slightly, then shook her head. "That is not necessary." Her companion sighed, but did not attempt to convince her otherwise.

Her mouth worked for a moment, trying to come up with the words to suggest otherwise, but none would come. Instead, she sighed quietly and slowly reached into her pack and retrieved a vial containing a crimson liquid. She went to hand it to the mage this time, explaining, "It is a, uh, a potion. It will... stem the bleeding. At least." There was a certain plea in her voice this time. He accepted with a small nod, but his attention was clearly mostly elsewhere.

As Estella and Romulus worked on the elves’ bindings, Zahra had trotted off to retrieve her snorting steed, busy kicking up grass and dirt a few paces ahead. When she’d successfully berated the horse for tossing her off like a sack of potatoes, she returned with the horse in hand, reins held in a fist. Her eyes raked across the hills, even though they’d clearly overtaken the bandits. She seemed apprehensive of approaching the caged elves, though she gave no indication why. She certainly wasn’t surprised seeing living cargo, “Jackals? That who they were?”

The three captives, once freed, worked themselves out of the wagon. Khari stood back to allow them to move past her at a respectable distance, flicking her eyes to Zahra for a moment. “Bandit outfit. You can always tell them by the neckerchiefs." She pointed down at one of the corpses, which was indeed wearing a red square of fabric, folded in half and tied around his neck. “They're nasty shits, and the only ones around here who traffic in skin. They like to load them up on boats and send them to Tevinter." She made a noise of disgust.

"Kharisanna." The Dalish man was more insistent this time, his use of her name more certain. As though with great reluctance, Khari turned her attention to him.

“What, Vareth?" Her tone could have peeled paint.

He didn't seem surprised by it, exactly. Vareth was dark haired and dark-eyed, somewhere around Estella's height—but he carried himself well enough that he looked a little taller. Vallaslin decorated his forehead and chin; the patterns were different from either Khari's or Lia's. "You—" He didn't quite seem to know what to say to her. "Everyone thought you were—but what happened?"

“I left." She stared flatly at him, clearly unwilling to explain any further than that. “You should get these people back to the clan. I'm assuming that's why the scouts are in the woods."

"They—yes. We'd tracked the bandits for days, but... it wasn't safe to go past the woods, so when the trail went that way..."

Khari nodded tersely. An awkward silence descended. Despite her injunction, Vareth seemed hesitant to leave, and no one else appeared inclined to do anything without word from him.

“Um." Estella cleared her throat softly, smiling a bit too thinly for it to be wholly genuine. Still, she stepped a little closer to the locus of the conversation. “Pardon me, serah... Vareth?" She paused a moment, then soldiered on. “We actually came here in search of a chevalier. Perhaps you might have seen him around here somewhere?" Her eyes moved back and forth between the Dalish man and Khari.

Vareth's brow knit; he glanced at Estella. "Chevalier?" He grimaced. "Most of what's around here is bandits; they've been all over each other lately. Some kind of power struggle or other petty thing." His voice dripped with disdain. "The local chevaliers know to stay away from the forest, unlike the Jackals. But... yes. There was another who passed through the neutral area recently. But it was a woman. Tall, red hair. She had a group with her."

“Which way did she go?" Khari reentered the conversation with considerably more urgency than before.

Another too-long silence; Vareth looked reluctant to respond. "You're still chasing those knights, after all this time?"

Khari crossed her arms over her chest. “Still chasing the dead, after all this time?"

He sighed, shoulders slumping. His companion adjusted herself a bit, clearly unhappy and making it obvious by glaring daggers at Khari. "She went east from here." The woman ignored Vareth's look of reproach, and pointed her free hand in the right direction.

“Great. Let's go, everyone." Khari immediately reached for her horse, swinging herself up into the saddle.

"Kharisanna—"

“Don't call me that." She scowled. “I'd ask you not to tell the Keeper, either, but we both know you will."

He didn't seem to have any response to that.

Romulus had a bit farther to walk before he could mount up, but he was moving as soon as Khari was, his dagger sheathed and head turned away from the elves. He seemed very much inclined to follow her lead, and her lead was to remove herself from the presence of these elves with haste.

Zahra had already swung herself back into her saddle, and joined Khari at her side. She made a low humming sound in the back of her throat and cocked her head to the side, eyebrows raised in question—if the awkward conversation had bothered her at all
 well, it probably didn’t. She did, however, have her own questions about the matter. She spoke as if they were already out of Vareth’s earshot, even though they weren’t.

“Likely we’ll be seeing them again? Because the tension is...” she let out a low whistle, and glanced over her shoulder. They still seemed rooted in place. As if simply staying their ground would arouse a less curt discussion from Khari.

“I damn well hope not."

Asala's gaze lingered on the Dalish for a moment before she too turned away, where she hesitated for a moment. She realized that after she'd freed herself from the saddle, she had no idea where the horse had gone. She looked one way, then the other before turning to her companions. "Um... Have any of you... seen my horse?" she asked, her face quickly turning a shade of scarlet.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
The ride away from the scene of their short battle was considerably more somber than the earlier part of the excursion, and Estella found herself sorely missing the first few days, when Khari's enthusiasm had been palpable, and the conversation had come much more easily. Now, though, her friend looked pensive, withdrawn. She wasn't talking at all, and Estella missed that, too. Khari just didn't look like herself when she was in this kind of mood. Surely, everyone was more than allowed to have their down days, but... there was just something particularly wrong with the idea that she was bereft of her characteristic enthusiasm and verve.

The road was more open now, so there wasn't so much reason for them to ride in any particular formation. Estella had taken over the job of guiding Asala's horse along, and the moved them up a little bit, within polite conversation range of the others. “Um, Khari? Is—are you all right?" It seemed like a lame question, devoid of any particular insight or idea as to what could make things better. If anything could. But it was the only one she knew to ask.

It got Khari's attention at least; she'd been staring somewhat ahead and down for the better part of an hour, now, but she raised her head at the query, glancing sidelong at Estella. “Huh? Oh." Her brows furrowed, distorting her vallaslin slightly. “Uh... I mean, yeah. I'll be fine. It's just... been a while, since I had to think about all that. I don't usually like to dwell on the past." She sighed. “I said this already, but... my family probably thought I was dead. And even if none of the scouts recognized me, Vareth and Elasha definitely did. Which means pretty soon everyone's gonna know."

She tugged uncomfortably at her ear; her mouth pulled to one side in a lopsided grimace. “I'd really rather they didn't. I'm never going back; it's not like I was great for the clan when I was there, either. It's just... better, if they think I died or something."

"Why?" Romulus asked, the first word he'd said in a while. His mood had also obviously worsened since the battle and their encounter, but rather than seem lost mentally for the ride, he'd been hard in thought, trying to figure something out. It took the outbreak of conversation for him to finally speak, though. "Will they come after you? Doesn't seem like they bothered before." He frowned, eyes shifting across the horizon as they rode. He was always watchful, never more so than when it was quiet. "I'm no father, but... I think I would prefer to know if my child was alive." The last part was added very quietly, and for a moment he took his eyes off their surroundings, looking at nothing more specific than his horse's mane.

Asala nodded quietly in agreement.

Zahra said little on the matter. Whether she agreed with Khari, or Romulus, was a mystery. From what little she spoke about her own family, it might've been safe to assume that she, too, thought it best to be wary of whatever wayward kin that lied in the forests behind them. She led her horse astride theirs, and occasionally glanced across the way. Seeking any signs of trouble, if there was at all any. She’d opted to keep her bow nestled in her lap, instead of strapping it to her back.

“I don't know if they did before or not." Khari shrugged. “Either way... if I'm dead to them, then they don't have to think about me anymore. It's hard to explain, but—every elf in the clan is the responsibility of the clan, whether they want that responsibility or not. And for everyone who would have been fine letting me go, there's a few like Vareth who always wanted to convince me that I was making a mistake. That I should go back to being shitty at being Dalish instead of trying to be good at something else. It's not going to work. And it's better if they don't have to waste the effort. This way, they can believe whatever suits them, and no one has to deal with what the reality of the situation is."

She shook her head. “I tried, once. To get them to see things the way I do. I think I... hurt them. By turning my back on everything they see as sacred. Maybe my father would want to know I was alive. But the Keeper? The man who has to preserve all that's left of the past? I betrayed that man. And if he's moved on now, then he should be able to stay that way." She leaned down, rubbing at her horse's neck.

Estella of all people believed she could understand fraught and uncomfortable family circumstances. She'd run away from her homeland as well, though for reasons that amounted to far less than Khari's aspirations. But all the same, even knowing what family were uniquely capable of doing to each other, she had to wonder if that was really all there was to it. “You said Vareth would have tried to convince you? Were you friends?" It seemed like a complicated situation, but Khari wasn't refusing to talk about it, at least. Maybe it would help her if she did.

Khari let out a disbelieving snort. “He'd probably describe it that way, I guess. We sure as hell spent enough time together. He wanted to impress my dad, I think—figured if he could bring me back into the fold, that would do it. Followed me around everywhere when he wasn't getting lessons." She lifted her shoulders. “I could never decide if he was okay, or if I just hated his guts. He let me beat on him with a stick for fencing practice back before I knew the first damn thing about fencing, but... eh." She hesitated for a moment. “He was really good at everything, you know? All the stuff Dalish are supposed to be able to do. The hunting and the magic and even the crafting and looking after the halla. Pissed me right off most of the time."

“Well, I bet he would make a terrible chevalier," Estella said matter-of-factly. Truthfully, she could relate quite a bit, at least to the part where Khari had grown up next to someone who was remarkable and talented and easy to envy. Of course, she'd never been upset that her brother was all those things. She'd just developed a distinct sense of her own inferiority. She really hoped Khari didn't have one of those, but it was hard to say. Sometimes, her confidence was utterly convincing, but at others...

Zahra broke free from her silence with a loud snort. It gave way into an even louder laugh.

Asala barely suppressed a giggle at the sudden joke.

Khari didn't bother, laughing aloud instead. Even after it had faded, a small grin remained. “You're absolutely right, Stel. The whole clan would, in fact. Good thing there's me, then." Her smile softened for a moment; there was genuine appreciation in it. “Anyway, this shit is depressing. Let's talk about something else: I've never known there to be other chevaliers around here. But 'red hair and leading a small group' isn't a lot to go by, since that also describes me right now."

Romulus quietly cleared his throat. "He did say 'tall,' though."

"It is not her fault," Asala added with a teasing pout.

Khari made a face at both of them, sticking out her tongue. “Okay, fine, point taken. But if she's a chevalier, she was probably on a horse anyway, so she would have looked tall even if she wasn't." As counterpoints went, it was rather poor, and she seemed to know it. “But anyway, Stel, since you know a bunch of famous people... any chance you've met any tall red-haired chevalier women?"

Estella chuckled. Actually, she did know someone who met that description. “Well," she said, “it's possible he met Violette Routhier. I obviously don't know every chevalier in Orlais, but I do know she has a command rank, so she'd be leading people. I'm not sure what she'd be doing here though. Maybe something about the increase in bandits recently?"

It seemed they would be finding out soon enough. Cresting yet another hill, their group came upon what looked like a small encampment. It was set up against a small river on one side, but the landscape made it difficult to select a truly fortified position. This particular camp clearly made up for that with the volume of posted guards; no fewer than four men and women on horseback stood guard; the camp itself flew the standard of House Drakon—a silver dragon on dark green.

“Uh... that doesn't mean what I think it means, does it?" Khari's eyes were wide; it was clear what she thought it meant.

Estella was reluctant to burst her bubble, so to speak but it was probably better to do it before they approached the camp. “Sorry," she said, smiling a bit. “With the Civil War going on right now, no one flies the Orlesian flag on its own. Everyone uses either the Valmont one, the de Chalons standard, or the Drakon one, depending on who they side with. Violette is a captain under Grand Duke Guillame."

If Khari was trying to contain her disappointment, she did a pretty terrible job at it, but it passed quickly, at least. Pulling her horse to a stop, she looked back over at Estella, more thoughtfully now. “So, while I could try to explain, if this is really the lady you know, it might be better if you did it. Actually, maybe it's better if it's you anyway. One of the Inquisitors, and all." She shrugged.

Estella nodded. She'd sort of expected that; the fact that the camp flew the Drakon flag definitely narrowed down the possibilities—that faction was by far the smallest. Perhaps it was a bit misleading to even call it a faction, since what they were really focused on was continuing with standard chevalier duties while the rest killed each other over what amounted to a political dispute. She'd certainly inherited her commander's viewpoint on how much sense that made, though she'd have thought the same anyway. “I can do that," she confirmed.

They rode towards the camp deliberately, not near fast enough to look like they were coming in for an attack, but directly enough that their intent to speak with the guards would be clear. This actually would have been easier of she were still in her Lions gear, but perhaps the russet and gold of the Inquisition would be recognizable enough for now.

She eased Nox to a stop a polite distance from the guard. The masked helm made it exceedingly difficult to read him, but his body language at least suggested curiosity rather than anything hostile. They didn't really have the look of highwaymen, she supposed. “Hail, ser," Estella called, pressing her fist to her heart as she'd been taught. “Might we know who camps here?"

"This is the encampment of the first squad of Lord-General Drakon's second flight, captained by Ser Violette Routhier," the chevalier replied, returning the gesture. "What business have you here, strangers?"

“I am Estella Avenarius, of the Inquisition." She still hadn't gotten used to calling herself Inquisitor, and she was never, ever going to refer to herself as the Herald of Andraste. “Formerly of Commander Lucien Drakon's Argent Lions. I know Ser Violette, and we would speak with her, if she would hear us."

That certainly gave the knight pause. He seemed to think that over for a moment, then inclined himself forward on his horse in a more formal bow. "If you would be so kind as to wait a moment, my lady, I will consult with the captain on this matter." He raised a hand, waving over one of the other guards, who assumed his position between them and the camp proper while he left.

A few minutes of silent waiting later, he returned. "The captain will see you, Lady Inquisitor." It would seem Violette at least knew what she was. "If you and your friends would care to dismount, we can care for your horses here. The captain is in the command tent."

There didn't seem to be any reason to protest that; the chevaliers collected the reins of their horses, one of them giving Nox an affectionate pat. The group was allowed to pass into the camp unhindered. It was both small and orderly, not given to the noisy energy of larger military groups. There were perhaps a dozen men in total visible, including the guards, though the number of tents suggested the number must be closer to twenty. There was a small cluster of them closest to the river that were markedly different—older-looking. Khari looked intently at them for a few moments, only moving again when it became obvious she'd be left behind if she didn't.

The command tent was easy to find; it was considerably larger than the rest, built of a sturdy canvas material held up by several poles staked into the ground, tall enough to easily accommodate even Asala's height. The flap was already open, admitting them inside. The most prominent feature therein was the map table; the rest was no more than a cot and a small trunk at the foot of it, both pushed far to the back, and a few chairs around the table.

Standing on the further side of the table were two people. The first was Violette, red hair chopped to just graze her shoulders and armor of an even brighter shade polished to a shine. She glanced up when they entered, offering Estella an unusually strained smile. The second was a man, perhaps six feet in height, with a thick mane of unruly, greying hair and a roughly-trimmed beard only a few shades darker. The lines around his eyes were etched deep into tanned, leathery skin, but his eyes themselves were a lively blue, with the glimmer of a keen mind to them. His armor was considerably older-looking, but just as well-maintained, the red iron dark by comparison to his counterpart's.

His facial expression didn't change much—not until he spotted Khari. "Little Bear?" His accent was relatively thick, compared to most of those Estella had encountered at court. His face, gruff to first appearance, morphed into a bewildered smile, softening the craggy edges.

“Big Bear!" Slipping past Estella, Khari lunged at the man, who caught her seemingly by reflex. There was a muffled clank where their armor collided, but neither seemed to pay it any mind.

"Still don't know your damn manners, I see." He grumbled, but when he set her back down on her feet, he was careful about it. "Introduce your friends, you little heathen."

She scrunched her nose at him, but it didn't dim the force of her smile. “Everyone, this is Ser Jean-Robert Durand. Big Bear, this is everyone. Stel's the one with the prettiest eyes you've ever seen, Asala's the one who looks like she needs a hug all the time, Cap'n Zee's the one who looks like the fun kind of trouble, and Rom... has better tattoos than me." She might have been about to say something else there, but it was hard to tell for sure. “Also I guess two of them are like Inquisitors or something, but that's not the important part."

Ser Durand ran a hand down his face, very obviously rolling his eyes. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord and Lady Inquisitor, Captain, Miss Asala." He tapped his fist to his chest as Estella had not long ago.

"I do not need a hug all of the time," Asala murmured with a slight pout, before giving Ser Durand a timid wave.

“Little Bear, huh?” Zahra cooed with an already widening grin, before scratching at her chin with obvious curiosity. She, too, dipped her head in greeting and planted her hands on her hips, eyes roving the interior of the large tent. From the looks of it, she was impressed by their encampment. Her gaze slipped back Ser Durand. "Lovely to meet you, Big Bear. It took us awhile."

Estella sort of thought Asala was undermining her own argument, putting it with that face, but it was only more amusing that way. She considered protesting her own characterization, but decided against it. Khari was clearly in a good mood right now; she didn't want to put even a mild damper on it, considering how she'd been feeling a while ago. It was sort of charming that her spirits could be so lifted so quickly; it meant she wasn't the sort of person to hold onto the negative things in life. Really, most people could learn a great deal form that, herself included.

Estella returned Ser Durand's gesture. “The pleasure's mine," she said, smiling.

Romulus raised his eyebrows a little at the descriptor Khari applied to him, but it seemed as though her shift in mood was infectious, and he found himself smiling as well, though not as broadly as Estella. "It's good to finally meet you. We came a long way."

"So it seems. I'd like to hear more about it, later on. For now, I'm afraid you've caught us in the middle of a strategy session." He glanced over at Violette, his smile fading considerably. "Quite an urgent one, it seems."

"I'm afraid so," Violette said, sighing slightly. "My sister Liliane's squad was sent to the area a fortnight ago, to help quell the bandits encroaching on the region. None of them have been heard from since." She grimaced, moving her eyes to Estella. "I know it probably isn't what you're here for, but..."

Estella nodded slightly. “We came here seeking Ser Durand, actually. As it seems he's with you for the time being, so shall we be. If that's all right?" She tilted her head at the others.

"You are certain?" Durand looked a little skeptical. "Unfortunate as the missing patrol is, finding them doesn't amount to what you're doing, surely. We should not keep you from it."

"The sooner the situation is resolved, then, the sooner we can get back to it," Romulus said, as though it was quite a simple decision to make. "And we would not ask for your help if we weren't willing to help in return."

Durand huffed a short breath. "Fair enough, then. We'll fill you in."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Seven people was probably a few too many to fit around the small map table, but they made due; Khari just stood a row in front of Asala and Rom and called it good enough. The map on-hand wasn't a particularly-detailed one, but she supposed it had been short notice for Ser Routhier and Ser Durand had the landscape long memorized by this point. So maps weren't really a necessity for him. That was nice, because they were damn expensive, as she understood it.

“We ran into some Jackals on our way here. You think this is them?" Khari recalled the incident with clear distaste splashed across her face. They were nasty pieces of work to a one, but they usually moved in smaller, more mobile groups, so they could get in and out of the territory quickly. The Dalish would catch them every time, otherwise, before Ser Durand even had to worry about flesh-traders in his territory.

Her teacher considered it for a moment before shaking his head. "In a way, I'd prefer it." His tone was grim; he crossed his arms over his chest. "The Jackals at least would have been likely to try for capture." The implication was obvious: Ser Routhier's missing sister and her troops were much more likely to be alive if slavers had ambushed them.

"I think it's more likely Halfhand and her damn Reapers." He grimaced, pointing to a spot on the map that sat in an area Khari knew to be steeper, with as many cliffs as gentler hills. "They took the old fortress off the last guys a couple years back. I've never had the manpower to even try and dig them out." His tone was edged with a familiar grievance there.

Khari sucked a breath in between her teeth. Halfhand was no joke; she remembered stories about her. “What makes you think it's them?"

He huffed, arching a brow at her. "Little Bear, do you know any other bandits crazy enough to try fighting a full squad of chevaliers? Ser Routhier had ten fully-trained knights with her. They'd have broken any other group to pieces, ambush or no."

Seeing how Zahra’s skills and abilities were usually strictly useful on the seas, there wasn’t much she could offer by means of strategy. She’d taken on mercenary gigs, and sticky-fingered capers, but it wasn’t likely that she did anything planned. Flying from the seat of her pants? More likely. She kept her silence, but peered over their shoulders, scrutinizing the map splayed out in front of them.

Violette, who had so far been quiet, chose that moment to speak. "The complaint Lili was responding to was simply for increased bandit activity, but she would have gathered what she could from the locals, as far as information. If she heard about some bandit in an old fortress, I'm certain she would have at least gone to investigate. I believe Ser Durand's hypothesis is likely correct; if..." She paused, her throat working as she swallowed thickly. "If Lili is still alive, it seems likely she will be there. If nothing else, it is a place to start."

“That looks like a bit of a trek, from here," Estella contributed softly. “It would be nearly morning by the time we got there, if we left right now."

Clearing her throat, Violette continued in a much crisper tone of voice. "Quite so. I believe our best option is to camp here for tonight, leave early tomorrow, and attempt to take the fortress under cover of darkness."

Rom had no disagreement with that. He had studied the map while they spoke, listening intently with his arms crossed, one closed fist gently propped against his lips. "You said the fortress is old," he stated, looking to Ser Durand and lowering his hands towards the map. "Do we know what the state of its defenses are? If we're attempting to take it, I'd be put to much better use on my own, inside the walls, than with the bulk of our numbers."

Khari watched her teacher study her friend, clearly reassessing what type of fighter he was. Durand nodded slowly. "It's backed up against a cliff, making it inaccessible from that side. The rest of it is walls, but the masonry is old enough that it should be scalable, to someone with the right skills. Halfhand's no amateur, though—she'll have a watch posted, and she herself will likely be heavily-guarded." He stroked his beard with a hand, eyes shifting into the middle distance.

"I think it would be best if you got the gate open for us, rather than risking taking her out. Too many unknowns—I only know the basics of the fortress's layout, for one. Just what I've been able to get from observing at a distance."

“How many people does she have, these days?"

"At least fifty in the fort on a given day. More, if her lieutenants are in to give their reports. She runs a large outfit." It was easy to see why even a chevalier and his eight soldiers wouldn't have risked it, considering that. Khari would have asked why he hadn't sent for help, but she already knew that was the wrong question.

The better one to ask was why no one had ever answered.

Violette didn't look thrilled by even the suggestion of what amounted to an assassination; she shot Durand a very obvious aside-glance, but apparently decided to let it slide. "Opening the gate would be for the best. Even with our troops combined, we'll have but slightly more than half their number. I'm not worried about that so much—a bandit is a bandit, and two are hardly a concern." Her confidence was clear, but the matter-of-fact tenor of the comment didn't carry any arrogance. Rom nodded his understanding of her advice, and said no more.

"The worry is, I believe, that they will know the environment much better than we do, and be better positioned to begin with, if the watch is on the walls. We'll have to be quick."

"Little point in planning much beyond that." Durand seemed to be amenable to the plan's general direction, however. When it was clear that everyone with an opinion on the matter was in agreement, he turned to Khari and the others. "It seems we've an evening to kill. I don't suppose any of you lot play Skulls and Roses?"

It turned out that everyone who didn't play was willing to learn, so after a hearty camp stew, they clustered together in a circle to one side of the campfire. They'd relocated to the part of the camp dominated by the older tents; Khari had made a point of greeting all the guys before sitting down to her food. They were pretty much exactly as she remembered them, though considerably older, of course. Brick and Firmin had decided to play as well, bringing the number up to eight.

“I didn't see Gervais or Louis around—they find actual gainful employment or something?" Khari laid her first card face down on her knee, passing the turn to Ser Durand on her right.

Brick pulled a face, but it was her teacher that answered. "They're dead." The news was delivered with the measured, even tone of someone quite used to the idea, but the fact that he didn't look at her when he said it told Khari the rest of the story.

“Shit." She grimaced. “It's just the six of you guys now?"

Firmin nodded, playing his card face down as well. The oldest man in the bunch, he had a beard that extended well past his chest, and no other hair to speak of. "Not the same without you kicking us all awake in the morning to spar with you, Khari."

"Yeah." Brick rolled his eyes. "I can actually fuckin' sleep now. Not the same at all."

“One." No sooner had the turn gone around once than Estella used the opportunity to begin the betting phase. Her face was quite unreadable, smoothed over until there was no expression on it at all. Rather appropriate, for a game where bluffing was half the point. She broke the moratorium on expression for just long enough to smile at Brick, though. “If it helps, I got her back for you, in a way. We train before morning, now."

For a pirate who was committed to underhanded means, Zahra floundered at Skulls and Roses. She was in the habit of betting far too high and coming out with nothing at all. From the look on her face, nose scrunched and eyebrows screwed up in concentration
 she wasn’t fond of losing either. She sighed and passed, effectively drawing herself out of the round, “Just isn’t the same without any ale.”

Meanwhile, Asala stared at her cards with a confused expression, her eyes darting back and forth between the cards in front of her and those in her hand. "Uh..." she murmured.

Khari nodded emphatically, then leaned over to peek at Asala's cards. “You pass, Asala. I raise to two. Anyway, Stel here is up a couple hours before the sun, and now so am I." She spread her remaining cards a little further with her free hand; she'd put down her skull, so she was really hoping someone tried to up that bet.

"Pass." Apparently her teacher at least was not going to oblige. "You've been keeping up with your training then, Little Bear?"

“Of course I have." She sniffed, as though indignant. “Can't let myself slack off. I'm helping important people now, you know." Thankfully, Brick raised to three, so she was safe for this round, at least. “Inquisitors and everything. I've beat up demons and Tevinter cultists and crazy templars with red lyrium growing out of their bodies, and that's just this year!" So it wasn't strictly modest to mention, maybe, but she couldn't help herself; she figured she had reason to be proud. “I mean, I'm kind of a big deal if I got them both to traipse out to the countryside with me, right?" She grinned at the two of them.

"We wouldn't be alive to traipse anywhere if not for our quiet Qunari friend here," Rom added, his face quite blank as he looked at his cards and the board. "Several times. Pass." Now that he was out of the round, he returned her grin with his own smaller variety. "But yes, she's important to us. And we have to keep her out of the regulars anyway, for morale reasons. Sleep, as you mentioned."

“I do believe they quite enjoy watching her fight, though," Estella added, raising to four. No one seemed to want to take her up on that, so she was left to try and pick three roses besides her own. Brick had one, which she guessed immediately, as did Firmin. Her last guess was Durand, and she accompanied it with a question.

“May I ask what you know of the Inquisition, Ser Durand?"

He flipped his card, showing her the rose on it. The first bet was Stel's. As everyone reshuffled for the next, Ser Durand raised his shoulders. "Well, we don't exactly get news from the horse's mouth around here, but you could see that damn green thing in the sky from just about anywhere. Rumor tells that you lot were the ones who went about fixing that, and now you're looking to fix whatever caused it in the first place."

“That's basically it." Khari brought her legs up to cross underneath her, settling into a more comfortable position. “It's why we're here, honestly. I thought maybe you'd be able to help us."

He looked surprised by that for a moment, scratching at his beard with the hand not holding his cards. "Me? I'm not much of an asset, Little Bear. Can barely keep the bandits under control in my neck of the woods. Seems like a question better put to Routhier."

Khari snorted. “Bullshit. I know how hard you hit. And I know none of them have ever beat a clumsy dumbass into shape the way you have."

It was his turn to look like he didn't buy it. "That was not the labor you make it seem. But if what I can offer seems worth the asking, then I suppose I'll have to consider it." He grimaced. "If we can dig Halfhand out of her fort, I could pull up my old roots, too, I suppose."

Khari kept a lid on her excitement, but only just. It had been years since she'd been able to be around Ser Durand and the others; if they were coming to the Inquisition, well... almost everything she cared about would be in one place.

War or no war, that felt pretty damn good.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
The camp was packed up and ready to move before first light. Despite the missing and potentially dead portion of the company, the group seemed to be in decent spirits moving out, albeit tempered by a resolve that would be needed to make it through a hard fight. Romulus wondered if for once he was the most relaxed among them. The removal from Skyhold had done him a service, and though he wasn't particularly proud of his skillset, it would be good to put it to use helping Khari's teacher and the others among the chevaliers. Perhaps his commanders and advisors wouldn't agree with the risk of sending in an Inquisitor alone for the cause of rescuing a few soldiers (valuable ones, but still soldiers). But they weren't here now, and his aim was to help Khari and the Inquisition. That meant getting these prisoners back.

They walked mostly in silence, though some unresolved conversations from the night before popped back up every now and then, from those that weren't comfortable sitting in the quiet. Romulus was, and so he kept near the forefront of their formation, watchful for any threat. They passed rolling hill after rolling hill, covering ground swiftly but without overly tiring themselves. There was work to be done at the end of the trip, after all. There were unfortunately few trees to work with, barely more than one in sight at any time, but the sky was beginning to cloud over. It was light enough that rain wasn't prompted, but it would conceal to moonlight later, for their attack.

The conversation grew more and more sparse as the daylight waned, and by nightfall they had ceased altogether. They kept clear of the faded road leading into the fortress, moving ahead one hill over until the target came in sight. Fortress was a generous word, Romulus thought. There were no holes in the walls, but they were crumbling in places, and one of the towers had partially collapsed on the left side, making that vantage point unusable. The gate, at least, looked to be of sturdy construction, made of interlocking bars of iron. No getting through that with the tools they had; it would indeed need to be opened. What worried Romulus more was the cast-iron pots he saw, or at least the rims of some poking out above the battlements.

"Oil or something similar above the gate," he mentioned quietly to Violette. "Doesn't look like the gate's controlled from above. I'll see if I can take care of both, but if I can only open the gate, get everyone through quickly." He was sure he didn't need to tell her that, but he had no wish for her to overestimate his abilities. He much preferred having the time to properly scout a place's defenses before breaking in. Tonight he would have to manage things on the fly.

She seemed to understand, at least. "Will do, Lord Inquisitor. We can manage if necessary, so by all means... be careful."

"I'm going to start with that tower on the right," he said, loud enough for the rest to hear while still keeping his voice down. "Might take some time. I'll need to get a good look at everything first. The gate opening will be the signal." He cracked his knuckles, looking over at those few from the Inquisition that were with him. "I'll see you soon."

“Good luck in there," Estella replied with a nod. She tugged at the hood on her cloak, for once taking a leaf out of his book and casting her face into shadow. Even if he got the gate open, it was better if they were near enough to move quickly, and so they'd have to approach as quietly as possible in the meantime.

"Be careful, okay?" Asala said with a worried frown.

“Or we’ll have no choice but to tear the whole damn place down looking for you,” Zahra added with a toothy grin. If she was at all worried about Romulus going on his own, she’d done well in hiding it. Her smile wavered a fraction before she simply nodded her head.

“Don't have too much fun without us." Khari gripped his shoulder momentarily, squeezing for just a second before she let go. “Wish I was quiet enough to go with you." A pause. “And I don't usually wish I was quiet." She frowned at the fortress for a minute, then spoke in a lower voice. “If things go south and you need to get out without opening the gate... do it, okay?"

"I will," he promised, pulling up his hood and making his way out from cover. If things did turn bad on him, escaping would be no simple matter. It wasn't a big fort, but the walls were high enough to make jumping dangerous, and getting clear of arrow range with a broken leg or twisted ankle would be a difficult endeavor. He'd have to be careful.

Most of his cover on the approach came in the form of large rocks and boulders, obscuring him from the faint silhouettes that patrolled the wall. Their watch was more or less wasted on a night like tonight, though. The cloud cover cast a deep blackness over the land, making it undoubtedly impossible for the chevaliers to see how Romulus was progressing. They'd be able to see the gate lift, from the torchlight within the walls, but that was about it.

Romulus crept to the base of the wall at the edge of the watchtower, taking a moment to look up and plot his ascent, as well as listen for footsteps. He could hear one pair of boots moving along the top of this section of wall. He would have no cause to look straight down, though, so it was unlikely he'd be spotted. Carefully and quietly, Romulus began to climb, a small knife between his teeth. The wall was hardly smoothed solid any more, and it gave him ample options for foot and handholds, though he had to be careful not to disturb any of it, as the sound could easily give him away and leave him defenseless to an arrow or crossbow bolt.

At the top, he let his fingers creep over the edge of the wall, one hand taking the little knife, and waited while the sounds of footsteps came closer and closer. When they stopped in front of him, he lunged up and forward, taking the watchman by surprise. The knife found his throat and cut short any cry he might've made, and his legs gave out, giving Romulus an easy opportunity to get his weight over the wall and his feet down on solid ground. He cradled the man's fall but did not let go, instead taking a quick look around to see if the act had been spotted. Clear, he listened at the door into the tower now on his left. No sound.

Pushing open the door, he carefully brought the body inside and shut the door behind him. He was on the mid-level of a three tiered watchtower, a winding wooden spiral leading up to a trap door at the top. Down below a fire carried warm air up through the guts of the structure; the heat had lulled a woman to sleep in her chair next to it. Romulus pushed the dead body against the wall and made his way up. Listening through the trap door, he could hear a low whistling from above.

He came up through the door slowly at first, peeking just to confirm there was only one atop the tower. A sword-armed woman sat comfortably in a chair, rocking back and forth and whistling a tune into the darkness. The trap door creaked ever so slightly, enough for the whistling to be cut short. The moment it happened Romulus lunged up again, seizing a fistful of the guard's ponytail and wrenching her head back, his knife quickly slicing across the throat. She thought to reach for her sword first, but her hands then went to her throat, and Romulus steadied the back of her chair to make sure it didn't tip over one way or the other.

Once she stilled, he turned and crouched low at the back of the tower, getting a good look at the fort's layout. The main central building had its back to the cliff. It was pretty much the one place Romulus knew was too great a risk to go, and also where he was mostly certain the prisoners would be, if they still lived. A hanging platform equipped with a few nooses beside the main building wasn't a great sign, but perhaps they hadn't been used yet. Executing prisoners wasn't common if they could be ransomed, and chevaliers could fetch a decent price, he was sure. Other than that, there were a few other outbuildings, including stables and what looked like the remains of a once-decent smithy.

The gate controls were on the ground level, against the wall right next to the opening. A large wheel crank, by the looks of it. He'd be able to get it open himself, but it would not be quick, or particularly quiet.

He would need to clear out some of the watchers closest to the gate before attempting to open it, starting with a pair that watched over the pots of oil from directly above it. He snuck back through the trap door and began making his way down again, stopping once he reached the middle level. The woman below was still asleep. He thought for a moment to make a move to kill her first, but then he heard two men's voices, growing louder and closer to the door.

"She says to me, 'what if this place turns into another Kirkwall mess for us?' Fucking Kirkwall. She can't put it out of her head."

"That was six years ago."

"That's what I told her! But you'd think we'd pushed off the docks yesterday. She needs to relax."

It became apparent that they weren't slowing down, so Romulus ducked to the side of the doorway, sheathing his knife and drawing his pugio and shield instead. The wooden door swung open and concealed him, the two men stepping inside. They stopped on the landing, glancing below at the sleeping woman, before the disgruntled one among them sighed, leaning against the railing.

"Business is great here, though, and we're bloody miles from Kirkwall. It's high time she—hey, what's he doing there?" He had looked across the opening to the other side, where the first man Romulus had killed lay crumpled against the wall. They had time for little more than squinting, however, as Romulus kicked the door shut behind them and swept forward. He seized the head of the smaller one on the right and viciously twisted, snapping his neck and dropping him. The other already had his sword out, but by the time he located the threat and raised it Romulus had sank his blade right underneath his arm into his chest.

The sound of the brief fight had woken the woman below. Romulus glanced down, then let the second body he still held tip and fall over the railing. The corpse fell one full story and landing right in the middle of the firepit, blasting ash, dust, and embers outwards and into the waking woman's face. Startled half to death, she swiped at her face and eyes and struggled to rise. Romulus quickly vaulted over the railing and fell directly on top of her, slamming the rim of his shield into the top of her skull. The blow was enough to knock her unconscious, but he knelt to slice her artery all the same. Checking to make sure the fire hadn't gotten out of hand, Romulus made his way out into the grounds of the fort proper.

He was fortunate; apart from the posted guards, the majority of this Halfhand's forces seemed to be inside, if the projected numbers were accurate. A few patrolled the roads, and some still remained at their posts along the wall, but for the most part Romulus was not troubled on his way to the gate. One man wielding a poleaxe watched over the gate controls, leaning against his weapon and absently picking at his teeth. Romulus observed him for a moment from the shadow of the stables, watching for the other patrolling guards to give him an opportune moment. He knew he wouldn't have long, and the clock would start as soon as he killed the man by the gate.

When the time came he moved decisively, launching the bolt from his crossbow. The well-aimed shot punched straight into his skull through the eye socket, killing him almost instantly. He fell against the overgrown, grassy earth, his poleaxe going with him, and Romulus only bothered to move the body until it was out of his way before he set to work on the gate crank.

It was heavy, but once he got it going his progress increased, and the gate's pointed metal teeth began to rise off the ground. The sound was obvious, however, and it wasn't long before a woman was squinting at the sight from a distance. A moment later her posture tensed with recognition, and a shout of alarm was raised. She charged from the main building's front steps, mace in hand, and seconds later an arrow came in, grazing Romulus's upper arm.

He ignored it, cranking the wheel as quickly as he could until the gate was passably open, a good seven or eight feet of clearance off the ground. At that point he grabbed the gate guard's pole arm, and first turned it on the charging woman, lifting it off the ground and suddenly burying the point in her guts. She stumbled backwards and fell, writhing on the ground while Romulus shoved the now bloody spear through the gears of the crank, thoroughly jamming it. It would take time to fix and force the gate down, time they wouldn't have if his allies came with haste.

For Romulus, however, there wasn't any time, and his split-second judgement deemed that escaping out the gate was not the preferable option. Instead he chose to flee further into the fort, heading for the stables. Arrows whistled through the air around him, missing by inches and then thudding into the wooden doors of the stables once he got close. He ducked inside, grabbing a torch on his way in. Immediately he set a blaze in the rear, the hay lighting up well enough and soon catching the building as well. The horses immediately began to rear and panic. They'd be able to burst free once they became frightened enough. In the meantime, smoke billowed out from the stables as Romulus made his escape, using the darkness to switch directions and make it back into the tower, and then onto the wall. He'd lost the pursuit of the Halfhand's guards, and there was a clamor coming from the main gate, which he was given a vantage of as he made his way towards it from above.

It wasn't long before he could see the source; a troop of chevaliers in full charge was a rather impressive sight, even dark as it was. Durand and Violette both seemed to be the type to lead from the front; they were the first in. Most of the soldiers were armed either with sturdy lances or the longer cavalry-type swords. The charge broke the first line of defense that had accumulated near the gate as though tearing paper.

The one difficulty they encountered was that the gate wasn't all that wide; a few of the smarter bandits had already grabbed polearms of their own and were lining up at the sides of the entrance. Durand's horse took a spear in the flank and went down, pitching him forward. It was Khari who rode through the gap that created, leaning down sideways from her own mount and helping him to his feet, apparently content to ignore the arrow that clanged off the armor on her shoulder. Someone had given her a brace of javelins; the first found a home in the back of a bandit running towards the main building.

Even if that messenger died, though, there would be plenty more, and no doubt the tumult itself would rouse the rest from their slumber soon enough. Down on the wall adjacent to the gate, one industrious bandit was working to light the oil pots above the entranceway. The first caught flame easily—and only about half the chevaliers were through.

The oil tipped forward, but before it fell onto the chevaliers' heads, a fluorescent blue shield sprang to life above them. The edges were raised upward while it also tapered off on either side of the gate entrance. The barrier diverted the oil harmlessly away from the chevaliers. However, the maneuver left Asala open with her arms awash in the blue hued fade energy, painting her as the prime target for the bandit archers. One such archer on the rampart nocked his arrow and aimed her direction.

Another arrow whooshed from the opposite end of the bridge.

Followed shortly by a thunking sound as it thudded into the man’s leathers. He’d been in the process of notching his arrow. It fumbled from his fingers, and clattered off the ramparts. His mouth flapped open and his eyes bulged
 though if he made any noise, it couldn’t be heard above the din of clopping hoof beats and the screech of battle. He staggered forward and pawed at the arrow protruding from his chest, until he simply pitched forward and fell off the wall, lying in a tangled heap at the base. Fortunately, he hadn’t fallen on the bridge at all, so he wasn’t another obstacle to stumble over.

Zahra stood with her fingers still poised beside her face, narrowed eyes refocusing on the task at hand. She knuckled at her nose and steeled herself to slip in beside Asala and her shimmering blue shield. She scanned the walls, and loosed another arrow over the top. Where the oil had come from. A shriek was heard. Barely. But by the sounds of it, she hadn’t managed to kill whoever it was. A shoulder, at best. “Great thinking, kitten,” she huffed with a smile, inclining her head, “Let’s move forward. I’ve got your back.”

Romulus aimed to relieve the pressure on Asala, and made as quick a dash as he could towards the section of wall above the gate. He took one archer by surprise on his way, taking him down with a hard tackle and plunging his knife into the man's torso several times before pushing off and carrying on. Over the gate, the oil-thrower was getting ready with a second pot. Romulus pulled his crossbow and shot straight at it, cracking the container and sending the oil spilling around the man holding it. It caught the flame and ignited, instantly turning the man into a pillar of fire. He staggered about momentarily, before he fell weakly and his screams faded.

Romulus nimbly hurdled around the flames and continued on towards the other side of the fort. The walls had been largely cleared thanks to Zahra's sharpshooting and his earlier efforts. All available hands were needed to engage the main force attacking them, as the arrows didn't have much success against the chevaliers' heavy armor. Romulus was able to make his way back down again unseen and get behind what appeared to be an outhouse, where he had a good view of the main building. More and more of the bandits were joining the fight from there, and rather than confront them Romulus waited patiently, hoping for an opportunity to slip inside unseen. If there were prisoners being held in there, he might be able to free them in the confusion and hit the bandits hard from the rear.

The stream of bandits exiting the building didn't stop until there were at least forty of them on the field, most clashing heavily with the chevaliers, who had since made it through the gate. By that point, Romulus's earlier efforts had paid off: the bandits' horses were free and panicked, only throwing the area into even greater confusion. Perhaps to be expected was the fact that the orderly, regimented military force handled this better than the less-organized defenders.

That said... being at the defense had its advantages as well. No few of the bandits had obviously been warned about what sort of enemies they were dealing with, and several of them were armed with pikes, or similar weapons that could be braced on the ground and used to devastating effect against cavalry. The knights increasingly found themselves forced to dismount or risk their horses, which the majority seemed unwilling to do.

Khari was fighting afoot now, too; she ranged afield from the battle lines as usual, freely hewing her way through the ranks at the expense of various seemingly-minor injuries. Elsewhere, softly-luminous blue shields flickered in and out of existence, stopping a few unlucky blows from landing on the flanks of the formation. The ground underneath everyone's feet churned and tore, the weight of horses and armor ripping grass and dirt free of native earth.

But the outpouring of bandits had stopped, at least from the main building. If Romulus was going to go, now looked like the time to do it.

Romulus observed the fighting from afar, watching the oncoming bandits carefully. They seemed to respond to several among their group in leadership roles, but none that commanded the entire force, and none that he felt fit this Halfhand woman's description, as the chevaliers had relayed it. Safe enough to conclude she was still inside. He had no intention of attacking her and several of her number on his own, but if she made herself vulnerable...

He'd have to get inside first. The chaos of the fight was enough to conceal him if he kept to the edges of it, and his lack of metal armor meant none of the light reflected from him, and also that he shared a closer appearance to the bandits than the knights attacking them. In all it was enough for him to make it to the main building unnoticed. The front entrance had been left open in the last enemy's haste to get outside and join his allies; Romulus paused at it to listen carefully. When he could hear no bandit rushing out to follow the others, he carefully slipped inside.

A few torches burned along the walls, but in their haste to make it outside, the bandits had left several of them unlit. As a result, deep shadow pervaded the interior of the fortress building. While the sounds from outside gradually faded with his progress into the keep, others picked up. There were definitely still some people moving around in here; Romulus could hear indistinct voices down another hall on the left. The tones were strident, authoritative, and definitely pitched high enough to be a woman's.

To the right, there was silence, and a staircase downwards. Having no wish to come across the Halfhand and whatever number of bandits she was likely shouting at, Romulus took the right, down the stairs. It was the likeliest place to find anything one wanted to keep under lock and key.

The stairwell had a sort of musty odor to it; most likely the building was no longer completely watertight, allowing mildew and mold to fester in the area. A couple of the stone stairs were slick under his boots, but nothing that threatened to topple him. The landing was likewise damp—a small puddle of stale water had collected there.

Of more interest was the fact that he seemed to have found the dungeon area of the keep. A few of the cells were occupied; men and women in varying states of armor and dress had been individually imprisoned, from the looks of it. A few of the more alert ones were already up against the bars—one man noticed Romulus immediately.

"You..." He squinted. "I've not seen you before."

"I'm not with Halfhand," he explained quickly, keeping his voice low. "There's a battle happening outside, Captain Routhier's leading the attack. I came to free you." He wasn't sure how exactly, but at least he knew that someone was alive down here. He didn't see any guards, which was a mixed blessing. None to threaten him for the moment, but also no sign of a key. "Is there a warden somewhere I could get keys from?"

The man grimaced, raising himself into a crouch with the assistance of the bars in front of him. "Was. Not sure where he's gone. I'm sure Halfhand has some, but you probably don't want to be going after those." He paused a moment, glancing over at the other cells. When he spoke again, his tone was urgent. "You said it's Captain Routhier, right? Who else is out there?"

There were too many to reasonably list for the man, but Romulus quickly racked his memory for those of note. He couldn't come up with much. "There's a Ser Durand and his few. We're no more than thirty, but they're holding their own outside. I'm with the Inquisition. Five of us were in the area to help." Perhaps it didn't seem like much, but he knew the five in question were worth far more than their number in a fight against bandits. As for the matter of releasing them, Romulus was beginning to get an interesting idea, but he needed some reassurance before putting it in motion. "We came looking for ten missing troops under the command of Ser Liliane. Are you them?" He glanced around at the other faces, though there was little chance of recognizing any of them.

"You can't stay here." The man shook his head emphatically, gripping the bars until his knuckles were white. "We're the ones you're looking for, but you've got to get back out there. If Ser Durand is with you, you might be twenty against the rest at any moment. He's the reason we're here in the first place. Leave us here and tell Captain Routhier—please." Several of his more-aware compatriots nodded their agreement.

"We will be fine, but not if all of you are caught or killed as well."

Durand was the reason? Despite everything he'd been through, Romulus was still surprised. Still shocked, even though he hardly knew the man. Was he such a fool? If this was true... suddenly everything became so much more urgent. It wasn't his own safety he was trying to ensure by being quick anymore, it was Khari's, and Asala, and Zahra, and Estella. He had to get back out there. But not alone, not if there was something he could do about it.

"Get away from the bars," he instructed, leaving no room for argument. Perhaps he could get out there quicker on his own, but how much good could he do? These few he'd found, even not at full strength, could be invaluable. Once the man was clear of the door, Romulus closed his left hand around it. He'd wondered if he would be able to do it again on command, but the feeling in his chest was similar enough to before that it came naturally. It almost felt like the anger was required. His mark glowed a bright green as he focused, the light igniting the metal from within. It pulsed and vibrated momentarily, and then with a blast of magic and metal the door's lock ruptured, pieces of it disappearing into the miniscule rift before it closed and sent the rest flying. He shoved the door open.

"If you know where weapons are, get them. If not, take them from the bandits. I'll free the rest." It would be tiring work, but Romulus would not let fatigue stop him here.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
These bandits were better than most of those she'd killed over the years.

Khari had received her training in very practical circumstances. There was little standing around in a ring practicing forms or beating on straw dummies. She'd learned from the very beginning how to stay alive in a thick melee situation like this one, and from there learned how to actively participate. Nearly every assessment had carried with it a real chance that her life would end, as Ser Durand's troop met with bandits or slavers or highwaymen and clashed. A single knight, a handful of commoners, and one little elf girl, against whatever band of criminals thought they were lucky that day. It was just as well she'd always been pretty good at this, because otherwise she'd be six feet underground.

A broad, horizontal stroke with Intercessor gave her a little more breathing room, forcing the three bandits she was juggling to jump back or get cut. Their numbers were gradually wearing down, but the chevaliers had taken a few causalities by this point as well—men and women either dead or too injured to pick themselves up off the ground. The rest were closing ranks, forming into a tight knot of fighters and weathering the assault from a defensive position just inside the gate.

Something glinted in the corner of her eye—one of the bandits had flanked her and was looking to slide a knife into a joint in her armor. He didn't get the chance; a longsword erupted from his chest, and with a mighty heave, Ser Durand tossed him off the blade, scowling. There was blood in his silver hair, dripping down his forehead, but he didn't pay it any more heed than Khari gave to her own wounds.

She grinned at him underneath her mask, the expression almost feral with the Haze still thrumming at a low pitch through her body. “Thanks."

He grunted—she had the sense that in any other situation, he'd have rolled his eyes at her. "Get back to work, Little Bear. You can thank me later."

Khari saw no reason to object, and lunged for the next bandit.

Nearby, Estella was also slightly apart from the chevaliers' line. Most likely because her fighting style, like Khari's, relied a great deal on being quick and mobile. She bled freely from a gash on her arm, but if it was slowing her down, she wasn't giving any sign of that. She kept her strokes quick, short, and efficient.

An axe came in from overhead; Estella blocked with both hands on her saber, but did not draw out the contest of strength, instead deflecting the weapon to the side and stepping in, drawing the knife from her back with the hand she'd removed from her sword and dragging it in a short, deep line across the bandit's neck, opening up the vital artery there and pushing him over with a knee. Her next block was awkward as another bandit stepped up to take his place—her guard broke, and she was forced to scramble backwards. Narrowly avoiding a devastating blow to the head with the second bandit's mace, she sidestepped the follow-up and kicked at the back of his knees, staggering him for just long enough to open up his belly with the saber. With a cry, he fell, clutching his abdomen. She went down with him, thrusting the knife up under his chin, killing him before the loss of his innards could gradually accomplish the same.

A shimmering barrier flew up beside her, a dull clank echoing as a result. A bandit's sword rebounded harmlessly off it. He clutched at his wrist as no doubt the sudden impact jarred the small bones in there. There was no time to recover from the relatively minor setback, as the shield flew forward and shrunk in size until it collided with his helmet, sending out an audible ring even over the din of battle. His head snapped backward as he dropped the sword and fell hard to the ground. He still drew breath, but he no longer moved.

Asala stood in the center rank of the knot of combatants, safe enough from the prying arms and armor of the bandits. Fluttering lights of blue danced around them, appearing for a moment to shield a chevalier from a wayward blow, to throw disorder into the ranks of the bandits, or on some occasions, putting a bandit out of the fight herself with a hard knock to the head.

Seeing how long-ranged combat was no longer feasible in the more congested areas of battle, Zahra had loosed the remainder of her arrows, pinning errant kneecaps and shoulders before tossing her bow aside, and drawing out her thin rapier. She was by no means as agile and quick to parry as Marceline was, though she’d managed not to impale herself on any incoming blades. Hers were feral, clumsy things. Wild sweeping motions that left openings, which she barely closed by continuing to barrel forward. Effectively tossing herself close enough that they couldn’t swing their arms even if they’d wanted to.

She bared a gash across her midsection where a sword had sliced through her leathers. An attack she’d been to slow to dance away from. Her palms and fingers were red as well. Possibly because she’d slicked it across the cut, in an attempt to stem the flow. It painted her thigh and dripped on the ground as she swept an axe away. It glanced off her blade, twirled off its end before she went full-circle and punctured it through his eye. He didn’t have the time to make a noise, as Zahra kicked him off her blade, toppling him backwards in a heap.

The tide of the battle was turning in their favor. Khari could sense it in a way that was different from simply counting heads or estimating casualties. Some kind of instinct, maybe—she'd never bothered thinking too hard about fighting. It worked better when she just let herself feel it instead.

But the bandits were falling underfoot, the chevaliers and their allies fighting for every step forward, but advancing steadily towards the keep doors. She hadn't spotted Rom in a while, but there wasn't much time to be worried about that. Khari knew he knew how to look after himself; he'd be fine. In the meantime, they had to—

"Stop!"

The shout was loud enough to carry all the way over the din. Perhaps that was why the group couldn't help but obey it, at least for long enough to figure out where it was coming from. That much didn't take long: a smaller group of bandits was emerging from the front entrance to the keep, and they weren't alone.

A woman—almost certainly Halfhand—led them. Immediately to her right, a massive man in full plate half-dragged another person, a tall woman with dirty golden hair. She wore no armor, but the crest on her scarlet tunic was the one belonging to the chevalier order—a yellow feather, crossed with a sword.

"Lili." Khari was close enough to hear Violette speak. Apparently, the blonde woman was indeed her sister.

But she was clearly not the only hostage here; three more bandits led prisoners out of the keep; they dutifully lined up behind Halfhand, holding blades of varying sizes to the unprotected throats of their captives.

The bandit leader herself was neither especially tall nor intimidating, as far as appearances went. Short-cropped brown hair, a middling build, and dark clothing and armor. She'd evidently been named for the fact that she was missing three of the fingers on her left hand; her right held a marine-style hatchet in a relaxed grip.

At once, the bandits disengaged with the chevaliers, stepping back to form a barrier between Halfhand and the invaders. The chevaliers looked to Violette for orders, though Halfhand continued before there was time to give any.

"I have your men. All of them. And unless you lower your weapons right now, these four are going to be the first to die. Your choice, chevalier dogs."

Violette visibly hesitated; the expression on her face was a clear blend of rage and fear. The fear, presumably, was for her sister and her soldiers. Her grip tightened on her sword; even not in use, little tongues of flame licked over its surface.

"Don't," Liliane rasped, voice hoarse and nearly unusable, from the sound of it. Her captor's hold on her tightened; the shortsword he pressed into her neck drew a line of blood.

"Disarm." For better or worse, that seemed to have decided the matter for Violette. With a look of disgust briefly flickering over he face, she tossed her hand-and-a-half to the ground, the enchanted fire guttering out. Those under her command followed suit. After a moment of indecision, Estella did as well. On the other hand, it seemed to be a simple decision for Asala, whose staff fell to the ground a moment after Violette's sword. Zahra made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat before tossing hers alongside Asala’s staff.

Khari hated the idea of dropping her sword in a situation like this, but she could understand why Violette had decided the way she did. With a sneer, she threw Intercessor to the ground.

"Very good." Halfhand's tone was condescending in the extreme. "Jean-Robert, are there any mages in the lot?" The bandit leader's eyes flicked to Ser Durand. As if he were actually going to—

"Just the Qunari."

Wait.

What?

Khari swung around to face him. Ser Durand hadn't bothered to disarm, nor had Brick or Fermin or any of the others in his group. None of them would make eye contact with her. Khari felt an uncomfortable lurch in her chest. But... but surely... surely there was some explanation she could not see. Some reason she did not have, an explanation that would make this make sense.

Ser Durand himself glanced at her, holding her eyes with his own. His expression was unreadable, the same grim mask he wore whenever he fought. He crossed his arms over his chest, maintaining their stalemate even while Halfhand gave him an answer.

"Arrows on that one then, please." A slight rustle almost drew Khari's attention away. Probably there were archers on the rooftops, too. She couldn't be bothered to care about that just now.

“...Big Bear?" She hoped her mask could conceal the way her lower lip trembled, but there was no mistaking the unnatural brightness to her eyes. “What's... what's happening? Why would you tell her that?"

Ser Durand pushed a heavy breath out of his nose. "You wouldn't understand." Dropping his eyes away, he gestured to his men to follow him. The line of bandits adjusted to let them through.

Halfhand was still talking. The words registered with Khari only dimly, but she did get the general idea. "Now... as you can see, your situation is not quite what you believed it was. There's only one way you get out of this alive, and that's if you do exactly what I tell you."

If facial expression was anything to go by, Violette was nearly apoplectic with fury. Her voice, however, came out tightly-controlled, sharp, and hard as the steel her armor was made of. "What in the Maker's name do you want, bandit? Why go to all this trouble to kidnap an entire squad of chevaliers? Hostages may stop us, but they will not stop the Lord-General. You're only putting yourself in the sights of people you won't be able to handle."

The chevalier showed considerable discipline, as the end of her question was uninterrupted by the surprising appearance Rom then made, emerging from the main building behind the assorted bandits. Everyone among the Inquisition and the chevaliers were able to see him coming, silently and swiftly, while several prisoners took up positions in the doorways with bows. They looked terrible, starving and ragged, but they were capable at least of drawing back the bowstrings and taking careful aim.

Rom went right for the heavily armored man on Halfhand's right, his knife stabbing deep into the back of his right leg through the gap in the plate, while his marked hand reached to grab his arm, pulling the blade away from Liliane's throat. Involuntarily he lurched forward and pushed the captured chevalier away from him as he went down, and Rom immediately went for the killing stab to his throat.

As soon as he'd made his presence known, the archers behind him loosed their arrows on the other bandits holding captives, arrows striking their upper backs and offering the prisoners opportunities to make a move. "Fight!" Rom roared, and immediately the chaos resumed, with a bandit instantly turning on the threat. He barely managed to get his shield in the way of the man's mace, the swift blow forcing him back a few steps. He was obviously tired; whatever he'd done to free the prisoners had taken a lot out of him.

Liliane staggered forward, free of her captor. Halfhand reacted immediately, swinging the hatchet in her hand wildly and hurling it with an enraged shout. "You will not get the better of me again!"

The weapon landed squarely in Liliane's chest, felling her mere moments after she'd been freed.

The move, effective as far as it went, also left the bandit leader wide open and weaponless. If Khari had been confused before, the feeling only redoubled when Ser Durand was the one to take advantage, plunging his sword into her abdomen from behind, just to the left of her spine. He whistled sharply, and a good half of the archers on the roof shifted their positions, loosing their nocked arrows at the rest. The ones on the ground were still aiming at Asala, however, and they released their shots as well.

The fade was in Asala's hands when the chaos ensued. However, she winced as she proved too slow to erect a barrier in time to protect Liliane, but apparently she kept the others in mind in spite of the danger to herself. The fade in her hand intensified and spread to her other, as a large luminescent dome encased not just her, but the small group of fighters just as the arrows were let loose. They did not travel very far before clattering uselessly against the barrier. When the last fell harmlessly to the ground, the shield vanished, allow the chevaliers free range once more.

Though it had been bought at great cost, the chevaliers seized their opportunity. In a showing of extreme self-discipline, Violette found the wherewithal to pick up her sword from the ground and lead the charge, crashing into the breaking bandit line. The renewed assault, and the fact that Durand's men were hewing the bandits down from behind, meant that the force was shattering quickly.

One by one, the bandits fell, until none moved anymore. Khari, breathing heavily, kept her sword uncertainly at her side, surveying the damage. In addition to Liliane, one of the other hostages and about three members of the invading force they'd entered with were almost certainly dead. Half a dozen more were heavily injured, though for once she herself was not among them.

It would have been almost clean, were it not for the thing she was trying to avoid thinking about. But she'd never been one to run away from a fight; she didn't see why it had to change because the type of fight was different. So she swallowed back the increasingly-bitter taste of bile in her throat, and pointed Intercessor at Ser Durand. The tip of the blade shook visibly. She took a deep, slow breath through her nose, trying to steady herself.

“Explain."

His expression was no longer so difficult to read; it had softened a great deal. But he shook his head. "You were only in the wrong place at the wrong time, Little Bear. It does not matter now." He turned to Rom, then. "Arrest me, Inquisitor. I'm sure the men you found inside have given you plenty of reason to do it. But know that my men only followed me."

Rom nodded, breathing heavily and glancing at those that hadn't been able to make it out of the fight alive. "They said you're the reason anyone was captured to begin with." He didn't look like he understood much more than Khari did, though. "Drop your weapons, all of you." He looked to Khari. "We'll figure this out, I swear... but not here." For those that had already lost friends or family, though, there would likely be no resolution. "I'm sorry, Ser Violette."

The captain was kneeling beside her sister, gingerly taking Liliane into her arms before standing. Considering that the latter was the taller of the two, it was a little difficult for her, but her strength compensated. At Rom's words, she glanced over at him, inclining her head slightly. "Thank you, Lord Inquisitor. We will... we will take care of things here, and then return to Val Royeaux. Your assistance has been appreciated." She closed her eyes for a long moment, swallowing thickly, and then turned away, carrying her sister away from the scene.

Khari replaced her sword at her back. There was a spreading numbness in her chest, one that left her feeling exhausted, as though somehow this fight had taken much ore out of her physically than they usually did. She knew that for a falsehood, but it didn't change the feeling.

Maybe she'd get some answers when they returned to Skyhold.

She wasn't sure she wanted them.

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: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
It felt good to be back in her armor.

Fighting made sense to Khari, in a way that a lot of the rest of all this didn't. So when Leon had told her the scouts had reported there was a ruin to investigate, she'd jumped on the chance to go. Considering that various members of the irregulars were still on light duty only, it had been decided that she'd go with Rom, Asala, and Zee to do... whatever it turned out needed doing. Their orders weren't very specific. Maybe because the scouts didn't really know what was going on up there.

Buckling her gauntlets on, Khari reached for a scarf. It had been left in her tent, and no one had come for it, which she took as permission to borrow it for now, at least. Her clan never went as far east as the desert, so she wasn't very familiar with the terrain, but when she'd marched here with head uncovered, she'd ended up with sand in places she never, ever wanted sand to be again, so figuring this out seemed worthwhile.

Having tried about half a dozen different ways and never quite getting a decent replica of how the others had done it, she huffed and exited the tent, still trying to figure the damn thing out. Not looking where she was going, she ended up colliding with something—someone—solid. Being the smaller, lighter person in the collision, she staggered backwards a couple of steps, tilting her head up to identify the other party.

“Oh, uh... sorry Asala." Khari paused a moment, then looked down at the scarf in her hands. Asala was from a desert. She'd been there. “D'you know how to do this? I'd rather not get sand down my armor, but I can't figure out how to wrap it right."

Asala had reached for her while she stumbled back, most likely to make sure she didn't fall over, but once it was clear Khari still had her feet under her Asala reeled her hands back in. For her part, she seemed to be prepared to set out herself. She already had a layer of vitaar applied to her face. A golden pigment that complimented her eyes and extended from beneath them to cover her face in various geometric shapes. Her bare shoulders and white hair were likewise accented by the golden substance.

As became the norm for their forays into the warmer areas of Thedas, Asala wore loose clothing with wide necklines no doubt to comply with her set of horns. However, she did wear boots with the billowy trousers she had tucked in and a scarf wrapping around her own neck. Notably, wherever she had exposed skin, she also had a liberal application of vitaar-- to guard against sunburn most like.

She tilted her head as Khari presented her with the scarf before she chuckled to herself. "I do," Asala replied, tugging at the scarf at her own neck. Though the shirt she wore was without sleeves, the scarf did cover her neckline. "I can do it for you, if you would like?"

Khari handed her the scarf with a shrug. “Sure. Just do it slowly, so I can figure out for myself the next time, okay?" She stood still, trying not to fidget, since that would probably make things more difficult.

Asala nodded as she accepted the scarf and went to stand behind Khari. As was asked of her, she was slow with wrapping it around her neck with wide motions so that Khari could see clearly. Perhaps maybe she was even a bit too slow, but eventually, the scarf was tied to Khari's neck. "There," Asala stated as she took a step backward. She paused for a moment and pursed her lips before she started again, "I am sorry, but I do not know how to get it to go over your head for, uh, obvious reasons," she said, tapping her horns with an apologetic smile. Probably what the vitaar was for.

“Nah. I got that part." Khari tugged a bit at the back, pulling part of the fabric loose and settling it over her vibrant red curls. It was basically a hood, but secure enough not to go anywhere. Another bit from near the front would fit over her nose and mouth if she needed it to, but she left that where it was for now. “Thanks, Asala. The others are probably near the gate by now—we should go meet them."

Reaching back to make sure Intercessor was secure in its place, Khari led the way forward, passing the mess tent and the command one on her way to the front exit. Someone had already readied the horses for the trip. Definitely better than slogging through sand on foot. She could see Rom and Zee ahead, too, and raised a hand by way of greeting.

“Who's ready to go explore a bunch of rocks buried in sand?" She made it sound sarcastic, but truthfully, she was glad for the opportunity to get out. Griffon Wing wasn't nearly as big as Skyhold, but it was holding almost the same number of people, right now, and Khari felt a bit like a little fish squeezed into a tin.

“I hope these rocks are shiny,” Zahra quipped from the gates, a toothy smile turning the corners of her mouth up. Beneath her own maroon-colored headscarf were fresh bandages wound around her head. Her thick hair lay flat where it was wrapped. The rest of it was pulled into a loose braid which hung down her bare shoulder. She’d chosen appropriate clothes as well. A sleeveless vest that allowed for her arm, from her shoulder to her fingers, to be covered in bandages, possibly to protect it from being damaged further. Whoever had done it had taken great care to cover all of the burnt tissue. If she was at all in pain, she certainly didn’t show it.

Loose trousers tucked into calf-high boots, fastened with another colorful scarf of sorts, finished her ensemble. Comfortable gear for a trek in the desert. She raised her shoulder in a shrug and readjusted the scabbards, swinging at her hips, with her good hand, “Honestly, I’m just glad to get out for awhile.”

"Don't get careless," Rom reminded the three women with him. "We don't know what we're walking into." He already sat astride his horse, hood up to guard against the sand. In place of a scarf he wore a more compact piece cloth that clung tighter around the lower half of his face, though it was currently pulled down so he could speak with them more clearly. Zahra laughed and swung herself up onto her horses saddle, albeit a little less gracefully. While she subtly favored her good arm, she didn’t appear all that bothered by it. A small knit to her brows that might’ve passed off as minor annoyance, if anything.

Khari snorted, swinging astride her horse with a practiced motion. “I dunno what you're talking about, Rom. I'm never careless." Patting the horse's neck, she steered him towards the gate, waving up to the guards on duty, who cranked the iron portcullis up for the four of them. She led the way without really deciding to do so consciously, easing them up to a ground-eating trot pace while the ground was still slid enough for it.

Asala coughed gently. "Uh, Khari... I am not so certain I believe you," Asala answered, though the little smile to her lips gave away the tease for what it was. Khari grinned.

She'd seen a map of the basic way they were going, and trusted one of the others to point it out to her if she erred too much. “What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway? All I got was 'suspicious ruin, go take a look.'" Leon had used much more eloquent words, of course, but the information was essentially the same.

"Ruins make for good hideouts," Rom pointed out, catching up quickly and riding more or less beside Khari. By his tone, general demeanor, and lack of much reaction to her quip, he wasn't in the best of moods. Even with the hood and the mask up, he wasn't so hard to read. "We need to make sure the area is as secure as we can get it before we march back to Skyhold. Venatori held Griffon Wing, they could be elsewhere, too."

“Venatori,” Zahra repeated the word with a sigh. Two shades exasperated. She rounded up alongside Rom and glanced sidelong for a moment before staring off at the horizon. She didn’t appear all that concerned whether or not they’d see any more of them, though it was difficult to tell if anything worried her at all. Her smile hadn’t waned since waking up in Griffon’s Keep, neither had her spirits. Perhaps, she was just happy to wake up, and see everyone. “I’d seen enough of those bastards. You think they’re also looking for stones buried in sand?” It sounded like a rhetorical question.

Khari wondered if something was bothering Rom in particular. Well, actually, that was a stupid thing to wonder. Something probably was, and it was probably whatever had actually happened when they fell into the Fade. Khari didn't know a lot about magic, but she knew that was a big deal. And she'd seen what they looked like walking out of there.

It had been bad enough on her side of things. She pressed her lips into a thinner line, and sighed through her nose. She wanted to ask him about it, but she wasn't sure how, or even if this was the right time. Would it ever be the right time, though? “We can find out, anyway." She glanced at him once more before putting her eyes in front. Venatori weren't to be trifled with, even if she was pretty sure they could handle whatever small party of them would be out here now.

Gradually, what must have been their destination resolved on the horizon. It looked kind of like a big fancy house, maybe even big and fancy enough to be called a palace or something, though it wasn't in great shape, obviously. Hence the 'ruin' part. It had a spiky sort of architecture to it, in a dark color, with a few trees growing in front. The ominousness and the spikiness made her think Tevinter, but she couldn't be sure. It wasn't like she was an expert on that kind of thing.

There were plenty of footsteps in the dirt out in front of the ruin, most of them heading inside, and very few heading out. Not a promising sign, if they were hoping to have a quiet trip. Rom was the first to dismount, as it was obvious the horses wouldn't be fitting inside. Once all four were on foot, they stepped onto a narrow pathway leading inside. Even from here the air smelled different somehow, a little acrid or oily. Rom left his mask in place.

He stepped inside the thin, open doorway first, taking a few steps before he quickly drew his blade and got his shield in front of them. A second later, though, he paused, tilting his head to the side. "What the..."

A large rage demon was planted near the door, back turned to it, in mid lunge for what looked to be a low-ranking Venatori soldier, who was backing away in apparent fear. The odd part was that the scene was frozen. Nothing appeared out of place with either of the subjects in front of them, but indeed they looked more or less like they were locked in a living piece of art. Glancing further in, they could see more Venatori, and more demons, all similarly frozen in place.

Rom took a step closer to the rage demon, examining it. It seemed to be the source of the smell. Rarely did they have long enough to stand beside a rage demon to properly smell the thing. Rom shook his head and turned away from it. "Why does this not even seem strange to me anymore..."

"Wait, do you feel that?" Asala asked, turning to face the open door they had just passed through. Her brows furrowed and her head tilted quizzically. "There is not even a breeze from the outside. Everything just feels so... still." Shaking her head, she turned back toward Rom and the others, coming to stand behind them, though understandably further away from rage demon. "Do you... think it is like the magic we faced in Redcliff?" she asked.

The strangeness of the ruins certainly wasn’t lost on Zahra. She’d joined Rom at his side, though she inspected the frozen creature with far more curiosity. She prodded a finger at the rage demon’s clawed fingers, poised above the Venatori’s gawping face, with little more than a thin-lipped smile. She made a humming sound in the back of her throat. It idled somewhere between amazement and barely contained excitement. She leaned over and dragged a hand across the Venatori’s face, patting his cheek before straightening up and planting her hands against her hips.

“It’s something...” she’d taken to leaning against the Venatori's back. It was solid enough. Much like a segment of wall. Frozen in place, like a piece of horrific memory. She followed Asala’s gaze towards the door and shrugged her shoulders, eyebrows pinched, “Something tells me we’ll find the answers the further we go.” Her laugh had a tilt of barely susceptible worry, “Or not.”

Khari was a bit tempted to just stab all of them now, since they were Venatori and demons anyway, but that didn't seem like a very honorable or sporting thing to do, and who knew what effect it might have, anyway? This was clearly above her pay grade. Still... the Venatori were one thing. Demons were another. She reached over her shoulder, drawing her sword from its spot at her back.

“Wonder if we can just... you know?" She shrugged, then swung in a controlled arc for a nearby shade. Intercessor hit where she aimed, then abruptly rebounded, as though the shade's immobile body were vehemently rejecting the contact. It was enough to throw her backwards, and she fell onto her rear with a low oof.

“Guess not." She huffed out half a laugh and grinned at the others. “So, uh... might need to undo whatever magic this is before we do the fighting part. Just, you know, a guess."

"I wonder..." Asala said, looking down at her hands. Apparently deciding upon something, she threw her gaze towards Zahra. "Could you ready an arrow? I wish to try something." Zahra quirked her head to the side, curious as to what she was planning to do, but obliged without question.

Once they were ready, Asala brought the magic to her hands, the same muted green she had used when they dealt with the Venatori mages while taking Griffon Wing Keep. She noticeably took a step backward before she erected the barrier over the Venatori warrior instead of the rage demon, most likely for the obvious reasons. Though the barrier was up, and the dispel was working judging by the coloration of the barrier, nothing changed. The Venatori still did not unfreeze. Asala however winced, and let the barrier melt away. "I... tried," she stated before shrugging, "But this magic is far beyond the scope of my own."

Rom, in the meantime, went to offer Khari a hand up. His eyes had softened a little, and he might have even smiled behind his mask, but once it was clear nothing they could do would affect the frozen Venatori and demons, he signaled the group to keep moving. "I'd say we could just leave them here, but... if a Venatori mage learned something from Magister Viridius, or found notes from him or something, we need to deal with it. It's dangerous, especially if the mage doesn't know what they're doing."

Further in they found a fade rift, the obvious source of the demons. A few were in the process of spilling out of it, and everywhere they looked there were Venatori scrambling for cover or in the act of fighting back against the creatures. Some were already dead, just as frozen where they lay on the ground as everything else. Some of them were captured in rather spectacular displays, such as a mage lifted into the air by a terror, or an unfortunate soldier who had his arm torn off by a shade. The blood lingered in the air, the gruesome moment paused in time.

When Rom tried to interact with the rift, however, his mark was met with no response. He grumbled in frustration. "Guess we'll have to close that on the way out."

It was actually kind of awesome, in a macabre sort of way. Khari stepped in close to the one who'd lost an arm. She poked one of the suspended drops of blood with a fingertip, but it was solid enough to be crystalline, and resisted motion just like the demon did. Huh. She tilted her head at the rather grisly view of the stump where the arm had been. It was weirdly interesting, and she might have lingered. But they were moving again, and she jogged to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.

They crossed an inner courtyard of sorts, where there was more of the same. By the looks of it the Venatori hadn't been in the ruins for long. The camp they were in the process of setting up inside wasn't complete, many of the tents still in shambles on the ground. They trekked up a flight of stairs, arriving in a confined chamber containing nothing but a pedestal of sorts. There, a Venatori mage had plunged the end of a staff into the stone. Blood hung in the air all around them, the source of it obviously a hastily made slash in the mage's own arm. Blood magic. Rom looked around at the blood hanging in the air above him, then down at the staff. Unlike everything else, the staff was vibrating, humming slightly, and a dull blue light emanated from within the pedestal. It didn't look to be paused in time, unlike everything around it.

"I'd say this is our source," Rom speculated. "Not sure if there's a good way to undo it, though."

“While I’m all for touching things you shouldn’t,” Zahra began to say, circling around the staff, “I
 don’t know about this.”

Khari wrinkled her nose and scratched the back of her head through the scarf she still wore. “I mean... that looks like it's doing something important. If we destroy it, probably nothing will be doing the important thing anymore."

Asala stared at her with her mouth agape, the wheel clearly turning in her head as to why that may be a bad idea. However, if one ever made it to her, she didn't voice it. Instead she closed her open mouth and spoke, "We should probably prepare first."

"Why?" Rom shrugged. "We should let them finish what they started back there, then clean up anyone left." He studied the staff a bit more, then sighed, glancing at Khari. "You want to do the honors, or should I?"

She shrugged. “I can do it." Still holding her sword in one hand, she moved to where the stone was, blinking at it. It was definitely humming, and vibrating ever so slightly. Well, that was quite possibly dangerous, but you never got glory unless you had the guts for it, right?

Hefting Intercessor in both hands, Khari heaved it forward. The heavy dwarven steel cleaved through the wood of the staff's pole, half-slicing, half-snapping it in twain. A heartbeat passed, and then almost with a lurch, time started up again around them.

Immediately blood rained down on their heads and splashed around them on the floor. The blood mage in question lurched back, and only had a moment to stare in complete shock at the four strangers that suddenly surrounded him before Rom's knife plunged into his chest, and he stilled. He fell with a heavy thud, a sound which was drowned out by the sudden chorus of the desperate battle raging outside the room they were in. It was easy to see from a glance out the door that the demons were winning, but both sides were thinning each other out effectively.

Zahra made a noise that might’ve sounded like disgust as blood rained down on them. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand and knuckled at her eyes, before planting a foot across the fallen blood mage’s chest, “So... we make our way back?” She glanced at Rom, and back towards the chaos breaking out ahead of them.

"Perhaps... in a few more moments?" Asala asked, letting the barrier she had erected around herself fade away. Noticeably, it had shielded her from the blood spray.

A few more moments was all it took for the fighting to begin to wind down, the Venatori being on the losing side. Swiftly they moved out, making short work of the wounded and weary that remained, whether they were demonic or human enemies. It seemed likely the Venatori had tried some sort of time magic to try to save themselves when the rift had appeared in their choice of hideout. The rift was able to be closed like any other when they reached it, and that seemed to be the last of the threats.

When they were about to leave, however, Rom paused, noting the spot on the floor where the rage demon had been. "Where's the... look out!" He had turned around, his warning shouted towards Zee. Rage demons were not known for stealth, but this one had migrated down a side hall during the fight, and now rushed back towards them with surprising speed, reaching a burning limb out in the pirate's direction.

Whatever Zahra had expected
 it certainly hadn’t been this. Her bow occupied her hands, and she’d only had time to look up when Rom shouted towards her. The arrow she’d been holding against the bow’s string dropped from her fingers, clattering on the ground at her feet as the rage demon advanced. Impossibly fast. Maybe, she was regretting poking it earlier. Maybe, she didn’t have time to form a thought beyond shit.

From the looks of it, she hadn’t had time to reel backwards either, though she tried. Her feet tripped and tangled with the fallen Venatori’s arm, burnt to a crisp. It crackled and fell to ash under the weight of her boots. She raised one of her arms, shielding herself from the oncoming heat. An instinct rather than anything effective to counter its attack. The rage demon reared back and wrapped its claws around her bicep, engulfing her arm. Attempting to pull her closer. Its flames licked up and ate away at the bandages.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

She fell backwards, dead-weight, trying to break free. Pulling against its grip. A scream bubbled and broke free from her lips.

"Zee!" Asala cried out, a barrier already in her hands. A shield materialized in front of the demon, where its face was. It struck the demon with a dull thump, but it still did not relent. The barrier pushed further and added distance in between the demon and Zahra.

The rush of a battle still thrummed in Khari's body, and she was quick to react at the opportunity. Pivoting where she stood, she chopped downwards in a swift, clean stroke, severing the demon's arm from its elbow. The limb fell away from Zahra, nerveless and without a way to grip. Her follow-up thrust pushed the blade of her sword right into the creature's chest cavity and out the other side. When she pulled it away, the blade hissed and steamed, faintly red at the edges where she'd plunged it into the creature's molten heart. The demon dissolved, banished to the Fade from whence it had come.

“You okay, Zee?" That seemed to have been the last of them, but it had probably given her a nasty burn.

The captain kicked the useless limb further away, hugging her arm to her chest. A sheen of sweat dripped down her chin. There was a moment of silence, before Zahra glanced up and offered a toothy grin. It looked somewhat forced, though she still managed to rattle off a laugh, “Y-yeah, I’m fine. Scars build character, don’t they?” Her eyebrows knit together, and her tone, strained as it was, sounded much more genuine when she added, “Thanks.”

Asala was by her side in a moment, leaned over as close as she could get to Zahra without enveloping her. "Let us hope not," Asala mumbled to herself and she set about inspecting the burn. It wasn't long before she was digging around the pack at her side for a potion or ointment or something.

“I'll get the horses." The sooner they could get back to Griffon Wing, the sooner Asala would have access to all her supplies and such. Khari figured that was probably better than lingering.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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It hadn’t taken them very long to return to Griffon Wing Keep with the way they flew across the dunes. Might’ve been because they’d pushed their horses so hard. Zahra supposed even her tight-lipped, jaw-clenching stoicism wasn’t enough to fool anyone. As hard as she acted at times, she wasn’t immune to pain
 at least not of the physical variety. Truth be told, she’d acquired more scars and wounds since joining the Inquisition than all of her journeys combined. Whether or not it was her because of her careful, meticulous means of conducting business at sea, or else, the fact that she had to temper her tongue, and blade with so many people fighting at her elbows. An army at her front and back certainly wasn’t something she was used to. Neither was facing dragons and Fade-creatures, capable of burning her to a crisp.

She’d been ushered to the medicinal ward as soon as they passed through the gates. Led by the flustered Qunari-woman; all nattering hen-hands, adorable as it was. It was only then that she began to feel woozy on her feet. A fever, she’d said. Nothing to worry about. By the pinched draw to her eyebrows, it was difficult to tell if she wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. Honestly, everything looked grave when she was frowning like that. She still allowed the much taller woman to help her into the quarters, and into one of the makeshift cots. It wasn’t much different from the beds in Riptide’s belly. Without lavish pillows; a shame, having such a big keep without any decorations at all. Only sand and dust and bloody ruins.

She made a humming noise in her throat and plopped her head down on the pillow. An unintentional hiss of pain followed. Fortunately, she hadn’t needed to tear off any of her clothes, seeing as her vest was sleeveless. Picking off pieces of cloth and leather plastered to her blistered arm had been bad enough. So it goes when facing dragons, she supposed. Better not to stand in its way when its gorge flexed with lyrium-fire. A mental note, next time. It appeared that there was always a next time. Zahra held her arm slightly off to the side, so that it couldn’t touch her, though it still stuck somewhat to the sheets. Pity the bastard who needed to clean them. She glanced up at Asala and sifted a sigh through her lips, “Seems like I’m always keeping you busy.”

A smile tugged its way there, accompanied by a raised brow, signaling that it was a joke.

"I... have been busier," Asala replied with a flash of a little smile. It only lasted half of a second however, before it was replaced by that worried frown. She had went to a nearby table and reached for a nearby vessel, turning it over on top of each hand washing the blood and vitaar from her fingers. Once they were clean enough, they flashed in a white glow, a disinfecting spell from what Zahra had seen before. She then began to pluck various vials from the assortment organized on the table and placed them on a wooden tray, along with a few new bandages. Once her supplies were collected, she went to Zahra's side, tray in hand.

Asala took a red vial from the tray, a healing potion and held it out for Zahra to take as she set the tray down onto a nearby stand. "At least you are not one of my more frequent patients, yes?" she said with a consoling smile. Her other hand already floated over Zahra's injured arm, a spell lighting up Asala's fingers. The pain in her arm bled away to a more manageable state, at least for a moment. The painkilling spell would not last forever.

“Good. Then I’m not such a nuisance,” Zahra lamented with a thin-lipped smile. In any other circumstance, she might’ve welcomed the attention. In this case, however, she would have much preferred being in one piece, avoiding any medical help whatsoever. It almost seemed as if she hurt even more afterward. She’d asked why once, mostly as a joke. Apparently, it was just a part of the healing process. Even so, she avoided looking at her burnt limb. It was an ugly enough sight to behold—certainly not one she wanted to frequently visit. Physical imperfections irked her. Of course, only when it came to herself. It was a pettiness she held close to her chest, idling just beside her pride. A pirate’s truest treasures. Hers, at least.

Without even an inquisitive sniff, Zahra took the healing potion from her hands, and sunk it back in one gulp. As if it were a goblet of ale, rather than medicine. Wasn’t much different if she thought about it. The potion filled her belly with warmth and made her feel
 less. She flexed her fingers and let out a sigh as soon as the prickling burning sensation ebbed away, “Oh, I wouldn’t mind that if the wounds weren’t so foul.” She paused for a moment and spared her arm a glance, wrinkling her nose, “Like a small paper cut. I don’t suppose
 there’s a way to make it look less beastly.” She studied Asala’s face and arched an eyebrow.

Asala smiled apologetically, "It will be... better when I am finished." Better, but not gone. She seemed she wanted to add something to it, decided against and instead focused the brunt of her attention on Zahra's arm. Both hands were enveloped in the healing magic now, slowly passing over the afflicted arm a couple of times. With each pass, the pain and burn lessened, but it would take a while yet before it would be complete. "I am... sorry, my skill set is not yet to the point where I can... erase them." The look in her eyes were clearer than any words she could've said. But I wish they were.

“That’s alright, kitten.” As teasing as her words came off, Zahra meant them. She’d never trusted anyone with her well-being. Joining the Inquisition and allowing such things was jarring. Medicine? Mangled limbs? Cuts and boo-boos? A large part of her would rather slink in a dark corner and suffer out of sight. She’d lived so long relying on herself that anything outside of it
 was uncomfortable. Garland hadn’t made anything easier, either. She’d rather toss herself to the sharks than have him sit by her bedside, prodding threads and needle through her flesh. Even if he knew what he was doing—his bedside manner idled between crooked grins, and a look that made her skin crawl. Constantly asking questions to things she’d rather forget.

“You’re already doing a lot better than I expected. Not that I expected any less from you.” Compared to that bearded bastard, Asala’s manner was much better. She focused on the task at hand and—despite being generally sheepish—her kindness radiated throughout the room. Besides, while he relied on his hands, and his cold tools, she operated by using her magic to heal wounds. She’d always thought it unusual. Magic. How someone could wave their hands and knit flesh back together. Or summon shields, conjure fire, and the like. No one in her family had any inkling of talent when it came down to it. Simple fishermen seldom did.

Asala tried to blink away the red blossoming across her pale features, but if anything it'd only made it more noticeable. In spite of the growing embarrassment in her face, the healing spell in her hands remained constant and steady. It was fortunate she was able to split her focus between healing and both listening and speaking.

“I never asked before,” Zahra glanced down to Asala’s hands, “Have you always done this? Mend wounds, instead of causing them. Y’know, Cyrus is like a hurricane, and I’ve always wondered
 why some mages choose this, over that.” She tried to keep her squirming to a minimum, despite the tickling sensation drifting up and down her arm. Perhaps, it was like choosing between being a pirate and a fishermen. Or maybe, it wasn’t a choice at all.

"I did not have many options," Asala confirmed. "Meraad and I were the only saarebas-- mages in our home." She paused for a moment and bit her lip, before shaking her head. "No, that is not correct, there was another, but he traveled with the Saarethost, our mercenary company, and was not able to consistently teach us. We had to mostly work out our magic on our own." She had finished another pass, and the afflicted red areas were beginning to fade, but the scar tissue unfortunately remained. Asala frowned for a moment, apparently debating on something before she decided and continued to speak.

"I apprenticed underneath our herbalist, it was from him I learned herbs and how to brew potions but..." she paused to look toward the empty vial on the bed stand nearby, "That method alone requires more time to effectively heal wounds. I felt I could do it quicker and more efficiently if I could somehow use my magic in the process." Asala laughed gently in remembrance, "As you could guess, Tal-Vashoth are not eager to let a young, inexperienced saarebas experiment with her magic on their wounds. So I had to find... other ways to practice."

The magic in her hands finally faded away, and under the natural light, Asala inspected the wounds. Nodding to herself satisfactorily, she reached for a ceramic jar on the bed stand. When the removed the lid, the scent of honeyed aloe filled the air, and she began to gently cover the wounds with the ointment. "I started to ask for fish from our fishermen when they returned from the sea. I used to take them to the beach and practice reviving them there."

Zahra snorted. Loudly. She hadn’t meant to, though withholding the laughter brewing in her chest was the result. She waved her good hand to dismiss it and tempered her grin into a soft smile, “Sorry, sorry. It’s just
 the thought of you trying to resuscitate fish.” She tilted her head to the side, and studied Asala’s face, “This suits you though—magic and potions. Smelly herbs. Helping people. I feel like we don’t thank you enough.”

She slipped her hand behind her head and sunk back against the pillow. She could think of worse places to be. Besides, her arm actually felt
 better since coming through the doors. Whatever she’d smeared on felt cool against her skin. A far cry from the brittle heat she’d felt earlier. She almost felt comfortable. Tipping slightly to the side, enough to face her properly but not upset Asala’s work, Zahra allowed a silence to stretch between them before smiling again.

Meraad. He was probably often on her thoughts. That they both had something in common beyond living in the same village sounded nice. Even if she couldn’t quite grasp how their society functioned. All those strange words. Even so, that connection was something she’d always wanted with Aslan—more history, at least. A better understanding of where he’d come from. She was pleased that she could reflect back on him and smile, laugh. It was a good sign. She, too, had healed since Haven, since leaving Asala’s village.

“I feel like we don’t say this enough. Thank you, Asala. I mean it.”

Asala shook her head as she replaced the ceramic jar and replaced with with a roll of bandages. "You do not need to say it, seeing you alive and well is thanks enough," she said with a smile.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
They were home. Or the closest thing to it, as far as she was concerned. Besides, Skyhold had its moments. While Zahra would always prefer the sea, there was something about kicking your legs up on the ramparts, staring out across the snowy mountain peaks. Star strewn and cut across cliffs as if it were a weed that didn’t belong but refused to grow anywhere else. In some cases, she supposed the Inquisition carried on the same way. Not that she minded. It carried her to places she otherwise wouldn’t have found herself. Though some adventures, she supposed, she wouldn’t have minded skipping.

She opened her hand skyward and flexed her fingers, staring between her knuckles for a moment. The redness was fading with each session she had with Asala and the scars looked less unappealing. Fortunately she wasn’t as pale as Skyhold’s peaks, because her dark skin tended to camouflage it for the most part. Unless someone were to look at it closely, or if the light touched it at certain angles, one might not notice the spiderweb flesh threading up her arm and into shoulder. At least, it was something she constantly told herself. The Inquisition harbored plenty of scarred individuals. People didn’t wage war against dragons and Gods without acquiring at least a few.

Zahra dropped her hand to her side and shook her head. Of course, that’s not why she was out here. She’d found a nice spot up one of the tallest towers, hidden behind a latched door. Perhaps, it wasn’t meant to be explored. But who would stop them? Either way, it had a spectacular view of the mountains surrounding their little keep, and she wanted to share it with someone else. She’d already stolen into the kitchen, and slipped several sweet tarts into her handkerchief, before darting back outside. A little encouragement to steal a particular person away from her studies—if that’s what she could call it. Pounding on dummies, and people. An education in bruises, more like.

As soon as she rounded the bend, she slowed her footsteps and took to leaning against the fence surrounding the practice yard. She leaned her elbows across one of the beams and watched Khari for a moment.

“Care for a break? I’ve got sweets to share,” she cleared her throat and laughed, “and another person to recruit on the way.”

Khari seemed to be at her practice alone at the moment, which was probably a good sign. She had actual instructors these days, or something like that. Fancy-looking fellow in fancy-looking armor. But neither he nor Estella nor anyone else was around at the moment, and it took Khari only a couple of seconds to decide, shrugging her shoulders. “Gimme a couple minutes to stow my gear, but sure." She had said she wasn't much of a sweets person, but the company seemed to be more than enough incentive, anyhow.

Once she'd shed her armor and weapons and properly put them away, she shook out her loose shirt a little, peeling it away from her skin now that she didn't need to wear metal over it anymore. She was a bit sweaty, but as far as either of them could tell, she didn't smell that bad. Once they were back where they'd started, she tilted her head. “Are we looking for Rom, or someone else?"

Zahra’s grin widened as soon as she accepted the invitation. She wasn’t very good at taking no for an answer, anyhow. She probably would’ve pestered her into going eventually. Wearing people down was a skill of hers. She’d tied the bundle of goods to the sash wound around her waist. It bounced against her hip, but she supposed they’d still be in good shape by the time they reached their destination.

“Good guess, that’s where I was headed next,” she tilted her head and flourished a hand in front of her, indicating that she should take the lead, “Don’t suppose you know where he’s hiding?”

“Most likely the undercroft; let's try there first."

“First stop: Undercroft,” Zahra affirmed with an arched eyebrow. She’d often wondered what he did down there—last she’d seen, with all the various weights and contraptions, she figured he and Khari were pretty similar. Always training to become stronger, in whatever form they could. If she was being honest, she’d never been one to try all that hard. Training with Marceline’s rapiers was possibly one of the most difficult things she’d undertaken. Studying those dry books, however, had proven much worse than sweating as she practiced her footwork.

She’d improved over the last few months. Become less clumsy with her blades; enough that Marceline complimented her on her form, though it was difficult to tell if she wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. A bow always felt better in her hands; she never thought she would’ve gained new callouses, ripped over the old ones. But here she was. An old dog learning new tricks.

It didn’t take them long to reach the Undercroft. Though she’d only been there a handful of times, Zahra often occupied herself by drunkenly exploring Skyhold’s hidden pathways whenever she could. Which was often, as she often took residence in the Herald Rest’s corner
 listening to the lovely singing lass who’d already begun writing songs about her companions. Of a feisty redhead who fought like a bear. She enjoyed hearing them.

The door had been left slightly ajar
 which was odd, considering how mysterious the room was. There was an even stranger noise inside. The clanking of metal? She glanced sidelong at Khari and shrugged her shoulders, tipping the door open with the toe of her boot. Let it be known, she wasn’t one for embracing privacy. For good measure, she wrapped her knuckles on the wood of the door and added, “You in there, ducky?”

"It's." Clang. "Open." Clang.

Upon entering, they were once again treated to the sight of Rom with his shirt off, rippling musculature of his upper body straining as he held onto a metal bar suspended by a series of rungs fastened into the wall. He was about halfway up it at this point, each burst of effort carrying him one rung higher with another metallic clang. When he finally reached the top, he let go with one hand, still dangling by the other and twisting the quarter turn necessary to look at them.

"Are we going somewhere?"

Zahra’s snort idled somewhere between a laugh and beaming smirk. She elbowed Khari softly in the ribs, and waggled her eyebrows. Her expression fell quick enough for Rom to miss. Besides, she somehow doubted that she would’ve caught onto her razing—the girl was strange when it came to anything that resembled intimacy, or else
 maybe she was a little too straight-forward. Blunt as a dull blade. Definitely difficult to tease. Even so, she wasn’t blind enough not to notice the connection they had, or the looks Rom shot her. Poor lad.

“A little adventure, is all,” she proposed and held the bundle aloft, “I found this nice little place with an incredible view. Up high. So, you might want a shirt.” A laugh rattled free from her lips as she swung the folded handkerchief back over her shoulder, “Though I don’t think anyone would complain if you didn’t.” In all likelihood, they probably wouldn’t. There were plenty of young women, and men, who’d ogle the Inquisition’s motley crew. From the handsome elf, to the beautiful Commander, and all of their pretty women, it wasn’t any wonder when she heard the barmaids whispering.

Taking the bar in both hands again, Rom wrenched it back and fell to the ground, landing smoothly with a slight bend through his legs. He laughed softly a bit, clearing his throat. "Right. Give me a minute." He grabbed a towel, setting down the bar on a table, where he snatched a small, drained potion bottle, still with a few not yet dried drops of some bright orange-colored liquid. He carried the bottle over to his alchemy station, setting it down with a few others, and took a drink of what was probably water from a skin.

"I could use a break, sure." He wiped away the sweat quickly, throwing a shirt over his head and grabbing his cloak on the way towards them. "A good view sounds nice."

Nosy as Zahra was, she’d noted the oddly-colored liquid sloshing around in the vial he carried. How could she not? It was bright orange. Orange like the sunset when it crept up the horizon, painting everything it touched. She made a humming noise, but made no mention of it. Perhaps, normally she would have, but she’d learned over the course of their stay in Griffon’s Keep that if Rom had no intention of sharing something
 he avoided it entirely. Prying was ineffective, much to her dismay.

“This way, then.” She stood back from the door to allow him through and took the lead once more. This time, their destination took them through winding corridors and past a pantry with stacked bottles. Old vintages she’d found when she was probing Skyhold’s belly for something interesting. There was plenty to find in this old place, if one looked hard enough. Almost seemed as if she found something new every day. Then, there were stairs. Many, many stairs. While Rom and Khari might’ve not minded the physical exertion, Zahra disliked it.

Not enough to dissuade her from showing them, but enough that she held her breath to keep from panting. How embarrassing that would be. Archers hardly ran, though. A good excuse as any. Better to pin someone’s tongue from afar, then skip around close, dodging blades in a pool of sweat. When they reached the rickety wooden ladder, she swept her hand in front of her, and took the first step. She’d already climbed it before, and it had held. Not much different from swaying on ropes—admittedly, she’d trust any ship’s ropes over some of the things she’d found in Skyhold.

As soon as she reached the wooden latch, Zahra pushed it open and felt a breeze sweep past her face. A welcomed one, as sweat was already trickling down the back of her neck. She hauled herself up another step and pushed the latch clear, thumping it off to the side, in order to allow the others through. Pulling herself onto the tower's spacious platform, she plopped the bundle down and stretched out her arms wide, feeling the crack of bones in her shoulders. The view really was amazing. It faced the largest section of mountains, on the northern side. Kind of looked like three fingers, cutting into the clouds. The wind was stronger up here, as well, though she doubted they would mind.

The breeze was strong enough to stir Khari's hair around her head, or at least the little ones that always escaped from her vivid red braid, wayward curls left to float about her crown. It rippled through her linen shirt as well, like it might tug at a pennant hoisted from the tower roof, but the elf didn't seem to mind. “You know me: always happy to feel a little taller." She grinned, settling herself down into a crosslegged position that faced her out towards the mountains, still visible through the gaps in the crenelations, at least. “Sometimes more than a little, I guess."

"I'd sneak to the top of towers in Minrathous sometimes," Rom reminisced, making his way to one of the corners and peering out over the edge. "On business, usually, though sometimes I'd find excuses. A... friend of mine would pick out the locations, advise me on my route, pick the locked doors. We enjoyed looking down on the city. We were a different kind of small then, I suppose." He took a step back, observing the impressive height of the Frostbacks all around him.

"Here you climb to the top of the tallest towers, and the world still dwarfs you on all sides." He didn't seem to mind it, though, turning and settling his back into the corner, clearly relaxed with the height.

Somehow, the thought of a small, wee Rom scurrying through towers, looking down at the city that seemed to dwarf him
 felt like it painted a better picture of him. Zahra had never thought to prod of his past. There were things there, scars that ran deeper than she’d care to scratch. Everyone did, she supposed. The Inquisition was ripe with damaged, broken people. Birds of a feather, flocked together. Besides, dredging up painful pasts wasn’t something she enjoyed. Even she had boundaries.

She, too, understood what it was like to feel small. Not just physically. Growing up in a shitty fishing village had a habit of making you feel so small that you’d be gobbled up by the world. She nodded her head and unraveled the bundle holding the sweet tarts, snatching one up to nibble on as they talked. She’d taken one of the corners as well, leaning her back against the stone ledge so that she could still face them. “Skyhold’s allure. Sometimes, I think it’s the Inquisition that feels so big I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Zahra shoved the rest of the sweet tart in her mouth and spoke around it, “Minwafous, waf was da like?” Manners? None. As soon as she swallowed, she thumped her chest and added, “Never been there.”

Khari didn't hide her interest in what his answer would be, though there was a hint of caution in her expression as well. As though she might not have chosen to ask it herself.

Perhaps Zahra had caught him in a good mood, as he didn't seem disinclined to discuss it. "Ask around the south and they'd tell you it's a den of evil. Birthplace of sin, or something. Maybe in some rooms, at some times. But Minrathous is just a city when it comes down to it. A warm one, at least; the weather is almost always nice. As long you don't mind rain in the summers." It wasn't so different to Rivain in that regard, considering how far north it was.

"Every city has its own personality. Minrathous revolves around magic, and the slave trade can become overbearing when a magister puts some scheme into play. But there are rich and poor, young and old. Glassy eyed soldiers back from Seheron or marines from the Ventosus. Most slaves suffer no worse than the poor in the south, especially the elves. Some slaves can live quite comfortably, with the right master."

He fell silent for a moment, perhaps pondering that and how it related to him. "What I did bought me freedoms in some ways and restrictions in others. I don't know if I'm best suited to tell you what the city is like, as it wasn't often I allowed myself to live it, so to speak."

“That’s a shame, then. Sounds like a nice place to live, all things considered,” Zahra lamented with a nod, wiping the crumbs from her face, “Though I admit, even the word slave leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.” Treated well or not. Of course, he’d know better than she would.

Still, it represented a complete lack of freedom. A tether bound to ankles. A way of life she couldn’t imagine. Not just in a moral sense, though she still detested it. While Tevinter expressed the apex of slavery in Thedas
 Rivain was fairly open in trade, even if its cargo were made of flesh and bone.

“I was set to marry someone from there,” she wasn’t sure why she’d even said it. It wasn’t something she usually shared, or even mentioned at all. Maybe, it was easier to share something when someone else did, “A magister’s son. Might’ve bumped into you, if I’d went along with it.” She swung a gaze down at Khari and rolled her eyes, grinning, “Can you imagine? Me, lofty wife?”

A trophy. Sold off by their own family. It was a tradition she’d never understood.

“I almost ended up in Tevinter, once." Khari bit into one of the tarts and shrugged. “I was just a kid, but I spent a lot of time in the woods by myself, in a region with lots of bandit gangs. I think you can guess what happened." She snorted, arching both eyebrows at Zahra. “And I dunno. I could kinda see it. You dragging some poor lady around, pulling the wool over the eyes of everyone in court. Scourge of dignified personages everywhere. Like a fireball into one of their fancy organized topiaries." Her grin suggested she quite liked the idea.

“I can picture it,” Zahra’s laugh had lost its bitter bite, and the crinkle around her eyes was genuine. It wasn’t a far stretch imagining Khari running through the woods—though it surprised her that she’d done it alone. She’d half expected her to drag a crew along for whatever misadventures she could muster up, “But you were too quick for them, I bet.” How different would their lives have been if Khari had been shuttered away in Tevinter? If Rom hadn’t broken his physical chains? If she’d surrendered herself to her fate?

She scratched at her chin. The way Khari imagined it would go
 didn’t sound so bad. Bedding someone she had no desire or attraction to, with the expectancy of bearing an heir was much less appealing. A man, no less. She didn’t think she had the political know-how to manipulate lords and ladies anyhow, much less a court of snob-nosed dignitaries. “They’d probably retire me to the dungeons for not keeping my mouth shut.”

“A fireball in court, though. I could get behind that.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

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A woman could only take so much mystery before breaking down and demanding answers. Well, not so much demanding
 perhaps, more like a gentle, nosy prodding towards someone who might be a little more susceptible to it. While Vesryn had initially been one of those prospects, she’d usually only bumped into him whenever he chose to wander into the Herald’s Rest. It was far easier forgetting about her curiosities when there were barmaids to ogle, and cheap ale to swim in. She always forgot. Besides, he was looking tired lately. Distractions were what she was best at. Causing a ruckus came second. She didn’t mind offering either, whenever it was needed.

Rom was a clear no-go. Tight-lipped and faraway as he could be. That left her bonny lass, Stel. Zahra wondered why she hadn’t simply gone to her straightaway. It’d been awhile since they last sat down and just talked. A shame, really. Though she understood why. Since becoming one of the Inquisition’s
 Inquisitors, it was no wonder she was busy running around. She didn’t envy her duties or her responsibilities. Beyond closing rifts with that nifty hand of hers, she wasn’t even sure what those duties entailed. Perhaps, it was more of a figurehead position. Someone to look up to whenever they hurtled into battle. A symbol of hope. Either way, it must’ve been a hard burden to bear.

With destination in mind, Zahra cut through Skyhold’s grounds and found herself in front of Stel’s door. A bottle of wine was tucked underneath her armpit. A sweeter vintage that tasted more like strawberries than grapes; less harsh. Perfect for casual conversation—and loosening tongues, though she wasn’t sure she’d need the help. Stel seemed generally receptive to people who genuinely wanted to understand, which she did. She rapped her knuckles three times, and let herself in. The room itself didn’t look much different. Lanterns and candlelight cast shadows across walls. A desk was in the middle. Stel was there, probably working. Zahra held the bottle aloft and tilted her head, “Might I commandeer you from your work for awhile?”

Stel glanced up as soon as she entered. There was a sheaf of parchments in one of her hands, and a crease in her brow that was slow to fade even as her expression morphed into a little smile. “Captain Zahra." Her eyes, slightly unfocused, took a moment to clear, but when they did they moved to the bottle. A soft huff escaped her. “Plying me with wine and the promise of freedom. It almost makes me wonder if you want something." The smile curled a little further up her face, but her tone was light; clearly, nothing untoward meant.

“Would you like to come in? I probably should finish the rest of this sometime today, but I'm happy to take a break for a while." She gestured to a comfortable-looking cluster of armchairs arranged around a table not too far from the desk, and stood, stretching her arms over her head and sighing in something that sounded like relief.

Zahra raked her fingers through her hair and laughed. Leave it to Stel to see straight through her intentions, though if she left with no more answers than she’d come in with she wouldn’t have minded either way. Besides, she looked like she was swamped with work. Positively drowning in it if the knitted brows were anything to go by. Tired as hell. Neither would do. She gave the bottle an affectionate tap and took a few steps forward, “Why, you wound me, darling.” A smarmy smile shifted across her features, “Of course, you’re right. I’m looking for good conversation.”

She nodded her head and swaggered her way into one of the comfortable armchairs. Plopped down as if she’d walked miles, and miles to Estella’s cozy chamber. She hadn’t
 though she’d be a fool not to take advantage of such comfortable furniture. Unfortunately, the Herald’s wooden stools and chairs paled in comparison. Any drunken requests to renovate the place was met with incredulous looks, and deadpan explanations of how their finances needed to be focused elsewhere. Fair enough. “Better leave it for later, I don’t think it’s going anywhere. Unfortunately, I bet.”

Already plying the cork from the bottle with a small screw, Zahra gave it a sniff and grinned. Best to let it breathe. She settled the bottle on one of the tables and crossed her leg over her knee, patting the arm of her chair to indicate that Stel should join her.

Stel arched an eyebrow, clearly thinking about it, but shook her head slightly and took a seat in the armchair across from her instead, pulling two glasses down from a cabinet on the way. Those, she placed on the table between them, then leaned back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting her hands in her lap. “Conversation?" she echoed. “There are much better wordsmiths to be found much closer to the tavern than me."

She tilted her head curiously. “Unless maybe the subject matter is something not many of them would know about?"

Zahra hummed in assent. Straight to the chase, then. Not that she particularly minded. “That might be true, though I’d rather it be you. Less bitey, I find.” Gentle, honest, kindly. It wasn’t a lie. She could’ve spoken to someone else, and in some cases, she would’ve preferred coming to see Stel under different pretences. Perhaps, where they could just have drinks and talk about nonsense, or whatever came to their minds. But there was a saying about an insatiable fondness for knowing things, and hers usually involved an intrusive regard for those she cared about.

She took the liberty to fill both glasses, bringing her own to rest on her knee, "Adamant Fortress. It’s become a touchy subject of late, though my understanding of it
 is a little charred.” A mischievous-eyed jest. She didn’t remember much after the dragon anyhow. She brought the glass to her lips and took a swig before swilling the words in her mouth. It wasn’t often that she chose her words carefully. She’d never tended towards civility or any type of decorum—not when she was being honest. What was the point of that?

That actually got a soft, breathy laugh out of Stel, who leaned forward to take the second glass in hand, drawing it back to hold steady, the bottom of it resting atop her thigh.

“I was hoping you could fill me in on what happened after you crossed the bridge,” she eyed Estella and paused for a moment, “I don’t pretend to understand much of what the Inquisition does, or even what I’ve seen so far, but I’d like to.”

The Inquisitor considered that for a moment, a troubled expression passing over her face for but a moment before it disappeared into her wineglass; she raised it and took a swallow. When she moved it back away, she wore a much more impassive one, though her eyes were still distant, like she was seeing something other than the room around them for a few moments. “I don't know how much anyone else has told you," she started, fingers tightening slightly on the stem. “But I'll do my best. Pike collapsed the bridge, then pushed us all over with it using a spell. We were... we were falling."

She sighed. “I... used the mark. Opened a rift, and we all fell in. It separated us; when I woke up, I was alone. In the Fade, but physically. It's... not something most people think is possible. For a while, we mostly all just tried to find each other, I think. I ran into Ves first, and then we met up with the others. Cyrus figured the way to get us out again was to find a place where the Veil was thin so I could open another rift and put us back." Stel paused there, taking another sip and letting her eyes fall to Zahra's. Clearly, she was waiting to find out if there were questions.

“The Fade!” The exclamation wormed itself out of Zahra's mouth before she could stop it—and she had the good sense to look a little embarrassed as she settled back in her chair, swirling the wine around in her glass. She couldn’t help it. Not really. Those who’d never had any inkling at all would never understand the Fade, nor how it would feel to wield such abilities. Even as young girl, she’d always wondered. Silly little thoughts. Back then, she’d thought that magic was capable of fixing everything. She cleared her throat and studied the red liquid for a moment before swinging her gaze back to Stel’s.

“I heard
 the more sombre details,” she admitted with a sigh, tapping her fingernail against the glass. Only because she’d been in the Herald’s Rest. Not with the others, of course. She hadn’t known Nostariel at all. She hardly knew the others who’d been there as well, apart from the momentary glimpses in Skyhold. It was difficult to feel anything but the offhanded melancholy one felt when you knew someone you cared about had lost someone they cared about.

“What was it like in the Fade? What did you see?”

“The realm we landed in belonged to a powerful Fear demon. Nightmare, it called itself." Stel's shoulders fell just slightly; in the flickering lantern light, the shadows across her face seemed to deepen as her angle changed. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “It could... reach. Into our minds. See our fears and make them as real as anything. Or close enough." She pursed her lips. “Parts of that are not mine to tell. But... I saw ghosts, I guess you might say. Heard their voices—my squad. Asha and Fyn, and all the rest." She shrugged and polished off the glass with a heavy exhalation at the end.

“Eventually, we made it to Nightmare. He had this... this gigantic monster with him. Like a spider the size of a small building, almost. Cyrus fought it, kept it distracted. The rest of us killed the demon, but..." Her mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. “Getting out after wasn't a clean business. You know the rest, really."

“Oh,” Zahra’s shoulders slumped a fraction as she leaned back in her chair. What had she expected? Certainly not that. Where she’d once thought the Fade a dreamland of sorts—a place where anything was possible, if one searched long enough
 it had been more a Nightmare, literally. She couldn’t wrap her head around what rifts were, exactly. Or if there were different layers of the Fade. It wasn’t really important and she didn’t feel like she wanted to press further. A small bloom of guilt sat like a heavy stone in her belly, even with the wine’s warmth.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. All of you.” If she was being honest with herself, she was glad she hadn’t been thrown into the rift along with them, especially if it meant having to face her own greatest fears. How she would have fared in Stel’s place, she wasn’t sure. From the expression pinched across her face, she could tell it’d been a wholly unpleasant experience. She tipped the glass to her lips and finished what was left. “That’s not what I expected it to be like at all.”

She poured herself another glass and exhaled softly through her nose, a wry smile forming, “This whole thing feels like a dream, sometimes. The Inquisition. Demons and dragons and bejewelled Templars. Being big bloody heroes. I hope I’m not the only one that thinks it strange.”

Stel shook her head emphatically. “You're not, trust me. Half the time when I wake up in the morning, I still expect to find myself back in Tevinter, or maybe Kirkwall or Val Royeaux if I'm lucky, just finished with the most bizarre dream I've ever had." She leaned forward, setting the empty wineglass in her hand back on the table in front of her. “But you know... I think sometimes that would be almost... almost a little disappointing, now. I never thought so at the beginning. But we've done a lot worth doing, I think, and I'm glad to have been a part of it so far." Her smile was rueful.

“Though it might still be a little better if we'd never needed to, I suppose."

“Someone once told me,” Zahra began with a wistful smile, and a cocked eyebrow, “Escape the ordinary. Well, I think we’ve done a fine job doing that so far.” Aslan had said that. Once upon a time, when she was young and small and pitiful. It’d been when she was teetering on the edge of despair, drowning herself at the local, dingy tavern. Simple words that carried her off to sea.

“Suppose you’re right
 but then, none of us would have met.” Barely a beat passed before she tossed her head back with a loud laugh, and a twinkle in her eyes, “And that would’ve been all the more disappointing.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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If Zahra could’ve compared Crestwood to anything it would’ve been a strange amalgamation of the Storm Coast
 and the drearier parts of Ferelden. Whether it was the near-constant rain pelting down on their heads, or the smell of wetness assailing her nostrils, it wasn’t something she was acclimated to. Muddy boots, clothes slicked to their skin and hair flattened to their skulls became the norm. What she wouldn’t give for a warm fire and dry blanket over her shoulders, though she hadn’t complained once since trekking out with Marcy, Vesryn and his companions. Childhood friends?

She wasn’t exactly sure, as she’d just met them and unfortunately hadn’t had time to pester them with questions. However, the temptation was there. A small smile played on her lips as she recounted her arrows. She’d broken three so far. Pinned and snapped against thick skulls. They’d been traveling along the road in search for local bandits in the area. Occasionally they peeled off the mucky route, and ended up walking along old goat trails. Led by the quiet one named Shae. She didn’t talk much, which she didn’t particularly mind. A small, impish part of her wanted to ask her the inane questions, if only to be a nuisance. She’d seen the way she’d looked at her and Marcy. Unimpressed. Dutiful. How charming.

The other one might’ve entertained her curiosities far better. Apparently from what little she’d heard from Vesryn and the others, they walked in the presence of their clans First. While she’d never understood the Dalish hierarchy, she knew a little about it. Mostly from Nixium. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if she led her astray just to make a fool of her in situations like these, so she offered little input. There was an itch she wanted to scratch about halla; how they tamed them, what they were used for
 did they taste good?

She hummed low in her throat. An old chantey tune to fill the silence, and the pelting of rain against their shoulders and backs. Perfect for awful weather.

“I’ve been meaning to ask while we’re on this bloody jaunt,” she picked at the string of her bow and hastened closer to Zeth’s side, eyebrows raised, “what a younger Vesryn was like. Was he a troublemaker? A heart breaker? Studious and serious?”

Absurd question or not, these things did cross her mind. Who better to ask then those who’d known him before?

A laugh escaped Vesryn. A single one, short and clipped. Not his usual style, it was strained and the slightest bit uncomfortable. Touched a nerve maybe, but he was being a good sport about it. Zeth's own eyebrows ascended a little, as though he was pleasantly surprised that she would ask such a thing at all. "Studious and serious? No. Not unless we were dealing with very specific subjects. A trouble maker? Remind me, Ves, how did we find you originally?"

"Bleeding, broken leg, stumbling through the forest." Vesryn didn't seem ashamed to admit it. If anything he looked to be recalling the incident fondly, though his looks were not often all he felt about things. "This was eight years ago or so, Zahra. Not like we were children."

"Broken and bleeding and stumbling," Zeth repeated, smirking. "I would say we knew what kind of trouble we were getting into when we took you in, but we really didn't." He used his staff as a walking stick, the blade on the bottom end slicing into the soft ground with every other step. "And a heart breaker?" His eyes flashed deviously at Zahra. "Oh, absolutely."

"I see you're enjoying this." Vesryn hefted his big axe easily in his hands, though his grip on it was loose, relaxed. Zethlasan smiled back at him.

"One of us should, I think."

Zahra waggled her eyebrows conspiratorially. As if she were sharing secrets with a good friend over a fireplace
 a warm fire, or anywhere dry. Alas, neither accounts were true. Though anyone who was friends with Vesryn could count her as a cheery acquaintance, bow-toting and all. Her smile quibbled into a toothy grin. Even if it was at Ves’ expense, she didn’t think he’d mind a little bit of badgering. For someone so good-natured and chipper, he could be tight-lipped about certain things. She’d learned that over goblets of ale.

Suppose that not everyone was an open book—she certainly wasn’t. Not about the things that really mattered. Those were hidden pages, one that not many explored. She, however, frequently enjoyed perusing those pages, if they did not belong to her. Toeing the line of inappropriate had become a game to her. Until someone told her otherwise, it wasn’t likely she’d ever stop. Perhaps, even then she wouldn’t.

“Eight years can be a long time,” she mused with a much more tempered smile, as if she were stifling laughter but just barely, “Zeth’s painted quite a good picture. I couldn’t really imagine you as studious or serious.” There was a pause, as she picked her path alongside Zeth. She couldn’t do much about the mud sucking at her boots, but she could prevent herself from falling face first into it, “You two seem to get along really well.”

It was a statement. An observation. Nothing more, nothing less.

She wasn’t particularly sure where they were even going. Traversing across land was still
 uncomfortable, especially on foot. It was nothing like navigating the seas. Even then, she hardly had a part in plotting their voyages. She trusted that the others would know where to take them. They’d point and she’d shoot. Simple as that.

“Now a more serious question
 does it ever stop raining here? I’m not sure why the bandits would even want to settle here. No offense.”

"The merchants, undoubtedly," Marceline answered from behind them. She was wearing a different cloak than the one she had left Skyhold with, this one the standard issue russet of the Inquisition instead of her usual black and purple ensemble. "They provide easy prey for certain entrepreneurial minds that lack a decent grasp of ethics."

She smiled politely, but Zahra could tell that it was just one of her default expressions, "That is why we are dealing with the issue, after all."

From the front, Shaethra held up a hand and indicated that the group should stop. Along the main road ahead of them, they approached a natural narrowing of the path, as two separate groups of rock formations encroached on one another, leaving a space of about twenty feet between them. Either side was blanketed with thick bushes and other foliage, a few trees here and there further obstructing the view.

Zeth took Shae's warning seriously, his hands closing more tightly around his staff, and Vesryn subtly tensed as well. Shae had her bow currently in hand, an arrow already nocked. With impressive swiftness she drew it back and loosed the arrow, sending it sailing into one of the bushes. It didn't look like anything was there, but a moment later there was a heavy and wet thud, and a low groan as a bandit collapsed outwards from behind it, his body tumbling down the face of the rocks, an arrow embedded in his chest.

About a dozen more bandits charged from their hiding places, no few of them appearing from behind the rock formations they'd been obscuring themselves with. Shae simply dropped her bow, having no time to put it away, and drew her mace. The first bandit came at her with a spear. She dodged around the thrust, grabbing hold of the weapon and yanking it forward, pulling the weaker woman towards her until her legs were swept away, landing her flat on her face. She barely had time to roll over before Shae's mace thwacked down into her skull, leaving it thoroughly misshapen.

"I'm sure she doesn't need the help, but..." Vesryn was already charging forward, axe in hand, and Zeth move ahead beside him, his staff alight with a ready cold spell.

A rattling laugh crept out of Zahra’s throat before she could stop it. Wholly excited. As interesting as their conversation had been, she’d been waiting for another welcome distraction. She’d been thoroughly impressed by Shae’s ability to sight the bandits before she’d even glimpsed a shrub rustle. If she was being honest with herself, she’d hardly heard a twig snap before Shae pelted the poor bastard with an arrow. Maybe it was those long ears of theirs, attuned to things she was not. A question even she wouldn’t dare ask.

She took up her own bow and notched an arrow with practiced fingers, hardly counting a breath before loosing it into the nearest bandit's eye socket. It thumped deep and stopped the man in mid-stride, mouth gawping wide, before he fell face-first into the muck and caused one of his allies to stumble and trip over his corpse. While she’d certainly improved with her toothpick-thin blades, she could still imagine tripping in the mud and accidentally impaling herself on them. It wasn’t a chance she’d likely take.

Instead she chose to keep her distance from the advancing bandits, and pelted them with arrows from afar. She mostly aimed at their heads, but switched between their calves and legs, causing them to topple over for easy pickings. She only stopped her assault when one ventured too close, forcing her to duck underneath a wild swing and slam the middle of her bow into his exposed nose. It crunched under the blow and immediately sprayed blood across her hands, and the front of her tunic, though it gave her enough time to level a kick into his chest and send him reeling backwards.

Marceline had expertly positioned herself in between the environment and her allies so that the bandits had to trickle in to get to her. One rather over eager bandit heaved a rather large axe at her, though his technique was raw and unrefined-- that much Marceline had taught Zahra. She did not seem particularly worried about the muscled man bearing down on her, but rather annoyed that she had to go through another fight to begin with.

Lady Marceline waited and baited out a downward chop which she back stepped and allowed it to harmlessly crash into the dirt in front of her. She soon regained the step and jammed downward with her offhanded blade, the cross-guard catching the axe's haft and tearing it free from his grasp. The rapier was quick to follow, piercing the man's throat and left him gurgling. Afterward she quickly returned to Zahra's side and turned her back on her, perhaps trusting the pirate would guard it for her.

Zeth swept out in front of himself with his staff as three bandits approached simultaneously. Ice sprung forth from the ground like eager teeth waiting to bite into prey. It formed a nearly waist high wall, but more importantly an array of icy spikes stretched forward, impaling the bandits as they rushed ahead. Their blood stained the ice red as they slowly went limp, their weapons clattering against the magic that had killed them.

Vesryn pulled his axe free from the bandit that had attempted to bring him down. The man found little success. With the calm and quiet restored, Ves surveyed their surroundings, apparently finding it to his liking. "What do you intend to do next then, Zeth? Once you're done scouring this area."

"I thought perhaps we would come pay you a visit at Skyhold, see it for ourselves." He crouched down, watching the three bodies he'd impaled slide ever so slowly down the ice. He then tilted his head to look at Vesryn. "Astraia seems to be enjoying herself. I wouldn't want to take her away from that so quickly."

"That I can agree with. We'd be glad to have her." His eyes glanced to Marceline for a second, before he turned to check on Shae. She was busy making a quick check over the bodies of the bandits for any obvious valuables. "What do you say, Shaethra? Think you'd like to see the seat of the Inquisition?"

She glanced up, her expression neutral under her hood, and then she went back to her work.

Marceline glanced up from the rapier she was polishing with her handkerchief and nodded sagely. "Indeed, it would be in poor taste not to extend the invitation after the aid you have given us," she said, though her features were even. She did like playing her cards close to her chest.

Vesryn’s friends weren’t pushovers, that was for sure.

Not that Zahra expected any less from them—Dalish tended to be wily individuals, hardier by far. She made a whooping nose and hunkered down beside Shae, eyes alight.

“Color me impressed. You’ve a good eye,” another mischievous smile tugged at her lips, “and better aim. What other surprises are you hiding?”

The elf woman scrutinized Zahra for a second, pausing midway through swiping a coin pouch from the first one she had killed. There was something there, perhaps, for just a second... but maybe Zahra was just seeing things.

"None for you, shem." She swiped the coin pouch and pocketed it.

The response hadn’t wiped the smile from Zahra’s face. Quite the opposite. It seemed as if Skyhold would become a much more interesting place, at least for awhile.

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 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

0.00 INK

#, 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: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
It was only a matter of time.

Zahra had put off approaching Rom long enough. Well. It’d been a few days, and she was surprised she hadn’t bustled into his little space in the Undercroft already. She hadn’t let it be out of any respect towards his feelings—that’s for sure, because she didn’t think it was all that embarrassing. Quite the contrary. It was a development of sorts. Something he needed to work on. Romance within the Inquisition. Yes. While she believed that it could happen in any circumstance, especially ones that involved life and death experiences
 she hadn’t expected an opportunity like this to appear. Of course, she’d noticed the lingering looks. The sidelong glances and too-long embraces. But now he knew she knew and there was no stopping her.

Prying into other people’s business was a hobby of hers. Confirmed knowledge changed the game. It made all the difference. Now she could broach the subject at any point. It was fresh in both of their minds, however much Rom wanted them to forget. She wouldn’t. Besides, Khari was as thick as her blade; perhaps, thicker still. Romance must’ve been as foreign a subject as staying her hands in battle—fickle in nature, impossible to choke hold. She hoped she could tip the scale in Rom’s favor. If only a little. She doubted he’d make a move, if he couldn’t even manage it in his dreams.

She made her way to the Undercroft like a woman on a mission. Striding as quickly as her short legs could manage, which wasn’t particularly fast. Something she’d eventually need to work on if she wanted to keep up with the others. As soon as she reached the wooden door, she rapped her knuckles against it three times, then four more: barely a pause in between. A little tune. A smile was already muscling its way on her lips, betraying her intentions, “Eh! Rom, you there?”

Probably shirtless again.

Only Khari would be unfazed by that.

The door opened mid knock, but only a foot or so. Rom was not, in fact, shirtless, nor did he seem to be sweating or out of breath. Not climbing on his walls like a spider. A very muscled, broody eyed, decorated face spider. Done for the day with pushing his body to the limits, perhaps. He certainly didn't seem to need the extra work. What he did look like he needed was a pick me up of some sort, and from the glimpse Zahra could see inside his quarters, there weren't any of those empty little potion bottles sitting around anywhere.

Zahra was clearly not the pick me up he was looking for, though, and he took a deep breath in preparation for the storm. "What is it?" he droned, but he obviously knew exactly what it was. He was just leaving Zahra to say it, in case there was some miracle and she was here for something else entirely.

“I was expecting a warmer welcome,” Zahra planted a hand against the door and leaned on it. Not that she thought it would budge with Rom standing there like a rock repelling an oncoming monsoon. Stiff-arming her from entering the room. There was a vigilant look etched across his face, as if he knew why she’d come. Perhaps, he did. All the more reason he should be thankful, honestly. She didn’t step into people’s business unless she liked them, after all. If she didn’t give a damn about them, she would’ve let the issue die.

She glanced over his shoulder and peered into the room. Her eyes slid across his training equipment and slowly made its way back to his own—which were unimpressed. He might’ve even been two seconds away from manhandling the door closed. It wouldn’t take much. Though she wasn’t going to give him any reason to. At least not until she’d dragged him to a happier location. One where she wouldn’t be blockaded out and forced to speak through a door. “You look awful,” her tone wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact, “I’ve come to rescue you. Let’s go to the Herald’s Rest.”

Even if her smile had dropped a fraction, her expression read as clear as day. She wouldn’t take no as an answer.

Rom was not so thick as to miss that, nor as foolish to try and resist anyway. His sigh was one more of admitting defeat than any sort of aggravation. "Alright, then." Normally he might've asked if they intended to fetch Khari before they went. Well, normally it would be both Khari and Zee fetching him.

He let the door swing open a little while he stepped back to quickly tie on a pair of short boots and grab his cloak. As soon as he was ready he was out the door, closing it behind him. "Lead the way, rescuer."

“Wise decision,” Zahra waggled her eyebrows at him and turned on her heels, leading the way back up the stairs. Fortunately there weren’t many between the upper portion of Skyhold’s main floor, and the breezy Undercroft. The less stairs she had to scale, the better. She led them across the grounds, and readjusted the clasp on her own cloak—still not quite used to the weather up in the mountains. At times, she missed the sweltering heat of the sun at her back. It made a cold goblet of ale seem like a little slice of heaven.

She toed the door open and stepped aside, letting Rom ahead of her, before letting it close behind them. Not that she thought he’d bolt at the first sign of discomfort
 but maybe, he would. If he wasn’t actively avoiding a particular subject, threading silence like a shield, she wasn’t sure how he would react to being directly confronted with it. She drew four fingers up and winked at the barkeep. Unsurprisingly, the Herald’s Rest wasn’t busy at all. Apparently people had better things to do during the day. All the better for her, really.

Inclining her head towards the furthest corner of the tavern, Zahra sauntered ahead and plopped down on one of the long benches. There’d been many renovations to the space she’d claimed as hers; the Riptide’s, in any case. While the room upstairs was occupied by Ves, she’d brought in some of the more lavish items that’d been in her captain’s quarters. Loads of pillows. Soft blankets, patch-worked and tasseled. Baubles and shiny objects hung from the rafters overhead. An odd arrangement that made her feel more at home. The tables, however, were the same as they’d always been. She swung her gaze up at Rom expectantly and leaned her elbows on the table.

“Welcome to my little home away from home,” her smile widened as the one of the barmaids approached and settled a tray down with their drinks, walking off to tend to the few others who occupied the stools at the front. First she’d cultivate a sense of security. Then strike, as one did. She slid one of the goblets across the table. Impatience would end the conversation as soon as it started.

To his credit, Rom was more at ease than she might've expected. Perhaps he had prepared for this. He had to have to known it was coming, after what she'd seen in the Fade, in his dream. His own wandering, dreaming mind betraying him. Not that she hadn't noticed such things already, but never in such a concrete, visual fashion. Audible too, with that funny little elf he'd called Brand prodding at him just as effectively.

The Herald removed his cloak and put himself at rest, draping the garment over the back of a chair which he then sank down into, taking the offered goblet and downing a long first gulp. He wasn't a bad drinker at all, as far as she'd seen. Maybe those colorful potions had something to do with it. "Alright," he said, as the warmth of the drink undoubtedly snaked through him. "Let's get this done."

Zahra, too, had shrugged herself out of her cloak and set it off to the side, rumples among the blankets. A smile stretched its way across her face as he took a long dreg of ale. She was curious about a lot of things, and as antsy as he was to get this over with, she thought it best to bring up another matter. It was something she’d been meaning to bring up, but hadn’t the opportunity until now. She lifted the goblet to her lips, and took her own gulp, before setting it back down.

“Let’s get this out of the way. I’m nosy. We both know that. I’d like to think all captains are, to a degree. Always in the know,” she rolled her eyes and slumped back against the pillows with a huff, “Those shiny little bottles of yours. What’re they for? Only caught a glimpse, a few times. Coming from a concerned friend and not a prattling mother, I swear.” She’d hardly pass as the latter in any given situation. A worried friend? Far more likely. Even then, she harbored no doubts that Rom knew what he was doing
 though he had a tendency to push himself too far.

That was why she was asking.

He seemed a bit surprised that she chose to ask about that first. Not something he'd been preparing for, by the way he fidgeted, took another deep drink. His thoughts probably sloshing around his head while the ale sloshed down his throat. Setting the goblet down, he briefly wiped at his lips. "They're for protection from common types of offensive magic, mostly. Fire, frost, and lightning being the most common, but I have recipes for spirit, earth, arcane, that sort of thing. It was... necessary, I guess, when dealing with mages as I did in Tevinter. It works well against demons in the same way."

Rom sat up a little straighter, adjusting his shirt. Deciding whether to continue or not. "Tonics like that aren't uncommon. Mine are somewhat... unique. A few added effects that take more time and precision in the creation to get right."

“Are they safe to take?” Zahra’s eyebrows had slowly raised and come down as he explained exactly what they were. While she didn’t really understand why he needed to take them, there was something else there. A specific reason. Perhaps, it was habit. Some remnant of dependence from days spent in Tevinter. A fear of sorts. She wouldn’t have blamed him. His reaction hadn’t done anything to smooth the concern from her face.

“I wasn’t aware you could concoct tonics, to be honest. If they’re not that uncommon, what makes yours unique?”

Beyond whatever Asala fed her, she’d never taken any tonics, or potions. Even if they were readily available, she wasn’t sure she’d trust them enough to take. What if Rom was taking too many? Testing tonics on himself didn’t seem
 very safe. She would’ve laughed if it didn’t actually worry her—seeing how she was someone who’d frequently take risks, dipping her toes in fool-hardy endeavors.

"They... put me into a different state of mind," he explained, though he didn't sound too proud of it. "One that helps me with a lot of things. It might be dangerous if I took too much, but I know my limits. I've been doing this for quite some time now. You don't have to worry."

A hm noise sounded. An assent of sorts. Who would know better than Rom himself? It wasn’t as if she could stop him. If he needed this to
 do whatever he needed to do, then she wouldn’t question him further. Zahra fluffed up some of the pillows under her elbows and readjusted herself, “Well. Who am I to judge?” It was the clearest way to say that yes, she was worried, but she also trusted in his judgment.

There was a lull in conversation—one she allowed to grow and bloom, before straightening up in her seat and stippling her fingers together on the table. Zahra’s attempt to force a serious, contemplative frown onto her face failed miserably. She could already feel the corner’s beginning to shift upwards. The warmth blooming in her belly felt more like a fervent thrill, rather than any inevitable drunken stupor. An excitement she couldn’t quite contain because the next subject would be much more enjoyable.

At least to her.

“So, onto the subject at hand,” she eyed him above the rim of her goblet, “I think it was about a tender, fiery redhead. Or was it
 a sexy fiery redhead. I forget—but that was some dream.”

Rom let his head fall back against the chair, exhaling a very long, slow breath. Around the time she used the word sexy he began to take a very long, slow drink. To his credit, he wasn't really reddening now that they'd reached the subject he expected. "I would say I'm going to strangle that elf next time I see him, but... wasn't his fault." He set the goblet back down, meeting Zahra's eyes and enduring her excitement.

"Everyone has stupid dreams. I'm at a disadvantage, as I didn't get the opportunity to see yours." He seemed to expect that there might have been something worthwhile there that he'd missed out on. "Did you want to say anything in particular about mine, or are we just here to relive it?"

Zahra’s laugh was much softer this time, bereft of the edges it normally carried. She almost felt bad for bringing it up again. Almost. Not nearly enough to let it slide, though. It was the reason she’d brought him here, after all. Having the upper hand in the teasing department? Priceless. While she’d often poke fun at her crew whenever she had the chance, she found that she didn’t often have as many opportunities here. The Inquisition was into some heavy business; from demon-slaying to facing off dragons, acquiring ugly scars in the process, and fending off mind-flaying creatures.

Who had time to enjoy snarky quips? Well. She still did. Others tended not to see the world in the same light.

"I liked him—Brand. My sort of fellow,” she wondered what became of him. If he was just a specter of a memory
 there was a good chance he wasn’t alive anymore, and that wasn’t a question she was planning to pose. She untangled her fingers, and finished the last dredge of ale from her goblet before considering her next words. “You’re right. Everyone does. I, for one, am glad you missed out on mine. It was
 less amusing.” She’d let the subject die there. Leon and Cyrus had seen enough and it wasn’t something she wanted to speak of.

She tilted her head to the side, “Relive it? Oh no. That’d be cruel.” A knowing smile tipped across her lips. She’d seen what she’d needed to see. Anything else would’ve made him squirm and despite all appearances, that wasn’t her intention. “Do you love her?”

Regardless, her directness still made him squirm more than a little. At least, he shifted a bunch in his seat, switching which leg rested on the other, which side of his rear his weight would be on top of, which arm he let fall on the rest and which he used to support the side of his head for a moment.

"How should I know?" he said, frustrated, though it didn't seem to be directed at Zahra. He'd known what he was getting himself in for by following her to the Herald's Rest. He was frustrated at himself, more likely, as was usually the case. "I've never loved anyone. I care about her, I... feel things, I—I don't know. Does it matter?"

As delightful as his reaction was, Zahra couldn’t seem to reach for a laugh. Her eyebrows pinched together. He didn’t seem to know where to put himself. Granted being asked if you loved someone was uncomfortable enough
 but not really knowing what that felt like in the first place, she couldn’t imagine. She’d fallen in love plenty of times. Or else, she’d thought so. Different flavors of it at least. More often than not, she had a warm bed. Though that didn’t mean much. Had she truly loved anyone like she was asking? Perhaps. She liked to think that what she felt for her crew was as close as she’d get.

A sigh sifted past her lips as she tapped her fingers across the wooden surface of the table—three times, as if to draw him back to the present and out of the frustrations he felt. Maker knows how baffling it would have been to combat feelings with someone who couldn’t even fathom any innuendos from wrestling alone in a dark, dank cave. “It does. It does matter.” She pushed errant curls of unruly hair behind her ear. Half-measures were luxuries in their line of business. A mistake. In more ways than one, they couldn’t afford hesitance. Not now, not with what they were doing in the Inquisition.

Their lives weren’t guaranteed.

“Always time for something new, but our time
 isn’t assured, Rom,” she arched an eyebrow and studied his face, perhaps a little more seriously, “Are you fine with how things are now? With her not knowing how you feel?”

He spread the thumb and forefinger of his unmarked hand across his forehead momentarily, rubbing at the temples on either side, as though he'd developed a headache. Maybe he had. "She knows that I care," he said, letting the hand fall away. "She knows how important she is to me, more or less, she just—" He stopped himself short, again seeming thoroughly annoyed with the words he was saying, as though none of them sounded right when they came out.

"Look, if you want to discuss this, there's something you need to understand." He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees and touching the ends of his fingers together. "But it's... I need to know you can keep this to yourself. I don't think even Khari knows this, and I don't know how I could talk to her about it."

If Rom didn’t look so damn conflicted, Zahra might’ve huffed at the accusation that she’d run off blabbing to the woman in question. She wouldn’t—not like this, not when he looked like that. Even she knew better. Meddling in another way? Highly probable. If she didn’t try to bring them together, what kind of friend would she be? Besides, there was a good chance Khari wouldn’t know what she was talking to or outright not believe her.

“Tell her? What would the point in that be? It has to come from you. Only you.”

He let out another long breath, took another drink. "Alright." He went so far as to check the tavern around them, to make sure no one else had wandered into easy earshot of the conversation. "Chryseis Viridius, my former domina, owner, required many things of me. I was her agent and her blade, but other times I had other uses. Her husband was killed in fighting with the Qunari, and she hasn't yet remarried, as far as I know. Sometimes, when she was... frustrated, or angry, or when she just felt like it, she would call upon me to... to attend to her needs." Maybe Khari wouldn't have caught the meaning of that, but it was quite obvious what he meant from the way he said it, and the context.

"I did that for her for... five, six years? There was no refusing her. I didn't have the power to, not then. At the time it was... it was hardly the worst thing she asked of me, I thought. But..." It was easy to see the strain the admission brought upon him. Something approaching physical pain. "Every time I've thought of Khari in that way, it goes back to her, no matter how much I'd prefer to forget it. No matter how different I think it would be, or feel. I wish I didn't think of her that way at all, but I can't stop that, either." He sat back again, shaking his head. "It's stupid, anyway. Selfish. We have better things to be doing, and this just... it would just threaten what we do have."

“I’m sorry.” It came out as a breathy whisper. Zahra meant it. For what little she knew Rom had gone through
 she’d known most of his experiences in Tevinter had been wholly unpleasant. He was a slave. Something that belonged to someone else. That someone would use him for those purposes wasn’t all that surprising but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth. While it differed from a marriage born of convenience, there were similarities there. However invisible his wounds were, this Chryseis had left her mark on him. Twisted the way he saw the world. Gnarled the way he viewed love.

A small muscle jumped along her jawline. She hoped that this woman was rotting somewhere, paying for her deeds. It wasn’t likely. Life had a funny way of ignoring justice. Tevinter’s moral objectivity did not align with theirs. What was deplorable here, was welcome and encouraged there. She reached across the table and took hold of one of his hands, eyeing him earnestly. “Darling that’s where you’re wrong
 it doesn’t matter where, or when you are. What’s worse than dying without having spoken your mind? Nothing. I promise you that.”

She squeezed the side of his hand and paused for a moment. Her eyes softened. “There’s a difference between what you were subjected to and a love you’re not sure you deserve. Don’t accept any less. Not now—not when you’ve changed so much.” This time, she laughed. “You know, I’d like nothing better than to see you two together. Bloody hell, she feels something too. That much is obvious. Whatever that something is, seems like neither of you are willing to admit it.” He hadn’t seen her at Adamant Keep. Hadn’t seen how she reacted to the collapsing bridge.

Zahra gave him one final pat on the hand before releasing it. She flopped back down on the bench and regarded him levelly, “Love isn’t just an emotion. What you’re feeling now, it’s important. Eventually, it’ll become important enough to say and I hope that you do. She’s as thick as a sword, that one.” There was another pause, before she nodded her head, “I’m on your side, for what it’s worth.”

He swallowed uncomfortably, offering her a tiny little smile, gone as soon as it came. Forced, entirely. "Thanks. I appreciate that, Zee." It was hard to tell if the talk had made him feel better or worse, and it sure didn't seem like he was going to get up and tell her right now. Maybe he'd even been resolved against it. It was impossible to say.

But it did seem as though he was done speaking about it, as he exhaled shakily and got to his feet, finishing the last of his drink. "And thanks for the drinks. I needed it. I should really be getting back, though." It didn't seem likely that he had that much work to do, if anything at all. Probably just an excuse to find some solitude again, but he seemed insistent on it, at least.

“I. Love. You,” Punctuated into three, slowly spoken words, as Zahra bowed her head and glanced up between newly fallen curls, obscuring her sly eyes, “You should practice it in your spare time.” She patted the table, indicating that she would be here if she was needed, “I'll be here, as always.”

Time waited for no one. Least of all those who could not love themselves.

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

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#, 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: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
As if things couldn’t get any stranger. Zahra had stopped counting the times she was left slack-jawed and speechless. What was the point? Every time something happened she often regrouped in the Herald’s Rest. Today was no different. Though, as of recent, she felt more like a hapless mother sighing over wine, wondering why such horrible things were happening to her companions. It felt less like an adventure, and more like misfortunes skulking in their shadows, pelting rain on their heads. It would’ve been more surprising if they managed to catch a break. After rediscovering the eluvian–whatever that thing truly was—and vaulting into Rilien’s rookery
 things stopped making sense.

Had they ever made any sense in the first place? Doubtfully. Relief only came when they reappeared: whole and alive. It was the most important part. Of course, she hadn’t seen them. Only heard that yes they weren’t dead. It was the only bit of news she’d wanted to hear. The only one that truly mattered. To her, at least. While the others recuperated elsewhere, she had already sought out Nixium to ask why a shiny, fancy mirror was so important to them. What did eluvian mean? What did it do, anyway? Thin-lipped and perpetually annoyed by her petulant questions, the elven lass still entertained them.

It meant seeingglass in the Dalish tongue. An ancient means of travel. Thought to be lost to them, though there were always traces of ruins, and tales told by their elders and Keepers. Besides that, she knew little. The fact that there was one in Skyhold was baffling enough—and that someone knew how to use them, even more so.

She’d wanted to go see Cyrus and the others, but was promptly turned away. Vague excuses were given. She understood well enough that she was better off turning tail and waiting for one of them to explain what had happened. The Inquisition was a secretive place, and besides
 even if they did explain what had happened she wasn’t sure if she would even understand. As of late, there were things happening that went far beyond anything she’d ever experienced or seen. How could she understand? It made her feel useless, at times.

A sigh sifted past Zahra’s lips, before she quickly smothered it into her goblet. She took a long dredge of stronger stuff she’d ordered and her cup back down, casting a glance to her drinking companion, Vesryn. He had joined her soon after they’d come back from
 wherever they’d been, though she hadn’t tried to wheedle any information out of him either. Not yet, at least. He always seemed the type to offer it, if it was something she needed to know. She paused for a moment and tilted her head, “So, what happened to your friends? I hadn’t the chance to bother Shae. The little she-devil disappears like a ghost.” She suspected that was on purpose.

“Zeth seemed cordial enough.” From what she’d seen, which wasn’t much. They certainly hadn’t come into the Herald’s Rest often. Perhaps, there was an underlying reason for that.

"Don't let him hear you say that," Vesryn chuckled, taking a drink from his cup. "It'll go right to his head." Despite the close call he'd escaped from with the others, who were all varying states of bloody and battered and weary, Vesryn seemed to be in decent spirits. Maybe that was just the drinks. He'd had a few, and currently had his feet kicked up on a stool he'd liberated from underneath the oppression of the bar. Now under his boots.

"They're still around Skyhold, actually. Should be for another month or so. Zeth's been studying his books. Fighting off some sickness at the moment, but it can hardly keep him out of the library. Astraia spends her time with the mages, practicing until she's absolutely spent every day. And Shae, well... she has a knack for staying out of sight. Hard to pin down, that one." He spoke out of significant experience, obviously, and delivered the appraisal with a knowing grin, before he hid his face behind his cup, taking another drink.

After taking another long dredge, Zahra leaned her chin into an upturned palm. She was already feeling the tendrils of warmth spreading in her guts. It was taking her mind off the current events, as it always did. For the time being until everything crashed around her, at least. “Glad they’re settling in well,” she added with a smile, “Never a dull moment around these parts.”

She blinked at him. Fighting off a sickness? It was the first time she was hearing of this—though if he was cooping himself up in the library, it made sense that she wouldn’t have seen him. While she’d often wandered around Skyhold in various states of disarray
 whenever she stepped foot in the library she was shooed out. Apparently, they didn’t like her making a mess of things. Pulling out books and stacking them into disorderly piles; little forts, and pyramid-shapes.

Vesryn didn’t look all too worried about it. So, perhaps he was simply fighting off a cold. She hummed a low tune, and tapped her cheek with her fingers, regarding him with semi-lidded eyes, “Not that I’m complaining about the company. I’m not. I’d always much rather drink beside a pretty face—but, I don’t usually see you drinking
 quite this much, this early. Did something happen?”

"Something's always happening, isn't it?" He said it with a bit of a grin, though there was some heaviness to the words. Tinged with sadness. "Sometimes there's someone trying to kill your friends, and other times your friends are risking their lives to put things to rights. Some days all of it happens at once." He looked down into the bottom of the cup. "It's more than enough to make a few drinks seem like a reasonable option."

Apparently, it seemed like a reasonable option for the Avenarius twins as well. They were hardly as frequently-seen at the Herald's Rest as the regulars, but they were here now, entering together. Cyrus made immediately for the bar, probably to order something, while for a moment Estella looked after his departure from her side with a solemn, pensive frown. She didn't follow him, though, instead casting her eyes about the room, as though checking to see who was present.

When her eyes alighted on Zahra and Vesryn, she seemed to relax, but only fractionally, and only for a moment. Picking her way through the early-evening crowd, she reached their table and smiled wanly. “I don't suppose the two of you would mind some company?" She glanced once back over her shoulder at Cyrus, but then returned her attention to them. “I... can't promise we'll be at our liveliest, though."

Zahra murmured her assent. Of course, there was a lot of that happening recently. Probably more than she even realized. She only straightened up in her chair when she’d seen Cyrus and Stel walk through the doors. It wasn’t often that she saw them both in one place, at least not here. From the looks of it, their coming here wasn’t a particularly happy occasion. There was a tension to Stel’s expression. A solemnness that spoke volumes.

She dropped her hand away from her chin and gestured towards the many empty stools and chairs surrounding them, “The more, the merrier. No one should drink alone.”

Certainly not with those heavy shoulders.

"The Captain's got that right," Vesryn agreed. "Have a seat."

Stel took a chair, sighing in a way that seemed to be involuntary. She sounded tired. “The truth is, I'm really only here to look after Cyrus. He..." She was quiet for a long moment, glancing down at the table between them. She folded her hands atop it, but just as soon seemed to think better of it and dropped one back into her lap. The other thumb rubbed at a water-stain in the wood, like she was trying to get it out. She grimaced, and lifted her eyes back to them with what seemed like great difficulty.

“I'm going to tell you something important. But... I need it to stay between us. He needs it to. ...If that's all right."

"It'd hardly be fair of me to spread a secret around," Vesryn answered. He lowered his feet off the stool. It almost seemed like he was attempting to inject some lightheartedness into his words, but failing given Stel's demeanor. It simply came off as sincere instead. "I've got his back." Zahra’s eyebrow inclined a fraction, though she only nodded. She’d become a hoarder of secret as of late. What was another one, added to her trove?

Estella closed her eyes, sighed deeply, and then opened them again. It was clear at least that she had difficulty parting with whatever she was trying to say, but it seemed she trusted them enough to do it anyway. When she spoke, her tone was grim, almost hurt, though that might have been the wrong word.

“The red lyrium he was poisoned with. It... it took his magic. All of it. He's... he's not taking it well. Not that anyone can blame him for that. I'm just... worried. That he'll overdo it tonight, so if you could help me keep an eye on him, I'd really appreciate it." A small pause. “'Appreciate' is an understatement, actually."

"It took..." Vesryn words fell short, maybe just out of desire to not make Stel repeat herself. He glanced back behind him, over the back of his chair, to where Cyrus was, as though to immediately check on him. He then turned back around. "That's... wow. Okay, yeah. Absolutely." He was obviously having trouble comprehending just how that could be, but clearly he understood why the information was sensitive, something to be kept between them. "I'm happy to help."

Ah—Zahra could see where she was going with this. From what little she knew of Cyrus, losing his magic would have changed his entire world. If his nose wasn’t in his books, or many experiments, he must’ve felt lost. An understatement. She cleared her throat and studied Stel’s face, worried as she was for her brother
 she wasn’t asking for much. “Consider it already done, Stel.”

The implication was not lost on her. More like than not, Cyrus was looking to drown himself. That, at least, was a sentiment she understood.

She shifted in her seat and took a deep breath, settling a wide grin across her lips. She certainly wasn’t going to look morose when he came around. It’d only make him feel worse. Besides, she was sure Cyrus was sharp enough to pick up on it if they all moped at the table, glancing at him as if he were a wounded pup dragging its tail behind.

At that point, Cyrus turned away from the bar, a glass of brandy in one hand, and an opaque tin mug in the other. He did not look particularly pleased to be there; the expression on his face was actually a little flat, as though the veneer of pleasantry he tended to wear was wearing thin enough to see through. There were deep purple circles under his eyes, mottled and weary, and he was looking a little gaunt in the cheeks, but then, he was usually only a few steps from it anyway.

Spotting them, he made his way over, setting the glass down in front of Estella and taking the chair next to her. She could smell the contents of his tankard even from across the table. That was Golden Scythe or it was rainwater—and it damn sure wasn't rainwater. He took a large gulp right off, wincing slightly as it went down. With a soft cough, he wrinkled his nose. “That's disgusting." He didn't sound altogether displeased with the fact, though, offering both Zahra and Vesryn a nod.

“Captain. Vesryn. Lovely night to drink oneself insensate, no?"

“Zee,” Zahra dragged finger in a lazy circle around the rim of her goblet and shrugged her shoulders, “I’m no Captain here. Unless there’s a ship hiding in that glass of yours.” Cyrus didn’t look good. Not that she expected any different. Fatigue lined his face, as if he’d been dragging himself through a desert. Parched and exhausted. Resigning himself to drinking something that went down like fire. That surprised her.

Her eyebrows drew up as she gave a respective sniff. “I didn’t know you liked drinking dragon’s piss. I thought you’d be more of a
 wine man.” While the comment could have come off as rude to anyone who didn’t know her well enough, it was part of her appeal. Or else, she liked to think so. Fortunately enough for her, she had no one to impress at the Herald’s Rest. Or anywhere, really. It wasn’t often she was invited to a place where she’d have to conjure up manners and etiquette. Why start now?

He snorted. “Not tonight." Dragon's piss would apparently be the order of the day.

It didn't take him long to work through the tankard; Cyrus seemed content to let the conversation go on around him without inputting much into it, or losing his intent focus on the triangle composed of his drink, an uninteresting knot in the wood grain of the table, and Estella's elbow. His face flushed rather quickly, but then anyone would get drunk fast on that swill. It was a blotchy sort of thing, rather unbecoming, and made him look decidedly younger somehow. Or maybe that was just because of the way he slumped.

At a natural lull in the talking, he spoke, seemingly apropos of nothing. “I can't believe I didn't recognize her." He seemed surprised to have said it, from the way he blinked slowly afterwards, but there was no pulling the words back into his mouth, and he seemed to know it.

“Recognize her?” Zahra echoed with a lilt. A smile was already blooming across her face. Whether it was because she was on her fourth goblet of swill, or the fact that her mind was already jumping to conclusions was anyone’s guess. She’d certainly taken his statement in lewder terms than he’d meant. She was already propping her elbows across the table, eyes alight, “A bonny lass of yours?”

She paused and glanced over at Stel. Her smile only shifted a fraction, before wobbling back again. Talking about anything like that with the two sitting at the same table
 would be hilariously strange. A snorting laugh bubbled out before she could stop it, though she didn’t explain what she found so funny.

“No." Cyrus's answer was, from what she knew of him, unusually blunt. And also unusually morose in tone. “My would-be assassin. Leta. I... knew her, once. A long time ago now. When I was much different." He raised his tankard and took a long draught. It did not make him flinch, this time.

"I'm assuming she was different then, too." Vesryn said it more as a statement than a guess. "If you didn't recognize her. It's hard to recall every face from years and years ago, especially when they come back wearing a false one." He'd noticeably slowed down his own drinking since Cyrus arrived, and if anything the buzz he might've been feeling before had worn off by now. He didn't seem to mind.

“She was a slave, back then. She and Milo. And I was a stupid boy who thought I was going to save the world one day. Save Tevinter from itself." Cyrus scoffed; he may have been attempting to do so under his breath, but it was quite easy to hear. “I thought they were my friends. I didn't understand the difference, then, between people who actually could be my friends and people who would simply do whatever I suggested because they were afraid of what I'd do if they didn't." He stared hard into his tankard.

“Cassius warned me off it, a dozen times at least. Tried to get me to associate with other people. But I was so damned sure I was right—that people were people regardless, and the only thing standing in the way of us all acting like it was a bunch of stupid laws and customs. Ones I fancied I could get rid of someday, if I could become strong enough to be Archon or something." Cyrus shook his head, hair falling in front of his face a bit. He seemed almost lost in the memory of it.

Estella had been nursing the same glass all evening, and it was still only about half-gone. So she was quite clear-eyed when she prompted him to continue, though it was hard to miss the caution with which she did. “But then... you said you killed Milo? How did that happen, if he was your friend? An accident?"

“I said I murdered him, Stellulam." Cyrus's tone was dark; he still didn't look at any of them. “And I meant it." Inhaling deeply, he drained the rest of his tankard in one swift go, then set it down with a hollow thud on the table, gesturing towards the bar for another.

He didn't resume the story until it was in front of him. One hand curled around the edge of the table, the other toyed with the tankard's handle. “I was a disobedient, foolish child. You have to understand that there is less forgiveness for that when you're apprenticed to a Magister than basically anywhere else. Any mistake I made could be used against Cassius. Against his family. Could get them killed. And from his perspective, everything I did back then was a mistake. If I'd have been smarter, I'd have seen it coming. I'd have just listened to him in the first place."

This conversation was going to dark places, Zahra could already tell. She’d glanced sidelong at Stel. Just for a moment. Trying to read the atmosphere, wondering if they were treading into dangerous territories. Apparently she didn’t mind where this was going
 so she said nothing to lighten the mood. She occasionally tipped the goblet to her lips, drinking rather slowly compared to how she usually did. Nursing her ale—who would’ve thought that possible of her.

Magister. Magister’s son. She’d never professed to understanding how people lived in Tevinter. Only understood how close she’d been to being banished there. Painting them all with the same brush was unlike her, but
 still. Even the word tugged a frown across her features, though she managed to wrestle it away into something resembling a pensive line. Softer. She shut her eyes closed for a moment, and when she reopened them, the pinched tension in her brows smoothed itself.

“Was he your teacher, this Cassius?”

“Same as the one in the dungeon." Cyrus's expression changed long enough to look vaguely surprised that she didn't know that, but then it shifted back to where it had been. “I was twelve when he put his foot down. I think... I think Tevinter twists everyone. No matter what they are. I know it twisted him, just as it twisted his daughter. And twisted me."

There was a pause, several heartbeats too long to be natural. He was struggling, clearly; it was a fair bet that he'd never have made it this far into the story if he weren't as impaired as he was. With as much as he'd had, he might not remember telling it, come morning.

“He told me... that I was ready to begin advanced blood magic." He swallowed thickly. “The kind that requires the ending of a life."

"And the slaves are the typical choice for such a thing." At this point, Vesryn wasn't trying to mask his tone in anything, as there was no point in attempts to lift the mood. They were this far into the story, and if Cyrus was continuing to tell it, it was quite possible it would be beneficial to him. Vesryn seemed interested in pushing it along its rather dark course.

“They are not really people, where I am from." Cyrus's mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. “Cassius wanted to make sure I knew it. And to make sure I understood that I was not a person to them, either. Just a faceless avatar of fear. Of pain. Not Cy or Cyrus. Not even young Lord Avenarius. Just dominus. Just commands and the potential for harm. Like everyone else at the upper boundary of that world." The words were clearly hard to say; he had to force them out slowly, like they tasted worse than his drink. Or, perhaps, were as poisonous as red lyrium.

“He gave me a choice. Between them. One or the other, it had to be. I refused. He told me that if I continued to refuse, he would kill them both himself." His knuckles went white against the metal cup in his hand. “You can imagine what happened. They grasped the inevitability of the situation far sooner than I did. And of course they loved each other, as siblings should, and so each begged me to spare the other. As Leta is alive and very much desires my death, you can guess the rest, I'm sure." He looked visibly ill now, though whether that was the recounting or the Scythe wasn't easy to tell.

“I didn't disobey him after that. Not until I left. I didn't make any more friends, either. It's still... hard not to see doing so as folly. Weakness."

“Cy..." Stel looked absolutely stunned by what they'd just heard. Clearly, she'd never heard the story before, and wasn't quite sure what to say now that she had. Lifting a hand, she set it carefully between his shoulderblades, smoothing it up and down a few times. “I'm... I'm so sorry. I never—" She grimaced and cut herself off.

Seeing how Zahra was sitting across the table from him, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with everything he said so far. Was there more? Could it possibly get any worse? It was far heavier than she expected. She hadn’t expected any of it at all. Sure, he’d looked downtrodden. Like a leper groveling under a bridge to die. For some reason, she’d always suspected, even if he’d been drunk, that he would be tight-lipped about
 well, everything. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Vesryn hadn't taken a deep drink in a while, but at the conclusion of the story he did just that, finishing what was in his cup and setting it back down. "It's our friends that keep us from becoming such things, those in power particularly." He laid his own hand on Cyrus's upper arm, patting it a few times. "For what it's worth... Saraya doesn't think any less of you for this. Maybe more. We know these things happen in Tevinter, but not everyone makes the choice you did. To leave it behind, to make connections again. The pain is sometimes the price we pay for allowing ourselves to care. But without that, what good is the power, the control? What is there to remake the world for?"

He shrugged. "And if the one with thousands of years to think still believes in you, then so do I."

That managed to get a soft huff out of him, perhaps the first positive sign since the whole thing had started. “You know, it might just be because I'm drunk, but there could be something to that. I don't... I don't think I chose wrong. I was a boy, and the only way I could have spared my own hands was by letting them both die. I don't regret what I decided, exactly. I just... regret that I had to." He sighed.

“And maybe that's not my fault, for once."

Zahra smoothed a hand over her face, tucking stray curls behind her ear as she watched them. A more genuine smile tugged at the corner’s of her lips as she leaned her chin back into her hand. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad after all. Whatever this was, it felt like a step forward. Where it would lead? She supposed that was for Cyrus to decide.

“Cheers to that.”

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: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

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#, as written by Talisman
The day's practice was going well.

Once more, Lady Marceline found herself in the practice yard, rapier in hand and across from Zahra. However, today they had an additional student in their presence. On the other side of Zahra, Lady Félicité stood with a rapier of her own in hand. To the young woman's credit, Mathis did not send her to Skyhold completely unprepared, but it was clear that the woman never had been in a true fight nor perhaps even had a reason to be in one. Marceline could see it in her pace and movements. There was slow hesitation where there should be none, her thrusts were far too measured and predictable, both evidence of a practice regimen that did not expect to be utilized. It was a base, however, and something that could be built off of.

Zahra was a different story. She was growing, in both technique and speed. She'd come a long way from the woman who came to her with a decorative blade. Even Marceline had to admit her progress had made her proud-- though wisely, she would perhaps keep that knowledge to herself. There was no telling what the good Captain would do with that information, and she would prefer to keep all the ammunition she could out of her quiver, so to speak.

"You must be more decisive, Félicité," Marceline coached, "If someone wishes to do you harm, they will not wait patiently for you to act first, agreed Captain?"

Off a little to their side, Pierre watched the practice with great interest. Lady Marceline was not in charge of his self defense training, that honor fell to her husband. Their styles were exceptionally different and she felt for the child. Michaël didn't pull any punches, but regardless he was a fine teacher, and his style suited Pierre far better than hers. Though not a chevalier yet, it was clear that once he grew into his body, he would have the size of one. Even now, he was nearly her height and would soon surpass her in another year. However, for now, he sat curiously as he watched the practice, resting his chin on a crossguard of his own sheathed blade.

“Right,” Zahra hummed her assent. Sweat had already begun beading her brow. While she’d grown in leaps and bounds under Marceline’s tutelage, particularly compared to the poor performance in the beginning of her lessons, her endurance
 left a little to be desired. If the enemy could be felled quickly, there wasn’t any doubt she’d come out breathing. Facing someone who could parry her swings, and dance around with the intention of tiring her out? She’d be a puddle exhaustion; hands planted on knees, exposed neck begging to be cut into.

She stepped in beside FĂ©licitĂ© and patted her shoulder, eyeing her feet curiously. Manners, of course, were always optional for Riptide’s captain. If she understood who, or which family, the young woman belonged to, she certainly wasn’t showing it. It was doubtful, anyhow. She swept her rapier in front of them, eyes alight. “Gotta pretend like it’s real, kid—someone’s trying to end your life. Would you let them?” A rattling laugh sounded as she pointed the blade towards the sky, swirled it into a circle, before dropping it back to her side.

“Everything is a battle. Even lessons,” she stated over her shoulder, eyebrow raising a fraction, “An example, perhaps?” Her track record against Marceline was laughable. A number she admitted under her breath, rather than aloud. Twenty? One of them may have conveniently forgotten. Either way, she seemed to enjoy their sparring sessions, even if she was the one who ended up in the dirt.

"Try not to go too fast," Pierre called from the side, "Félicité cannot learn anything if you are going too fast to see!" he noted, followed by grin pointed toward the young woman herself. Marceline had seen that same grin plastered to Michaël's maw... It appeared as if their son was learning more from him than just self defense. Félicité for her part only laughed in response and nodded in agreement.

"Yes, if you do not mind, Lady Marceline?" she added.

Marceline shook her head, but she could not shake the smile. "Of course, I will try. Captain?" she called, raising her practice rapier so that it was parallel to the ground. She never was the first to move in these practices, nor did she intend to be the first.

Zahra’s grin only brightened. If she was anything, she was persistent as hell. It showed in her technique, or lack thereof. She lacked Marceline’s proprietary patience, her caution and discipline. Many things, actually. She operated with a devil-may-care attitude and squashed caution under her boots, instead of throwing it to the wind. She did not, however, hesitate. Ever. Neither did she wait for the other person to strike first.

An awful habit that usually had consequences.

She scuffed the ground with her boot and rounded her blade in front of her, mimicking Marceline’s stance. Hers, while decent, had obvious flaws; chinks that could be taken advantage of. At times, it was a ruse. Difficult to tell with someone like her. There was a slight bow of her head. As good as any indication that the match would begin. She advanced at a decent pace. Not quite running—perhaps, because that would’ve ended the match rather quickly. As soon as she closed the distance, her wild eyes widened, and she lunged, swinging for Marceline’s hip.

Marceline stepped backward in anticipation of the lunge. Now with a wider view of Zahra and her maneuver Marceline deftly countered, her own rapier fluttering to her side in an attempt to bat away the swing. Had she been equipped with her main-gauche, she would've then retaken the step and gone on the offensive with the dagger, but as it was a practice, and she was without the implement, she simply took another step back and reset her position to wait for a more opportune moment to strike.

"Always watch your opponent," she added, for Félicité's benefit, her own eyes never leaving Zahra.

Bat away it did. Marceline’s swift movement kept Zahra’s momentum flowing past her. It appeared as if it had taken her a moment to realize that she had to turn on her heels, in order to keep her flank from being exposed. The wry grin hadn’t left her lips, though she looked momentarily embarrassed as she circled around. She kept a relatively lax hold on her blade, until she licked her lips, and lunged again. This time, she aimed higher. Towards her shoulders.

From the way she angled her feet, it appeared as if she were anticipating to throw her weight to the side, afterwards. Perhaps, to level another strike to her opposing side.

She didn't throw herself out of range this time, Marceline would never be able to press an offensive if she always acted on defense. The longer the fight drew out, the more mistakes the opponent could potentially make, yes, but the same could be said for her. It was a delicate line to keep in balance, one that a single misstep could throw out of balance. It was unlike the Game in that regard.

Marceline dropped into a crouch, Zahra's blade whistling over her head, and from her low position struck upward with her own rapier. The move left Zahra in a more favorable position from above, but it also painted Marceline as a smaller target that she could protect. Give and take, as it were.

Though Marceline’s crouch had left Zahra in a better position, she’d been forced on the defensive, bringing the training rapier to deflect her strike in a less graceful manner. It appeared as if it had been an instinctive move, rather than one she’d been expecting to make. As clever as she could be, her style lacked the finesse of a chess board. She operated in equal measures of pure instinct and dumb luck—which was apparent with all the scars she’d acquired as of late, still managing to walk among them with little more than a grimace, and frequent trips to Asala’s clinic.

She took two steps back with a huff and grinned wide, eyeing Marceline through a lidded gaze. For all intents and purposes, it appeared as if Zahra were enjoying herself, which wasn’t all too surprising given that she’d always tried to weasel out of her studies in order to spar and practice. She could’ve learned a thing or two from FĂ©licité’s measured, concise movements. Hers were made of wild things. She swayed to the side, then the other, before attempting to circle around and level another strike from above, a wild aim that seemed to have no particular direction.

Zahra's steps backward allowed Marceline enough time to rise back onto her feet, her stance reset. She eyed her opponent cautiously and when she circled, pivoted on her heels to follow her. When the blade came down, Marceline foot slid back, not to escape, but to brace herself. She caught the blade and its wild aim with her own, and let it slide all the way to the crossguard. She twisted her wrist to try and get a better hold and then attempted to swing both blades into a wide circle in front of them to try and dislodge Zahra's blade from her hand.

From the widening of Zahra’s eyes, she hadn’t expected the slender pommel to twist from her grasp. It was clear that she’d been trying to wrest it in her grip, or at least keep it in hand, but Marceline had been too quick to allow any such attempt. Now weaponless, and in close proximity, it appeared as if she wasn’t prepared to end the match just yet.

Another huff sounded. An intake of air, before there was a flurry of movement as her rapier spun through the air towards Pierre. She ducked her head and lurched forward in a brazen attempt to tackle her to the ground and keep her from leveling her blade at her throat in an obvious checkmate.

Marceline's attention was drawn away from the fight only for a moment, her eyes following the flight path of the rapier toward her son. However, she was not able to see where the weapon had landed, as a heavy force slammed into her and she felt the sensation of falling before coming to a sudden, and somewhat painful stop. A soft grunt was the only thing she could say as she lay on her back on the ground.

As soon as Marceline thumped on the ground, and their momentum halted, the weight lifted from her. Zahra peered down from her vantage point, chest rising from the exertion of such a maneuver. “What happened
 to watching your opponent?” A small, innocuous jibe. Breathless. One that couldn’t possibly be held in. A somewhat sheepish grin splayed across her lips as she rolled off and rose back to her feet, offering one of her hands.

She glanced sidelong and arched one of her eyebrows. Her smile wobbled a fraction. The smallest sign of concern rising as soon as the dust was settling at their feet, “No one hurt, ya?”

Marceline's gaze also darted over to the side. Pierre looked a little stunned, the sheath of his own sword held out across him, and Zahra's sword on the ground in front. Even at that distance, she could see the cracks etching across the scabbard, undoubtedly where he had fended off the flying sword. He spared a glance at it once more before looking back up at Zahra and giving her the thumbs up. "Fine, just fine. Just surprised is all. I was not expecting to be a part of the lesson, honestly," he said with a laugh. Zahra made a noise of approval. More a whoop, when she noted Pierre’s quick deflection.

Lady Félicité was by his side in the next moment, as if to ensure that he was really alright. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Luckily I was watching," he joked at his mother's expense. "I will just need a new sheath," he noted, peeling the splinters off of it.

Once she was sure Pierre was fine, Marceline finally accepted the Zahra's hand and pulled herself off. Fortunately, the only thing injured was her pride. As much as she wanted push the blame off somewhere else, the fact remained. She lost focus for a moment, and it was in that moment that she had lost. She brushed the dust off of her and nodded. "And now you see what happens when you take your eyes off of your opponent," she stated, "Even for a moment." She frowned when she looked at Zahra, but it did not last long before shifting into a smile.

If Zahra’s beaming smile was anything to go by, she’d be remembering this particular sparring match for ages to come. Even if it was won by less than honorable means, it was still her first victory. She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, planting her hands on her hips. Whether she was being mindful or not, she didn’t rub it in Marceline’s face.

Perhaps, she was saving that for later.

“I must say, your boy’s got reflexes,” she noted with a grin, and nodded her head, “maybe he should watch all our sparring matches.” As if by him being present, she’d have more chances at upping her tally. An unlikely gamble. She rubbed at the back of her neck and watched as Pierre picked at the slivers of wood cracked across his scabbard, “Hope that wasn’t
 uh, a gift. Or anything.” She glanced back at Marceline, as if to confirm.

Marceline shook her head, but Pierre answered. "No, nothing of the sort," he answered, partially drawing the blade to reveal an ordinary blunted practice blade, "It is just the one I use to practice with father." He then let it slide back into its sheath and stood, snatching Zahra's blade off the ground as he did.

"Micky does fine work," Lady Marceline noted. Pierre then handed Lady Félicité his own blade to hold for a moment to cross the distance between him and the two of them, giving her rapier a few practice swings before offering it to her, pommel first.

"Next time, I'll watch from behind a wall or something," he added with a grin.

"That would be... prudent, yes," Marceline agreed.

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: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella scrubbed both hands down her face. She'd yet to fully shake the effects of the red lyrium exposure—it left a rattle in her limbs and a sick feeling in her guts that meant even now she wasn't sure if she was going to keep or lose the meal she'd eaten earlier that day.

The hostage she'd pulled from the fight hadn't managed to survive. She couldn't help but feel that was her fault. If she'd been faster in recovering from the initial shock of the lyrium's proximity, she would not have needed to waste any time trying to fend off that templar. She could have simply grabbed the poor man and moved. If she'd been steadier with her healing spells, she'd have been able to clot his wounds fast enough to stop him from bleeding out. But despite the fact that swiftness and steadiness were her relative strengths, she had failed on both counts. And now all the hostages were dead. Innocent people, snuffed out for reasons she could scarcely understand.

It wasn't, unfortunately, an unfamiliar feeling. She'd just hoped she'd never have to deal with it again. A naĂŻve hope, all things considered, but one she'd still clung to. One she'd needed. In the end, all that poor man had been able to say was that he was kidnapped from a nearby village, forced to handle red lyrium at some unknown location, and then shipped off with it to a destination he also didn't have any knowledge of. And then he'd expired under her hands, and with him, the last chance that this whole excursion would even have any good result. Three of their own templars had died, another five had taken nearly-fatal injuries. She had no idea what kind of state Leon was in, only that he and to some extent SĂ©verine really needed a better healer than she was. For now, he was at least stable, but still unconscious.

As it turned out, the confrontation had drawn the attention of another group, apparently refugees fled from another small settlement. One of those in the group had been the hostage's cousin or kinsman of some sort, and so the Inquisition had stopped to help them recover the rest of the bodies as well, in case anyone else was familiar. After the red lyrium had been moved out, of course. Now they were back at the refugees' campsite, for the moment. It was as good a place to wait for the others as any, and Signy had been dispatched back to the first forward camp to guide them here when they returned.

They were being fed, actually; it seemed the refugees had been located here long enough to have both devised good gathering systems and trade with the Dalish for at least some things. Estella thought it was awfully generous of them to be offering to feed guests considering their situation, but when the Inquisition's rations were added into the lot, there was more than enough to go around. She sat herself down next to Lia and Zee with a small plate, unsure she'd be able to stomach it but knowing quite well that she needed to try. Corona, the apparent leader of the refugee group, staffed the large stewpot, handing out bowls of hot food to the templars and her people alike. It was a bit of an eclectic group, almost as if the entirety of a small town had packed up and moved together. Estella wouldn't be too surprised if that were the case, given the circumstances.

Zahra kept relatively quiet after they’d returned. She’d already wolfed down her bowlful of stew, though it was apparent that she’d done so in a weak attempt to keep herself busy. Spatters of blood stained her leathers, and would need a scrubbing once they were allowed the luxury of doing so. The slice across her cheek had been tended to as best they could manage, wrapped in a clean bandage that wound across her head and into her hair.

She sat at Stel’s elbow and occasionally glanced her way. There was a sense that there was something she wanted to say. Her mouth had opened; once or twice, before resolutely shutting. Instead, she gently patted her back and turned away, busying herself by dragging the wooden spoon at the bottom of her empty bowl.

Lia swallowed a spoonful of soup next to her. She was covered in a layer of dried sweat and grime, as they all were. There hadn't been any time or opportunity to properly clean up before they were on the move again, but at she hadn't needed to deal with any blood, her own or otherwise. She didn't seem in high spirits, but that was hardly surprising.

Glancing over, she noted the bloodied bandage over the arrow wound Estella had taken during the fight. "Hey, Stel, make sure Asala takes a look at that when they get back sometime, okay?" It wasn't phrased as a command or even advice, but instead just the concern of a friend.

Estella glanced down at it; honestly, she'd all but forgotten it was there. Now that she remembered it, though, she noticed that it hurt, and grimaced a bit before nodding. It wasn't intolerable, but it would be pointless to set herself up for an infection—there was no way her battlefield solution had been completely sanitary. Not when she'd been nearly elbow-deep in the hostage's blood, trying to keep it in his body.

She closed her eyes for a moment and saw fire. Blinking them open quickly, she gave Lia a small nod. “I will. Thanks." She tried a small bite of the stew and found it quite tasty for what it was, but decided to wait a bit before trying another, to make sure the first stayed down.

It left her wanting a distraction of some kind. Fortunately, Corona had just finished serving everyone else and was now holding her own meal. When her eyes met Estella's, she brightened a bit and made her way over to sit with the small group. "Lady Inquisitor. I hope I'm not intruding?"

Estella shook her head. “Of course not. It's your camp, after all. We're the intruders."

The refugee woman smiled, deepening the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The pattern suggested she'd smiled a lot in her life. Estella was almost jealous of them. She suspected that hers would one day look very different, but pushed the thought from her mind hastily. “It's a nice setup you have here. Relatively speaking, I mean." It was, in a sense. The refugees had made their home in a small network of caves and short cliffsides, allowing them some protection from the dangers that wandered outside. Clearly, they'd been present long enough to have made parts of the settlement almost permanent as well. The waterfall she could hear faintly roaring in the distance likely kept them from the perils of thirst quite easily.

Fortunately, Corona seemed disinclined to take the comment the wrong way, instead nodding a few times in agreement. "It is. It's not Vannes, of course, but... home is where the right people are. And with luck, we won't be here forever."

“Was it the war that pushed you out?" Estella carefully took a second bite of her stew.

"Mhm." Corona's expression darkened for a moment, and she shook her head. "Damned fools. It's not like any of us care who wears the crown. It's all the same, in the end. But when that bloody Game gets played out on our doorsteps... we didn't have much choice. We were supposed to end up in Arlesans, but that fell through."

Arlesans? Estella sat up a little straighter. “Fell through how?"

"They stopped writing us back. The Lady's son, it was. Everything was fine until about a year ago, then nothing."

Well, Estella knew exactly why that was. “He ran into some trouble of his own," she explained softly. “But it should be resolved soon; I'm sure you'll be hearing from him again. In the meantime, is there anything you need? We should be able to help a little, if there's something we can do."

Corona thought on that for a moment, then sighed through her nose. "Short of ending the war and scrubbing those damned Freemen off the map, I'm not sure there's anything to be done. We make do, for supplies. But life would be easier if we could go back home, or to Arlesans. Somewhere to put down roots again."

Soon after, the sound of footfalls alerted them to new arrivals in the camp. Ves was the first to come into view, still clad in his armor besides his helmet, leading a group that was larger by a few than the one they'd set out with. Khari, Cyrus, and Asala were behind him, a few bloodstains on them but none of which appeared to be their own. The two that followed behind them were people Estella had not seen in a very long time, but they were a hard pair to forget.

Lia nearly choked on a mouthful beside her, suddenly almost panicking as she tried to shove her chair back, only for it to catch on the rock beneath her. When she stood she bumped the table and spilled part of her soup, and then the chair clattered onto its back behind her, but she was already sliding away from it, holding out her hands apologetically. "Sorry, I'm sorry!" And then she was off, her eyes lit up, sprinting across the distance and throwing herself at Ithilian, who looked stunned by a spell for a moment before he wrapped his arms around her as well. They exchanged words, or rather, Lia drowned out anything Ithilian could say, speaking incessantly and unintelligibly from Estella's distance into his shoulder, blinking through rapidly forming tears.

Ves observed the spectacle for a moment with a mixture of bewilderment and amusement, before he spied Estella and made his way over to the table, winding around to scoop up the chair Lia had tipped over, putting it back upright and sinking down into it next to her. He pulled off his gloves, still watching the unexpected reunion. "Well. I'm glad someone found something pleasant here."

Estella was quite surprised herself, but of course she hadn't been nearly as close with the newcomers as Lia was. The Inquisitor dabbed at the spilled soup with a cloth and an apologetic smile to Corona, who shrugged and waved a hand.

"Don't mind it, dear. I'll take care of it later." She excused herself with a small smile, leaving Ves, Estella, and Zahra to themselves. The others seemed to be settling around the camp, though she made brief eye contact with Cyrus before he disappeared. A brief check, confirmation of life. She'd have to talk to him later.

For now, though, she moved her attention to Ves instead. Turning a bit in her chair, she let her knee settle against his when they brushed. After the difficulty her group had run into... she'd worried about the others, too, but he seemed all right. The knot in the pit of her stomach loosened a little. "How on earth did you run into Ithilian and Amalia?" she asked, a smile pulling at her mouth almost despite herself. Whatever the case, it seemed much more likely to be a good story than the one she had to tell. The one she was avoiding so much as thinking about, for the moment.

"Ambushes on top of ambushes in this forest," he answered, exhaling heavily and setting his helm down on the table. He ran his hands through his mass of hair. "The Venatori set one for us in the ruins, and those two let us walk into it. Then they ambushed the Venatori. Would've preferred if they'd asked us first, but I can understand why they didn't." He watched as Lia finally broke the hug with Ithilian and turned to Amalia. She wasn't nearly as aggressive with her touch there, simply laying a hand on the older woman's shoulder, but her smile was just as broad.

"They've been hunting the Venatori leader for some time, that Magister Alesius," Ves explained. "I tried not to pry, but it's pretty obviously personal. We convinced them to take a look at the Inquisition." He had a hint of a smile as well, when he saw how suddenly soft the battered old elf became around Lia. "Glad we did. Seems they have friends here." He seemed to realize something, and turned to look at Estella. "You know them too?"

Estella watched the almost-invisible smile touch Amalia's mouth, then turned back to Vesryn. "Oh. Yes, actually. Not nearly as well as Lia does." They were practically family to her, after all. "But they're from Kirkwall. Sort of. Ithilian's Fereldan, I think, and Amalia used to be a Qunari. She helped train the Lions in hand-to-hand, back when we started." She set her spoon down atop the bowl she'd been loaned. "I'm glad you ran into them; it had been a while since anyone knew where they were. I'm not sure why they left Kirkwall, but I suppose it must have had something to do with this."

With Marcus. If so, it was quite the coincidence. Estella had learned to expect those, though. Especially when it came to people from that time in her life. Even the ones she hadn't known as well, it seemed.

Releasing a sigh, she shook her head. It was only fair to provide the updates from her side as well. "Things... didn't go very well, with the Red Templars." She supposed the bandages were a decent indication of that, and the general mood of the camp. "They had hostages, like we thought, but... they killed them first. We couldn't save any of them. The only one I could get out of there died from his wounds. Leon's collapsed, and we lost several templars as well." She pulled in a breath, trying to focus on something besides the memory of the screams and the blood. It wasn't the easiest thing, not when it reminded her of more. But he helped, just by being there.

"So I'm... happy for this, at least."

"I heard," Ves said, sadly. "A scout caught us up on our way here from the Inquisition camp. I'm sorry." He settled a hand atop the back of Estella's chair, gently resting his thumb and a few fingers against the middle of her back. "We'll find a way to beat them." He was good at injecting confidence into his words, and it was fairly obvious that he was doing that now. Though beating the Red Templars was more simple of an issue than how to avoid the cost it would take in innocent lives, given the way they'd proven they were willing to fight.

"But for now," he narrowed his eyes at the newcomers. "A Fereldan Dalish, and a Qunari? And they're from Kirkwall?" He tilted his head, the pieces of information clearly not adding up. "I suppose stranger things have happened."

"It was a very unusual place, back then," Estella said, lifting her shoulders slightly. Maybe it was still unusual, but she wouldn't know anymore, now that it had been practically gutted of anyone she knew to any decent degree. Some of the Lions were still there, Havard and Idris and the others. And of course Sophia and Ashton were there, but that was about it. Everyone else had dispersed. The Inquisition was about the closest she thought she'd ever come to finding so many very different people so closely associated ever again.

Hopefully this, too, would turn out for the better, in the end.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The house gave the impression of emptiness even from the outside.

There wasn't really any point at which Cyrus did not dearly wish he had his magic once more, but he felt that longing particularly keenly now, when he would have been able to discern so much more about it than his senses alone could tell him. As he was, however, he only knew that the manor was old, abandoned, and rumored to play host to spirits. Wind whistled through the grounds, returning strangely hollow sounds, though from here, most of the windows seemed intact. The garden was long dead, though whithered plants jutting at strange angles, warped by neglect, and years spent reaching for sunlight that never quite sufficed, perhaps. It had been disturbing enough to those living nearby that they'd asked the Inquisition to look into it, and so here they were.

The thick canopy overhead kept it in gloomy shade; Cyrus supposed the stonework must once have been white, but time and lack of care had turned it a dingy grey hue. The smell of rotting wood and decay was quite thick on the air, though the building itself seemed at least structurally sound enough to enter. The wrought iron gate in the front of it was closed, but that wasn't anything a little percussion didn't fix, and with a strangled squeak, it parted to admit them.

“I suspect that whatever is going on here, it's magical." It almost went without saying, really, though the sense of 'spirit' the people here meant was likely more along the line of 'ghost of the departed' than anything, from the way they'd phrased it. Novel, but likely ultimately to be the work of something more ordinary. Something from the Fade. “We'll need to get closer to say for sure."

Beside him, Khari frowned, giving the edifice a skeptical once-over. “You sure it's not just rats? Scuffing around, making noise? People could get the wrong idea, if they already have the ghost story in their heads."

Cyrus shrugged. “Hard to say. We'll find out, I suppose."

"It certainly looks the part, doesn't it?" Stellulam spoke up from slightly behind. Her expression was almost troubled, or at least there was a faint flicker of it behind her omnipresent neutrality. Perhaps her magic enabled her to sense something that was undetectable to him, now. Her lips pursed; if there was anything else she thought about it, she kept the observation to herself, stepping forward with the rest of them.

The front door was set back behind a straight path. It had perhaps once been wrought with the same white stone as the exterior, but most of the stones had sunk at least partway into the ground, the mortar between them long cracked and flaked away or faded to greasy brownish dust. The door was not rotted, unlike everything in the garden. In fact, sans a layer of filmy dirt, it seemed perfectly intact.

"Rot didn't hit everything evenly," Estella murmured. This close, the house was indeed obviously still in decent shape itself, despite the ruin of the grounds.

"Saraya's wary of this place, for what it's worth." Vesryn leaned slightly against his axe, the butt of which was planted between two sunken stones of the pathway under their feet. "Subtle dangers are often more concern than the obvious ones." He looked uneasy himself, though he'd been eager enough to answer the call when a group was needed to investigate.

"Well, in we go." He reached out, taking a careful hold of handle and turning. The door they found unlocked, and it swung open with a loud, drawn out creak. Vesryn stepped inside first, and the others followed closely behind, one by one. The air inside felt still, even with the door still open behind them, the sound of the wind still plainly rustling through the trees. The foyer was entirely clean, kept in pristine condition, as though someone had made it their personal mission to see to the upkeep of the house's interior. Clearly that did not also apply to the grounds outside. There was not interior lighting to greet them, though, only what little natural light could filter in through the mostly drawn blinds.

"We may not be alone," Vesryn mused. "Surely a bandit or deserter or two tried to take up residence here at some point. Someone might still be here, given the condition of things."

“Doesn't make any damn sense—” a breathy whisper came out to Vesryn’s left. A little too close. Zahra had been herding in behind them at an unusual distance, right at their heels, as if she hadn’t wanted to bring up the rear. She only halted when she had nowhere else to go, or else she would’ve walked into Stellalum’s back. There was a pinched look to her eyebrows and if Cyrus could guess at it, the level of concern drawn up on her face was more in line with fear than unease.

Her hands hadn’t left the pommel of her blades since first coming into view of the eerie house. A sigh sifted from her lips when bandits or squatters were mentioned. Perhaps, she was hoping that it was so. “Better that than the alternative,” it was clear that she did not quite think that rats were scuffing about. Bereft of magical abilities, or any sense tied to the Fade, it was clear that she had her own set of superstitions. From the way her shoulders were bunched, and her jaw was set, it looked as if she thought something might jump out around the corner and spook them.

Asala was far more twitchy than usual. One hand clutched at the collar of her cloak below her neck, while the fingers of her other were curled to reach for her magic at a moment's notice. As they walked, she kept casting glances around them, like she was trying to find something that was not there. As she was perhaps presently the one most attuned to the fade, the effects of the manor may have been affecting her more. Whatever it was, it was clear that it was making her uncomfortable.

She jerked once more, this time causing her half-turn to her side. "I feel like I am being... watched?" she noted, sounding unsure if that was even the correct word for what she was feeling. Regardless, her eyes darted from one darkened corner of the foyer to the other.

Cyrus wasn't sure he'd ever met a bandit this inclined to cleanliness, but he'd been wrong before. Still... something didn't quite seem right. The place wasn't merely maintained, it was pristine. Almost to the point where he had to wonder if anyone really lived here at all. It reminded him of nothing so much as coming back to the manor house in Minrathous after a summer with Cassius in the country. Servants lingered only as long as it took to dust, oil, and sweep everything, maintaining all the furniture and the house itself, but it had lost the sense of really having occupants.

He doubted that there were any servants out here, dutifully maintaining the home for some long-absent lord. The grounds were proof enough of that.

Before he could venture anything else by way of observation, however, there was a bang from directly behind them. Jumping from the suddenness of the noise, he whirled to face it. He was met with a solid wood panel and naught else—the door had shut abruptly behind them. Before he could ask who'd done it, several more clatters followed, and they were plunged into darkness as the shutters over the windows sealed as well. Something between a startled yelp and a scream sounded off behind him. It was difficult to tell who it was, however. There was another sound of someone banging into a table of sorts, and a throaty, embarrassed laugh that didn’t seem all that amused.

He could still make out the few feet in front of him, but the light level was too low for much else. What little was filtering in reflected off of some things more than others: Vesryn's armor, Asala's hair, and so on.

“Well." That wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. “I think we can rule out bandits."

Some shuffling and a grunt alerted him to the fact that Khari was trying to push open the shutters. When that was apparently unsuccessful, there was a louder collision sound—metal on wood—then nothing.

“Damn things won't budge. Can we get a light in here or something?"

"Sure," it was Asala's voice that answered. There was a vague shuffling from her direction and the sound of her reaching into the fade to cast her spell before... nothing. The spell did produce a ball of light, but the strangest part what that it did not cast light, only a dim ball lingering above them and nothing more. Silence fell on Asala, undoubtedly as she tried to process what was happening. A surprised murmured followed the snuffing of the ball, before a second and third appeared and were likewise dismissed. As with the first one, the magelight did not cast light.

"Uh...?" Asala muttered, unsure where to go from there.

Well, it was definitely Fade-based interference doing all of this, then. But Cyrus had never heard of anything quite like this. Magic dampening, the apparent control of the house's doors and windows... those things were not typically possible in the waking world, not even for spirits or demons. It was possible that some mage was doing this, or had set the various features of the home to react when wards or traps of some kind were triggered. A pike of frustration stabbed at Cyrus's chest. This would have been much easier to figure out if he could feel anything from the Fade at all.

He tsked under his breath. “Seems we're going to have to find a way out in the dark. Or more likely, find whatever it is that's causing this and deal with it."

"Well..." Estella slid her saber from the sheath she carried it in. Its light wasn't as bright as usual, either, but it at least succeeded in casting a small pool of dim illumination ahead. By the light it provided, Cyrus could see that her face was a little drawn. Anxiety, perhaps, or whatever magic the place was saturated with. "This is the foyer, from the looks of it. That means it's probably public rooms down here, and everything else upstairs... I suppose we'll have to check everywhere."

She turned towards him, eyes narrowed slightly. Squinting to make sure it was him, presumably. "Any idea what we're looking for, exactly?"

Cyrus pursed his lips. “If we find any demons, that's probably a good start. But in general terms... no. Not really. We'll have to look around. Maybe it will be clearer once we have a better idea what the options are, so to speak. Let's start this way."

On the grounds that no particular room was more or less likely to grant them a clue when he didn't know what the nature of clues would be, Cyrus chose to try and systematically sweep the house. That meant starting down the hallway to their left. His footsteps echoed on the stone tiles of the foyer as he crossed it, the scuffs of other boots reassurance enough that they could see him well enough to follow. The door out to the hallway was of course closed, but unlike the front one, it opened easily enough when he turned the handle, creaking slightly as he pushed it inwards and stepped over the threshold.

He couldn't tell exactly who was behind him, but he did notice when the door slid from his grip with unnatural heaviness, falling shut with a decisive click and cutting off all but one other set of footsteps. He turned around abruptly, able to make out a few of Zahra's features in the dark, and grimaced.

“...I don't suppose that opens anymore, does it?"

“Well, it damn well should, shouldn’t it? It’s just a door.” Zahra’s eyebrow raised a fraction. Though it was difficult to tell in the dim light, a confused expression pinched across her features. The question seemed to be more of an effort to put herself at ease, or else she might have been looking for confirmation that yes, this was simply a door. It could be opened and closed at their leisure. However, by the tone of her voice, lilting into a nervous huff, it didn’t seem as if Zahra was taking this eerie expedition well.

She immediately closed the distance to the door, and with both hands on the knob, she pushed her shoulder into it and shoved it open. From the looks of it, the heaviness Cyrus had felt earlier had all but vanished. The door had opened almost too easily. Certainly enough to deposit Zahra on the other side, carried by her momentum, sending her sprawling on her hands in knees in an unfamiliar room. Everyone else was
 just gone.

So was the hallway they’d just walked through. They faced another immaculate room that looked sorely out of place. Much larger, with high ceilings. A white balcony ribbed the entire room, as well. A large, bronze chandelier hung from the ceiling and held several freshly lit candles from their flutes, casting long shadows against the walls. A piano was pushed up near the large, shuttered windows; bench left slightly askew, as if someone had left in a hurry.

“But we were just—,” her voice trailed off, and a bark of laughter sounded as she pushed herself back to her feet and stomped back towards the door. She held up a finger to him and stepped back through the threshold, slamming the door shut, and reopening it with just as much force. The determined jut to her lip faltered and fell away completely as she released the doorknob. “This isn’t good.”

She certainly wasn't wrong. Cyrus frowned, unsure what to make of the development. “It seems almost as if... some entity has control of the entire house." Either that, or this was an elaborate illusion, and they were all, in fact, asleep in the foyer even now. But he didn't dream any longer, which was at least some evidence against that hypothesis. The salon remained where it was, just as dark as the rest of their surroundings. He suppressed the flare of worry in his gut.

By now, his eyes had adjusted to the dark as much as they were going to. For a moment, they lingered on the piano, its lacquered surface reflecting what little illumination there was. “I suppose we just... pick a direction and keep going, for now. Don't... open any doors without me. I don't like our chances if we end up alone." He wasn't sure what basis he had for thinking so, only some sort of... impression. A feeling, that he didn't want to find himself without anyone else around, right now. Like that would somehow be... Cyrus shook his head.

A soft chuckle, with a note of exasperation sounded as Zahra’s attention roved towards the upper balcony winding around the chamber. She cleared her throat and took a tentative step closer to his right side, hands still poised over the pommels of her blades or simply resting at her hips, close enough to draw if need be. “No concerns there, I’ll be on your heels. So, don’t
 uh, leave me behind either, okay?” There was a drawn tone to her voice, a vulnerable lilt. She couldn’t have expected him to do any differently, but it appeared as if she’d certainly felt
 something as well. What that was, was anyone’s guess.

There were doors strewn across the room. Only seen by the swiveling shine of candlelight casting subtle glares across their doorknobs. Though, there was no clear indication where they would lead. A kitchen, or library? Back to the foyer, or somewhere else entirely?

She pointed towards the furthest corner of the room and took a few steps ahead of him, “Lots of doors. Should be some stairs that lead up there, too. Too many damn choices, if you ask me.” Blathering on seemed to be more for her benefit than anyone else, in order to fill in the noiseless spaces. It didn’t last long. There were a few bangs that came from one of the corners of the room; objects clattering off shelves of their own accord. However, there were no sounds of shattering. They were wholesome thumps, and the sound of pages fluttering open. Errant books, perhaps. Left behind by whoever owned this place.

Zahra had stopped mid-step and seemed frozen in place, eyes glued on the piano ahead of them—too far to see any movement, if there had been any to see in the first place. What they heard, however, were a few keys being pressed down. High notes drawing out into a playful melody. It sounded like an old chantey. Something played in seaside taverns, like Redcliffe. Its notes dropped into a more somber, destitute tune, but as soon as Zahra took a step backwards, the piano’s cover slammed down and the tune cut off entirely.

The silence that followed was more than disconcerting. A heavy blanket cast over their heads, all but constricting the walls against them. From what they could see, there was no one else in the room; it was empty
 they were alone. There were a few more steps backwards, clumsy and hurried, until she bumped into Cyrus's chest and leaped away with an audible yell. It took her a moment to compose herself before she straightened her shoulders and let out a shaky breath, “B-bloody hell, sorry, I thought you were, I didn't see
 don’t you hear that?”

“Y—"

Don’t you want to show them who you really are?
Ah, yes. You are less now. A powerless child. Alone.

It was soft. Barely audible. A voice that sounded all too familiar, but alien; all at once. It came from the left. Or, perhaps, the right. Inside, or outwards. Above, or below. Had he even heard it? Or imagined it? In any case, it appeared as if Zahra had heard it as well.

A soft breath hissed out from between Cyrus's teeth. He wasn't half as jumpy as Zahra, but that didn't mean he wasn't on-edge. Given that objects in the room seemed to move at the behest of some unseen will, he couldn't let his eyes settle on one place for too long, lest something strike him in the back or who knew what. With a rasp, he drew one of his swords. At the very least, he could make the attempt to fend off anything that came directly for him.

“Are you hearing that, or is it just me?" His voice came out lower than he intended, like he couldn't bring himself to say anything too loud. He thought she was, but he wanted to be sure. Carefully, he settled his free hand at Zahra's shoulder. “Put your back to mine. I'll watch in front if you watch behind. We'll head for the leftmost door." Zahra obliged without question, pressing her back to his for a moment before drawing her own blade, and setting her sights to where they’d just come from.

Up and down, spun all around.
And the other ran her ship aground.

It sounded, if anything, like a child's voice. A whisper. Too soft to really decide if he recognized it or not. Cyrus doubted it mattered. It had to be whatever was here interfering with them. Shifting positions so he was facing forward, he kept himself half-turned so he could maintain solid physical contact with Zahra. Normally, he wouldn't have, but given that they'd already been separated from the others, he wasn't going to take the chance.

“This way."

“Lead on,” Zahra’s voice was, if anything, a little stronger this time. Perhaps, having some sort of physical proximity was as good as any a promise that she was not alone. It appeared as if she’d seen something a moment before—or at least believed so. A brief moment before she’d blustered into him, she had looked in his direction
 and almost looked as if she were looking straight through him.

She hadn’t commented on it any further. Though the hitch of her shoulders and back, meeting just below his shoulder blades, bellied a reproach that may have been caused by whatever she’d seen. There was a soft exhale as she mimicked his footsteps and continued scanning every inch they left behind. “I heard it too,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, “But I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

There was another unusual sound. A small, tinny sound of iron bouncing off the linoleum floors. A portrait that had been hung by the door they’d recently vacated creaked against the wall and finally clattered to the ground behind them. Then another, and another. Closer, each time. The uncomfortable silence that followed hung heavier. This time, Zahra had managed to bite down her yelp and only startled slightly against Cyrus’ back as they retreated.

“We should get out of here.” It sounded more like a plea than a suggestion.

Either way, he agreed. Cyrus picked up the pace as much as he could while remaining in contact with Zahra, jogging towards the door. He'd have to give up either the sword or his companion to work the knob, and he wasn't about to let her go, so he sheathed the blade, turning the handle and putting his shoulder into it when he met resistance. As though rust were breaking away from the hinges, it suddenly gave, but he was prepared for something like that. His fingers tightened in the fabric of Zahra's shirt; he refused to let go, and pulled her after him over the threshold.

This time, they emerged into dim light. The door behind them was closed despite never having clicked shut. He was willing to bet that whatever was behind it wasn't the room they'd come from either. Here, things were lit with several inset torches, burning an eerie bluish color. Magelight. The room was little more than bare stone walls and a bare stone floor, rows of bookshelves reaching as high as Cyrus could see, and then higher. Each was lined with neat rows of dusty tomes, their titles blurry and indistinct to his eyes, even when he ventured slightly closer. From the way their footsteps echoed, the ceiling of the room must have been at least two stories up.

There weren't any immediately-visible doors, but there might be on the other side, blocked from view by the towering shelves. It was hard to say. From somewhere deeper in, a thud reverberated—exactly the sound he would expect from a book falling off a shelf. “Someone's playing games with us." He was almost certain of it.

The thing was, he wasn't sure if the thing to do was play along or ignore the games entirely.

“Not the type of games I like playing,” Zahra quipped at his back. Not one anyone would enjoy playing if it meant tossing objects on the floor and whispering ominous things in their ears. However, leaving the salon and having the door firmly shut behind them had soothed some of her nerves. The light, as dim as it was, seemed to lend her some bravery as well. She emerged from behind his back and stood in front of one of the many shelves, squinting close enough that her nose nearly touched one of the dusty tomes.

“What should we do? What can we do?” There was a pause, before she straightened her back and rounded her shoulders, “Demons aren’t really my specialty.” What could they do when they had nothing to strike? An unseen enemy toying with them from the shadows. A hand that seemed to focus on manipulation rather than outright injury. It appeared as if she didn’t know what to do with herself, holding her rapier loosely in her hand and busying herself by prodding the spines of the books in front of her.

“Depends on the type of demon." Unfortunately, he didn't know what sort this was, or how it was doing the things it made sense to attribute to it. “I've never heard of a demon being in command of an area outside the Fade like this." Even Nightmare's control over its dominion was somewhat limited. This one had yet to speak to them directly or identify itself. He needed more information before he had a hope of understanding what needed to be done.

But the only way to get that information was probably to go along with things, for now. “Let's figure out what it wanted us to see, first of all." If a book had fallen somewhere, they could at least figure out which one. It could be useful information.

Working his way down the narrow gap at the ends of all the rows of shelving, Cyrus peered down each as he passed, looking for any conspicuous dark objects on the floors. Just when he was resigned to making a more thorough inspection of each, he found what he was looking for. “There, this way." The second-to-last row contained a toppled book, fallen open upside down. From where they stood, the title was visible, standing out in sharp, almost luminous golden relief: Daedalus and Auriel.

Cyrus's brows descended over his eyes. Bending down, he picked the book up, careful to keep it open to the same page, and then turned it over in his hands. He sucked in a sharp breath. On the left was a full-page illustration. To the right, the words written out in familiar handwriting—his own. The image itself was recognizably him as well, save that he was a child and dressed in the manner of Auriel from the tale, the ragged garments of a slave, cut in a manner long obsolete in the Imperium. He sat at the knee of a man, dressed much the same, face obscured and blurry like the titles of all the other books.

Grimacing, he flipped the page, and then another. The story played out exactly like it was supposed to, except for the uncanny resemblance of the ill-fated protagonist to himself. When he reached the last page, his gut lurched. Auriel had fallen, alone, to earth in a heap of smoking feathers, his body broken on stones.

“That's... quite unpleasant." His attempt to sound dry only worked halfway. It just looked like him. But somehow that wasn't the terrible part.

Zahra was hot on his heels as he rounded the bend. She sidled at his elbow when he had stooped to retrieve the fallen tome. Seeing how short she was in comparison, she was not quite reading over his shoulder. Instead, she’d chosen a spot at his side, murky eyes following the familiar depictions as he flipped through the pages. By the pinch of her brows, she appeared justifiably confused. She wouldn’t have understood the relevance of the tale. Though she bent over a little further when he reached the last page.

“That looked a little like...” her voice trailed off uneasily as she took a step backwards and gave him breathing room. She cleared her throat and glanced over her shoulder, scanning the room once more. It’d do them no good if something crept up behind them as they perused the books. Her mouth was set into a fine line, assured. Her hand had been resting on his shoulder the entire time, and it took her a moment to retract it, as if she hadn’t realized she’d been grabbing onto him in the first place.

“Uh
 so, what was that? You don’t look so good.”

“A clue." To the nature of their tormentor, this time. He wasn't sure it was enough, though. Perhaps venturing further in would be more definitive. “I'll... explain it later." Just at this moment, he didn't really want to get into the details. It was hardly the time or the place for that.

Their journey down the row of shelving, however, had made evident another door. “I think that might be our only way out." He nodded at it carefully, still unable to banish the thick something that had settled in the hollow of his chest. An ache, maybe. Something evoked without being named. He needed to give it a name. Somehow, he couldn't help but feel that doing so would loosen the hold it was slowly gaining over him, over them. Separating them like this, playing upon their fears in the dark and the unknown.

They stuck close together as they reached the next door; Cyrus waited until they were in physical contact again before he opened it and stepped through.

Zahra had been clinging onto the hem of his shirt as they crossed the threshold. Seeing how they’d been separated in the first place, it was an understandable concern. However, she seemed perplexed that she’d been doing it in the first place, retracting her fingers as soon as the door gently clicked behind them. She paused and looked over her opened palm, before huffing out a sigh, “How big is this damn house—”

Her words were smothered into a trembling hitch. The room they’d entered looked as if it had been designed by a completely different hand. One that was much more deliberate. Intentional. Wholly unlike all of the gaudy rooms they’d come across so far. There were no crystal chandeliers. No plush cushions or lacquered pianos; no lengthy portraits or intricate vases arranged atop freshly-varnished tables.

“Impossible.” A much older, outdated room sat in front of them—a fisherman’s cabin from the looks of it. The windows were still shuttered and only oil lanterns, hoisted onto metal fastenings in between the wooden slats of the walls, offered any light. Shadows danced and licked across the walls. At times, it appeared as if they took shape, though they soon disappeared. Slits of light reflected across the hooks of fishing rods tucked neatly beside a wood stove.

My Bonnie lies over the ocean
My Bonnie lies over the sea

She took a few steps forward; her movements wooden. Though it may have escaped Cyrus’ notice before, it was certainly apparent now that Zahra was walking towards it, the furthest window was latched, but had no shutters covering its pane. It did not, however, look normal. Instead of allowing a view of the grounds below, only an inky blackness remained. There was a residual shudder across the surface, as if rocks were being thrown into water. A silhouette began to take shape; first shoulders, then horns.

Bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me

A soft-spoken lullaby. A motherly tone; happy. The voice belonged to a woman that he did not recognize, though it appeared as if Zahra had heard this particular one as well. She’d initially reacted by pressing the palms of her hands to her ears, smothering them against her wild curls. There was another noise, coming from her mouth. Something that sounded like a desperate no, no, no. It didn’t appear as if she were aware that she’d left Cyrus by the door. That she continued leaving him there; on his own. Focusing only on the window ahead of her, stumbling through the darkness as if she were swimming to shore.

“I have to let him in. I have to. He’s right there—”

Cyrus admittedly wasn't really sure what to do here. Unlike the last time they'd been in a similar position, he didn't have the power to simply banish the illusion before them. Nor did he think he'd be able to do much to break its hold on Zahra. Leon had been around last time, and he rather thought that had made all the difference between success and failure. Especially since she didn't even seem to notice that he was present.

Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he followed her across the room. That in itself was hardly a difficult choice—the overwhelming desolation he felt in this place seemed to be staved off only by her proximity. He was fairly sure he knew what that meant, at this point, but it wasn't the most obvious answer, and he didn't want to get it wrong.

The choice to reach out and grasp her wrist, halting her progress, was admittedly the harder one. “Zahra. Zahra, stop. This isn't real. Like the dream wasn't real." He paused, hesitating, then ventured his guess. If he was right, and he could get it through to her, knowing what it was should help her see through its tricks. “This is a demon—Loneliness. It just wants to make you feel alone and hopeless." Cyrus enunciated carefully, searching her face for any sign that she so much as recognized his presence.

At first, Zahra only tugged against the restraint on her wrist and reached out her own hand towards the rippling reflection in the window. She made a small noise in the back of her throat—halfway between an intake of breath and a whine. What she’d do once she reached the window was anyone’s guess
 but the desperate pull seemed to have her entranced: frantic. “He’s right there—Aslan, I have to, I have to
”

There was a choked noise, and her pulling suddenly stopped. The ripples suddenly ceased and the silhouette began to lose its shape. Until it was nothing more than a formless blob. A shadow, unfamiliar darkness. Like all of the other windows, shutters abruptly slammed down in its place, covering it completely. She simply stood there, stock-still. For a moment, at least, until she let out a shaky breath.

“Shit.” Zahra pressed her free hand to her eyes, angrily wiping with the heel of her palm. It took her a moment to look at him, but eventually she did. The frenzy might’ve left her gaze, but her eyes still burned. What she’d seen had clearly left an impression on her. She nodded her head as if she were shaking off the remnants of sleep; resolute, bristling. “Alright. Let’s kill this fucking thing. No more games. Not with us.”

Cyrus nodded, carefully releasing her. “My sentiments exactly." With the closing of the shutters, a new door had appeared at the end of the room. That seemed like the best way forward.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
They should've arrived at the next floor by now, right?

Vesryn caught himself thinking about how annoyingly narrow the stairwell was, and how tight the spiral was. Uncomfortable for someone in his amount of armor, though he was able to fit. The spin of the spiral shouldn't have been enough to make him dizzy, but he could feel it beginning to settle in. If there was just a window or something, some way he could see the outside, everything would be better, but sadly the house was not that kind.

"Ves, wait." Stel's tone was pitched low and urgent when she spoke from behind him. The sound of her footsteps halted, at which point it became clear that they were the only other footsteps within earshot. "Khari and Asala aren't... they're gone."

He turned abruptly at the sound of her voice, again subtly taking his axe in both hands and partially expecting a threat. As before, the threat wasn't one that an axe had a chance of dealing with. His mouth hung ajar momentarily, staring around the bend of the stairwell's spiral at where he expected Asala and Khari to be, but it was as Stel said: they were gone.

"There wasn't even a door this time," he said, his tone halfway to a complaint. "How could they just... damn it." He grimaced, quickly trying to think of what was best to do. Saraya was of little help at the moment, as her ability to give specific instructions was limited. She just felt about as uncomfortable as he did to be remaining where they were standing.

"I think we need to get out of this stairwell." It meant refusing to go back and look for Khari and Asala, but somehow Vesryn could guess that they would find nothing. Something in this house was working very hard to split them up. Divide and conquer was a simple enough tactic. He held out a gloved hand to her. "Probably safer if we don't let go of each other."

She hesitated for a moment, shifting to look behind her, but she must have been thinking something similar, because it didn't take her more than that moment to reach forward and take his hand. "I—all right." Her unease was not hard to detect.

"We'll find them, but not in here," he promised her, for what it was worth. There was something unnatural about the stairwell, he didn't need to be a mage to figure that out. Grasping her hand firmly so as to leave no chance of it slipping, he turned his gaze back forward and they started ahead.

The stairwell twisted on and on until he was certain they would reach the top of a tower of some sort rather than just another floor of the house. But when at last the air shifted and they stepped out onto a floor, Vesryn frowned. It was dark, and the angle was different, but... "This... this is where we just were." He said it with some degree of certainty, despite it being seemingly impossible. It was the same hall, with the same doors, the same place where they'd started up the stairs. Unless there was an exact replica hallway at the top that he hadn't been able to see when entering the house to begin with.

"But we were walking up the entire time, we..." He turned to look at the stairs, to confirm that they had in fact been going up the whole time, but when he turned his eyes to see behind Stel, all he found was a wall, smooth and covered, like the stairwell had never been there at all. He turned fully, setting down his axe and placing his hand on the flat surface, pushing against it, testing for weakness, but it was as solid as a castle battlement. He curled his hand into a fist and picked up his axe again.

"I know you didn't accidentally take us into the Fade again. So what is this place?"

Stel let out a breath; it sounded like she'd been holding it for a while. "I don't know," she admitted. "I've never heard of anything like this place before." At the mention of the Fade, though, she glanced down at her mark, as well as she could considering that the hand bearing it was wrapped around her sword still. She seemed to think better of that, though, and flipped it in her grip, sliding it home in the sheath. It did seem rather unlikely that whatever they faced here would be so kind as to allow them to confront it directly.

They lost a bit of light, but Stel focused on her mark, and the green scar brightened noticeably, letting her shift her palm out and cast its greenish pall over the hallway. "If not the stairs, then... I suppose we have to try a different door. Maybe it's a labyrinth or something. Only one way out." From the sound of it, she didn't like the guess, though whether that was because she thought it was implausible or something else was harder to say.

Her hand tightened a bit around his, and she stepped towards one of them. Strangely, it seemed to be ajar already. It almost certainly hadn't been the first time they were here. Pushing it open with the side of her fist, Stel peered in as well as she could without crossing the threshold. "It's... I can't tell for sure, but it looks like a gallery? Maybe if we can find out whose house this was..." Glancing down, she carefully put one foot over the break between hall and room as if ready to snatch it back at a moment's notice.

But it landed normally, and nothing happened when she shifted her weight forward to step the rest of the way in, so it seemed they were safe for now. The light level changed as soon as they were both inside: or rather, several lights came on at once. Magelights, blue-purple in color, flickered to life beneath what seemed to be a series of portrait frames on the walls. Stel moved them towards the first one before abruptly stopping, transfixed.

This close, he could see the first of the paintings. It wasn't so much a portrait as a scene, but it had the same sort of oil-paint style. They were looking at the back of a small child, unidentifiable save for the simple blue dress and disheveled fall of black hair. She stood in front of a half-open door, light from outside spilling onto her and casting a long shadow. Indiscernible figures were beyond the door, nothing more than vague, dark shapes, given the impression of movement away.

Vesryn frowned at it. The sudden appearance of light implied to him that whatever force was controlling the house, it wanted them to be able to see these. He wasn't sure, then, if it was better to fight it or go along with it, but if magic or demons were involved here, and he had to imagine they were, going along with them was rarely a wise idea. Still, he scrutinized the painting a moment. "I'm no art critic, but that seems a rather odd subject for a piece to hang on your wall."

"It's me." Stel shook her head. "I think. Maybe if—" She took several quick steps, soft footfalls echoing in the almost-empty gallery.

The second painting was obviously of her, captured with eerie accuracy. The only real difference between the woman in the painting and Stel as she was now were what seemed to be about half a decade and armor. In the painting, she was curled upon herself, knees clutched to her chest, looking at something that could not be seen in the frame with wide, terrified eyes. A shadow fell over her—large and humanoid in shape, but there was no clue in the painting itself as to what person had cast it.

There was no doubt that Stel herself knew, though—abstract things that had never actually been wouldn't have arrested her the way this had. She wasn't even breathing, not for several moments, and he was close enough to sense how stiff she'd become. She seemed almost to have forgotten he was present; her hand loosened around his until she wasn't actually holding onto him at all, and her eyes glazed over, unfocused.

"Hey." Vesryn squeezed her hand, quickly securing his axe across his back to free up his other hand and winding around to stand in front of Stel, blocking her view of the painting in front of her. It was obviously born of magic; no matter how many people of influence Stel knew, he couldn't believe someone that lived in the Emerald Graves would have reason to make multiple paintings depicting her. In less than flattering lights, as well. He carefully placed his other hand near where her shoulder met with her neck. "Stay with me. Talk to me, let's figure this out. It's targeting you. Has to be a demon, right? What is it making you feel?"

Stel blinked several times, emerging from whatever strange torpor she'd been lulled into. And it did seem to be that—as though she'd been asleep and was only just waking, fixing bleary eyes on him for several long moments before she even looked to recognize who he was. "I..." Her brows furrowed; she seemed to struggle to speak, and failed the first few times she tried. "I'm scared. Alone; I felt alone."

Once she'd said it, she only looked even more confused. "But that's... I've never heard of a demon like this. It's... it's in our heads, Ves, or at least mine. As much as Nightmare was, if it can do... that." Her breath trembled when it left her; she shook her head almost as if clearing the last vestiges of drowsiness from herself.

"I'm scared, too," he admitted, smiling uneasily. He was relieved just to see her refocus, brought out of whatever spell the place had put her under for a second. "Gods, even Saraya's scared. But let's all be scared together. We're not alone, and we're not going to be." Quite honestly, he wanted to hug her, as he was finding the act of holding onto something right now to be especially comforting, but they needed to keep moving, not sit still and allow this place to torment them. "What do you think, keep going, or head back?" He had no desire for her to subject herself to more of whatever the house wanted her to feel. Fear, loneliness... but he was confident that as long as he was able to stay with her, she would make it through this room, and this place.

She took a moment to collect herself; it was a process he by now knew how to track. A deep breath, a self-conscious straightening of her posture, and a careful smoothing of her facial expression. The last was imperfect this time—he could still see the tension there, especially the tight discomfort settled around her eyes. "I think... we should keep going. I doubt we'll be able to get out of here or find the others by going back." It went without saying that they needed to do both of those things.

"Let's... let's go. It's probably better if I don't see many more of those, but I'm guessing the door will be on the far end." She swallowed, steeling herself, then nodded to indicate she was ready to proceed.

He nodded, taking his hand off her shoulder, though he remained attached to her by the other, their fingers laced together for security more than anything. Keeping their heads down for the most part, they walked past the remaining fires lighting up works of cruel art on the walls, not bothering to take any of them in. The door was on the far end, as Stel expected, and Vesryn pushed it open, making sure it held that way until both of them were fully on the other side. Only then did he allow it to close, and allow himself to take in where they had ended up.

It seemed to be an extension of the art gallery, but this room looked older, the stonework of a slightly different, more archaic design. In the cracks here and there was green, vines possibly from outside, but it seemed more to be growing from the walls than through them. The chamber was lit by more magefire, this time burning in braziers placed periodically throughout the central line of the room, which was an elongated rectangle with them on the far end.

The fires cast blue-green lights on life-sized statues on either side of them, creating shadows that crawled and flickered up on the walls behind them. Vesryn approached the first on his left, noticing almost immediately the stone figure's elven traits: the ears, the body structure, the armor, which was quite strikingly like his own. But the statue was not him, as the hair was quite different, closer cut and combed to one side. The face was impossible to see, as the statue was posed such that his face was hidden deliberately behind his arm, as though he didn't wish to look upon what was in front of him.

"I'm not sure I get the point of..." he trailed off, feeling something well up inside of him, at which point he gasped quite audibly, taking a step back and feeling a constricting, choking in his chest, a tightening in his throat. His eyes watered, threatening tears, the overall feeling most similar to that darkest moment in the Fade, surrounded by bodies that rose and tried to kill him and Stel. The tears would not be held back, and soon a few spilled unbidden down his face.

He blinked through them, taking a step back forward at the insistent urging in his mind. He found himself wanting, needing to see the face, but there was simply no angle at which he could stand that it was not shielded by the elf's plate-covered arm.

"Ves?" Stel was clearly alarmed by the suddenness and strength of the reaction, but she'd seen something like it once before, and it didn't take her long to put the pieces together. "It's Saraya, isn't it?" The sentence didn't quite end the right way, as though there were another question she almost asked instead or as well, but she stayed close, moving voluntarily with him when he went forward, shifting slightly sideways so as to study him instead of the statue, no doubt.

"She knows this person," he explained, his voice uncomfortably restricted. It was such a weird state to be in, experiencing feelings that were not his own. Emotional reactions at things that stirred nothing in him. "He was important somehow. What about the others?" He whirled around, taking swift steps to the room's other side, trusting Stel to keep up. On the other side was a robed figure, an elven woman judging by her figure, her face buried in her hands as though she was crying.

"This one, too. She feels... she feels their loss. She misses them." He sniffed, wiping more tears from his eyes. "I think... sometimes she almost forgets them, but seeing them like this, even without their faces, brings it rushing back. Like she lost them yesterday." Maybe she couldn't remember their faces? If all of this was constructed out of something a demon could find in their own minds... but all the faces of the dead in the Fade, she had remembered them all there. What made these different?

He turned to find the next, moving deeper into the room. The next one stopped him cold, stricken with fear for a moment. A figure of an elven mage, staff gripped tightly in both hands, fingers intensely clutching the wood, aggressively pointing the focused end down towards the ground, where Vesryn felt a foreign urge to sink. The mage hid his face in his shoulder, but somehow Vesryn could imagine him snarling. He could feel hate in the way the man stood.

Saraya didn't want to look at him, and swiftly they backed away and turned, finding themselves mere inches from the sharpened point of an arrow. A woman in lighter ancient armor held it drawn back, stone bowstring taut with tension, her face hooded and lowered to the ground. There was so little by which to tell who she was, but again Saraya knew, and this one hurt as well. "I don't know what she hopes to find," he admitted, even as she pulled him away, on to the next.

His heart nearly stopped for the next. A tall elven man, dressed in elegant robes or perhaps a noble's attire of ages past, with curly hair and a proud warrior's figure. He shielded his eyes with one hand, again giving off the impression of crying, while the other hand was outstretched towards Vesryn, as if telling him not to come any closer. He gasped in a breath. "She loved this one. Loved him very much."

Alone was what Estella had reported feeling, and Vesryn felt it now like he never had. Grief and shame and loss and endless isolation. He backed up steadily, unable to look at the curly-haired elf any longer, and fearing what the next would be, but requiring to look at it. Before he could, however, he felt a sharp puncturing pain in the back of his left leg, and he stumbled. A knife, quite real and sharp steel, had pierced his leg where the armor was weak behind the knee, inflicting rather significant damage. He cried out briefly, losing his balance from the sudden pain in his leg. His weight carried him a few steps further into the room before he collapsed to his knees.

The knife was held by a child, and elf child, so short that the strike to the back of Vesryn's legs had been done at a natural height. It was a young boy, curly headed like the man across the room from him, dressed in a little armor set to match. He hid his face like all the others, tucking it into his elbow and lashing out blindly.

And then he noticed what he'd fallen to his knees before. Not a statue, but a mosaic of some kind, the pieces of stone all varying shades of green, but seeming to depict a great emerald dragon, the one thing willing to stare down at him, if only to breathe stone fire down the painted wall at where he knelt. The eyes seemed to glow with energy, though the rest of the dragon's figure was quite stylized and unrealistic. Saraya took note of it, and felt there was no better place for her to remain at the moment, than on the ground in the path of the flames.

A soft touch at his leg, followed by the familiar warmth of a healing spell, preceded Stel's voice by a fair margin. It was far from expert, as was the case with all her magic, but it was enough that the bleeding stopped, at least. A moment later, she shuffled up to sit on her legs beside him. After a pause for hesitation, ingrained into almost everything she did as such pauses were, she lifted her hand to his back, placing it atop his armor where it protected the spot between his shoulder blades.

She leaned slightly into him, putting her cheek against his arm. It couldn't have been comfortable, with the plate there, but she didn't shift around or complain. "Let me know when you're ready to move and I'll help you stand," she said softly, then let herself fall quiet again. Something about the way she said it implied the plural 'you.'

He didn't want to stand or move. Not particularly. His armor felt ten times heavier, and somehow that wasn't so bad. He remained still for a long moment, content to just have Stel at his side. Though he felt Saraya's emotions at times as his own, he was still distinctly aware that the crushing despair, the hopelessness he felt here was not his own, but hers. And if he felt anything of his own, it was sorrow for what she had been forced to endure for so many years, every time she came close to losing her memory and forgetting leading to her just remembering again, and having the pain dredged up fresh again.

"She feels hopeless sometimes," he confided to her, quietly. "Not for us, and what we're doing, but just for herself. No matter how much we're able to do, she and I... every connection she ever had is gone. She can never have anything like what we have. Never speak to anyone. Never touch anyone. She's hardly real anymore." His eyes wandered up to the green dragon mural. He knew what it was full well. The rest of it he'd need to parse through later, if Saraya was willing to be open to him when he wanted to try.

"It can make her feel like she did when I first found her. Impossibly alone in the world. Desiring only to rejoin these people." He glanced one more time at the little boy with the knife on his right, but Saraya directed his gaze back at the dragon, more specifically the base of the mural.

"I'm sorry," she replied, releasing a slow, heavy breath. She turned her eyes up, apparently fixing them on the dragon's, though she was a little too far in his peripherals to be certain. "I wish... I wish there was something we could do." Solutions to those kinds of problems, however, weren't within even the Inquisition's power to fix—not by a long shot.

"But it can't be helping to stay here, can it? To be forced to remember like this by a demon or... whatever this is." Her concern was perhaps warranted; even apart from the possible ramifications for Saraya's mentality, there were other dangers. "It's not... it's not like with Nightmare, right? Not interfering with the connection?"

"No." He shook his head slightly. "And I know... she knows, it isn't helping. But I think some part of her feels it's deserved." As odd as that sounded, that was how he felt, or what he felt of her. That this was where she belonged. But it wasn't right, and Saraya could recognize as well as Vesryn could that remaining here would kill them both, and possibly Stel too. And that was unacceptable.

"I'm ready. Let's go." He let her help him back to his feet, his leg still mostly unsteady beneath him. But with just a bit of lean on her it wasn't unbearable, and they made their way to the nearby door at the end of the hall. He didn't bother looking back at the statues before grabbing the handle and letting the door swing open.

The hallway they entered after that was extremely mundane by comparison. Aside from the same general feeling of forlorn-ness that seemed to pervade the entire mansion, nothing seemed too distinctive. Either the entity commanding it was beginning to weaken, had decided they were poor targets, or it only controlled certain parts of the house to such a large degree.

Stel opened several doors as they traversed the hallway, but the rooms they inspected proved to have little of interest, just more of the same pristine furniture they'd seen in the foyer, styled for different rooms: an office, a child's bedroom, a lounge. Nothing stuck out as obviously important, and they were almost at the end and a staircase down when she opened the final door on their right.

When she did, it was only to bodily collide with another person. Khari staggered backwards upon impact, nearly hitting Asala behind her. “Damn—hold on." She blinked at the both of them for a moment before lunging, wrapping Stel in a hug. “Found you! Or you found us, not sure which." She let go and took half a step back. “Uh... it is really you, right? Haven't seen any illusions like actual people in here so far, but I guess it could happen."

The impact nearly sent Stel to the floor—Khari was considerably more solid than she was, and had been moving quite a bit faster. But if anything, the hug kept her upright, and it didn't take her long to regain her balance. "I don't think that's in its repertoire, no. It probably would have already done so if it could have." She sighed, but if anything, her body language was more relaxed than it had been in a while. Perhaps it was the effect of the extra company—it stood to reason that Loneliness would be less powerful in the face of camaraderie, after all.

A laugh escaped Vesryn, breathy and genuine, and he clapped Khari on the shoulder in greeting, shifting as much weight as he could onto his good leg. He imagined he probably looked something of a mess, but he was hardly ashamed of that. "It's good to see you both." He soon noticed the object that Asala carried, some kind of lens, by the looks of it magical. "What's that you've found?"

"I am unsure," Asala answered, looking at the lens in her hand. "But when I activated it, it showed us the true form of the room we were in, not the one the demon wanted us to see."

“Doesn't seem to be doing much of anything here, though." Khari glanced around, then shrugged. “Still no Zee or Cy, huh? Seems like we should keep looking."

The lens proved to be at least somewhat effective on a few of the other rooms they entered; if they looked through it, they could see what the house really looked like: decrepit, dingy, and covered in spiderwebs. After they came across a doorway with a giant cobweb stretched across it, Khari stopped trying to look through the device, leaving it to the others.

They passed downstairs, without incident this time. When they reached the landing, Khari paused, cocking her head as though she'd heard something. A moment later, the rest of them could hear it, too, shuffling footsteps, followed by a door creaking open at the end of the hall. She tensed, hand reaching back for her sword, but the figures that appeared from behind the door were familiar, and she breathed a soft sigh of relief.

“Zee, Cy! We're over here."

Cyrus's eyes found them first; his posture eased considerably when they did. “Excellent. Wasn't sure where this one would go." He said it like he had expectations for the doors in general, which was admittedly a bit of an improvement over the rest of them.

"Cy," Stel breathed, tone laden with relief. "Zee. It's... really good to see you." Pursing her lips, she made eye contact with her brother. "Any idea what we're dealing with? We must have done something right, if we all wound up in the same place again."

“Loneliness demon." Cyrus's answer was immediate, certain. “I believe it has possessed the house as a whole. Getting out of here will likely require finding the locus of its control and forcing it to manifest, so that we can slay it." He shifted his grip slightly on what seemed to be a book he was carrying under his arm, then eyed the lens in Asala's hand keenly. “May I?" He held a hand out towards her, clearly requesting that she hand over the object.

Once she had, he studied it for a moment, blinking in something like surprise when he peered through it. “Interesting..." Tilting his head, he opened the book with one hand, arm braced against the spine, flipping a few pages with the other until he reached what appeared to be a specific one. It was hard to see the illustration well, but it didn't matter after a moment anyway—the writing on the pages shifted. For several long moments, Cyrus scanned new words, brow furrowed, and then he closed the book with a snap.

“Is there a child's room around here somewhere?"

Admittedly Vesryn had not been paying all that much attention to their surroundings after leaving the room with the elven statues behind. All the house had done up to that point was target either him or Stel in a very personal way. But one of the rooms they had passed on their way here did indeed stand out in his mind, as soon as Cyrus mentioned it.

"There is, actually. We passed it not long before we came here, it isn't far." He limped a step away, beckoning. "Come on, it's just this way."

Cyrus nodded. “I think we'll find what we want there."

Khari followed willingly enough, but her skepticism emerged in her tone if nowhere else. “Which is... what, exactly? And how do you even know?"

“I'm not sure exactly what. Hopefully being able to see the room as it is will provide some hint. As for how..." Cyrus tapped the cover of the book. “This fell off a bookshelf in the library. I suspected it might be important, and it was. The journal belongs to a child. A little girl. She describes being spoken to in her dreams by a friend. It stands to reason that she's the conduit the creature used to enter this plane."

Khari frowned. “Makes sense... but why would it drop the answers into your hands like that? The lens was kind of an easy find too, actually."

Cyrus lifted his shoulders, though his expression did not match the lightness of the gesture. “There's a reason such demons are rare. Their existence is unstable. They feed off of loneliness, but that is an emotion that seeks its own end in a way that Pride or Envy or even Despair don't. Loneliness is a craving for company." He paused, then continued. “Perhaps it wants to be seen."

They arrived in front of the door, then, and Khari opened it back up. Initially, it just looked as it had the first time Vesryn and Estella passed it. But then the lens in Cyrus's hand glimmered, and their surroundings changed, illusion shimmering away like a mirage in the desert.

What it left behind was a rather grim picture. The smell hit them all first, old rot, flesh and wood alike. The source was clearly the desiccated corpse laid out on the bed, a small body that could not have been more than four feet and a few inches tall. Khari sucked a breath in through her teeth, and immediately seemed to regret it, lifting her hand to her face and fitting it over her nose and mouth. “Shit."

Cyrus's expression was grim, but unsurprised. “Her thoughts and feelings would have guided the demon into the world. It's likely to be trapped in a sentimental object. If you were a lonely little girl, where would you put something like that?" He seemed to be asking the room as a whole.

The query provoked an obvious reaction in Stel, who swallowed thickly and stepped past her brother and Khari into the room. "I'd keep it with me," she said, without hesitation. She lingered a moment more, steeling herself for the implications of that statement, and then crossed the room to the bed, old floorboards creaking underneath her. Though the body was half-rotted away, she was careful with it, shifting the little girl's clothes around gently and pursing her lips when she found a pocket.

When she drew her hand away, there was a small object in it. Opening her fingers, Stel uncovered a wooden figurine, carved in the shape of a large dog. "What... what should we do with it?"

A quaking tremor beneath their feet answered first, as if the whole house shuddered at once. Cyrus braced himself on the doorframe; Khari nearly fell backwards into Zee before regaining her balance. “I don't think it liked that."

“Destroy it. That will force the demon to appear."

Estella didn't look especially happy to be doing it, but she nodded, returning her eyes to the figure. She exhaled; flame bloomed at her fingertips and licked up the wood, blackening it and then burning it away entirely. She was left with only ashes in her hand, but for a moment, nothing happened.

Then the house shuddered again, and the ashes gusted away from Stel's hand. Where they fell to the floor, a glowing circle appeared, and from it there appeared what could only have been the demon. In sharp contrast to its more impressive kin, this one was rather small and pitiful, almost like a heavily-deformed child, lumpy grey flesh tufted unevenly with white hair. It hunched, enough that its knuckles dragged the ground, and peered up at them with doleful, watery pale eyes.

Vesryn wondered how many people had ever laid eyes on such a demon before. He stepped forward, his intention clearly communicated by the way he hefted his axe. He had to strongly remind himself that this was not, in fact, a child, that the real child's body was in the bed across the room, and this thing was responsible for the child's death. Not entirely, of course, if he was understanding what had happened here, but all the same, it had to die.

He'd forced himself to strike down things he had no wish to attack before, and as before, he allowed Saraya to do what he was unsure of, and guide his axe back, steadying his weight beneath him, steeling his heart. With one swift, surehanded motion he brought the weapon down, allowing his eyes to close as it found its mark, and letting the sound and the feel confirm that the demon was dead.

Withdrawing the weapon once it was done, he took only a step back towards the others before the house gave another great groan around them, this one much more consistent and urgent. The dying moans of a structure only kept up by this creature's hidden and immense power. He sought his friends' eyes. "We need to move."

And move they did.

It was initially difficult to get their bearings in the house, given that the decaying edifice bore almost no resemblance to the building they'd entered. But fortunately the complete lack of direction they'd all had to deal with when they were getting turned around constantly was no longer present, and they eventually came upon the first hallway they'd entered.

Khari crashed through the door into the foyer, and that was indeed where it spit them out. The front door took more work, locked as it still seemed to be from the outside, but between Asala's magic and Vesryn's axe, they got through with time to spare. The manor collapsed slowly behind them, until it was only a still pile of ruins.

Khari heaved a sigh, bracing her hands on her knees for several breaths. Straightening, she glanced back at the house with a deep frown. “Let's... not ever do that again."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
She was keenly aware of how similar her own workspace was beginning to look to Cyrus's. Asala had attempted to keep everything manageable, and for a time had actually succeeded. Books and loose notes had a habit of multiplying, and eventually her bookcase was full of various tomes and manuals, some arcane related, some still in untranslated Tevene, others for pleasure and suggested by Estella. Some were even hand bound, a mixture of her handwriting and Cyrus's. The ones that did not fit on the bookcase was beginning to stack up on the floor beside it, though there remained a... relatively neat order to it. Larger books on the bottom, smaller on top. Asala liked to think that she kept it a bit more ordered than Cyrus kept his. Still, she had a long way to get before she reached the amount of content he had at his disposal.

The book she was currently studying however, was strangely enough an armor manual she had borrowed from the quartermaster. The barrier armor she had cast in the Emerald Graves had been the first combat run of that particular spell. While it did it job well enough and blocked a lightning bolt, she felt it could still use a bit more power. That wasn't the only issue, either, as the spell was meant for all of her friends, not just her. She had yet to get their dimensions down, and therefore someone like Khari would find the armor far too loose, while Leon would most likely shatter it if he flexed too hard. She would have to find them later and take measurements, but first she would need to learn the fundamentals for the basic armor types.

On the desk beside the book she read was a plain sheet of parchment, notes already being taken in her unfailingly neat handwriting. Beside that, Bibi lay in wait for another pass of the quill, the fluttering of the feather having enraptured him. He swatted at it every time it grew close. Asala had taken a moment from her studies in order to tease the cat with it, waving it in front of his whiskers before snatching it away.

Just as she’d turned to dangle the feather in front of the Bibi’s face, the door slammed open. Perhaps, a little too enthusiastically by the expression on the visitor’s face. Fortunately, a hand snatched out in time to grab the door handle before it could collide with the wall. A wild-haired Zahra stood breathless and red-faced at its entrance, holding the door ajar before she finally managed to suck in enough air to look somewhat abashed, “Oh. No, wait. That was rude. Let’s try that again.” She cleared her throat and held up a finger, before disappearing back behind the door.

There was a moment of silence. Awkward ones. Though, probably not for her. It didn’t seem as if anything fazed her. Not even entering someone’s chamber without announcing herself. If she was shy of anything
 it was manners. However, there’d been an unmistakable look of excitement drawn across her dusky features, as if she couldn’t contain herself. She rapped her knuckles three times against the door. Two more beats followed. “Are you busy? May I come in?” A raucous snort sounded shortly after, as well as a weak attempt to stifle laughter, bubbling behind the door. It sounded somewhat smothered. Possibly behind one of her hands.

“I promise it’ll be worth pulling you away from your studies.”

She did sound sincere.

The door blasting open nearly startled Asala out of her chair, while it did cause Bibi to jump a foot into the air, before landing back on his feet and streaking toward the bed. She had only enough time to turn and face the intrusion and process what Zahra had said before she was back behind the door, this time knocking politely. Another awkward moment passed, though this time because of how shell-shocked Asala was. She stared at the door before she shook her head and lifted her hands, though Zahra couldn't see them, being back on the other side of the door.

"Sure?" she asked, before she tilted her head. "I do not think it counts the second time however," Asala added, this time with an additional tease.

“Oh,” came from behind the door as it slowly unlatched and pushed back open. “I suppose you’re right. Technically speaking.” Zahra finally fully entered the room and clicked it shut behind her, pressing her back against the door. The grin had already eased its way back across her features, until it lit up her entire face. Whatever secret she was holding back seemed almost physically painful to leave unvoiced. She arched a thick eyebrow and gestured towards the kitten skulking underneath Asala’s bed. “Suppose he won’t forgive me for awhile. Sorry, Bibi.”

She cleared her throat again and pushed away from the door, closing the distance between them until she stood in front of Asala’s desk. Seeing all the books and rolled parchment papers strewn across Asala’s office, Zahra clicked her tongue and planted both hands atop the table, regarding her with a languid smile, “Now, I’ve a secret place to show you, kitten. No hints.” There was an amused lilt to her voice; as if she were holding all the cards. It was obviously something she enjoyed.

“Who knows how long we’ll be able to catch a break for,” she tapped a finger across the surface of the table, impatient and excited all at once, “and I’d say we all deserve a little break, don’t you? Won’t you come along?”

"Of course, Let me just..." She said, looking down at the notes she had been writing. She dipped the quill in its inkwell and finished off the thought she was on before Bibi had distracted her. She'd always make time for Zee, she could always find time to take notes later. Finishing off the last letter, she replaced the quill where it belonged and blue the ink dry on the paper. If she was not careful, she would come back to find paw prints inked across her desk. Once dry, she slid the notes into the manual and closed it for safe keeping.

Finished, she looked up to Zee and nodded. "Okay, ready." She then looked at her suspiciously. "This... will not involve a blindfold, will it?" she asked.

Zahra pushed herself away from the desk and admirably waited without interrupting finishing touches on her studies, at least momentarily until she returned. The smile still hadn’t left her lips, though she looked pleased with herself. Perhaps she hadn’t expected Asala to so easily leave her duties. It wouldn’t have been the first time Zahra had had to find other ways to entertain herself. She wasn’t as busy as the others—if she wasn’t practicing with her rapiers, or brooding over her lack of a bow, she was drinking in the Herald’s Rest or harassing her friends whenever she had the opportunity to.

She hummed a low tune in the back of her throat and idled to the side, balancing most of her weight on one foot before trading it off to the other, eyebrow raising once more, as Asala met her gaze. “I solemnly do swear that no blindfolds are involved. This time.” A tease. The inclinations were usually innocuous in nature; but it was difficult to tell when she was being serious or only trying to rustle out a reaction for kicks. She operated in innuendos, and lewd winks. Perhaps, especially so when she knew that the person in question would turn a lovely shade of red.

With an exaggerated flourish and a smile that was all but innocent, Zahra held out her elbow for Asala to take. Even if she denied the offer, foolish as it appeared to be, she was sure that she’d take it in stride. She always did.

Asala had mostly grown used to Zee's antics, though the woman always maintained a startling ability to surprise her and turn her features a shade of bright red. Fortunately, this was not one of those times, though what the immediate future held for her, she could not say. Chances were high though, that she'd find a way. Still, Asala couldn't say that she wasn't looking forward to it.

She returned the smile with one of her own and dipped into a curtsey, playing along with her theatrics. Once she rose, she accepted the offered elbow. "Lead on, my dear captain," she beckoned. Asala couldn't help but follow the playful example Zee set when she was around.

Zahra seemed rather pleased that Asala was playing along with her little game. Like a proper gentleman should, she led them towards the door and shut it promptly behind them. It took them awhile to traverse across the grounds, and there was no clear indication where she was taking them. Perhaps, that was a part of the allure. She kept the conversation light and gave no inkling as to what, exactly, she was planning on showing her. It may have been a frightening prospect
 but given the person in question, it was a safe bet that she wasn’t playing on doing anything too questionable or dangerous.

It certainly wouldn’t involve running. It did, however, involve quite a bit of stairs. She’d led them to one of the older wings of Skyhold—a tower that hadn’t been remodeled or put to use yet. From the outside, one side of its face was completely missing. The highest point. Something was flapping on its side; black in color, but from their vantage point, it was difficult to tell what it was. Zahra’s beaming grin only widened as she opened the creaky door and flourished a hand in front of her, beckoning Asala to take the first steps inside.

Only then did she lead from behind, guiding her steps up the dimly lit, spiraling staircase. Apparently someone, most likely Zahra, had preemptively lit the iron sconces against the walls. A soft warmth pressed against their sides as they walked. She’d obviously planned ahead and almost seemed to expect that Asala would have agreed to come along with her. Infrequent windows offered natural light and as they ascended, they could see the Frostback Mountains' staggering peaks, cutting into the sky. She hummed a merry tune, and once they neared the top of the stairs, she squeezed by and pushed the door open for her, bowing her head a little, “After you, m’lady.”

Asala mimicked the gesture with another curtsy. "My thanks," she offered with a loose smile, before entering.

The circle-shaped floor opened up and looked to be recently inhabited. If Zahra’s corner in the Herald’s Tavern was anything to go by
 she’d brought much more from whatever she’d had stored on her ship and dragged it all the way here. Probably with the help of her crewmen. Large pillows were pressed up against the cobblestone walls; smaller ones were littered across the floor. There was a peculiar seating area with a low table, surrounded by more cushions in an array of bright, ridiculous colors. Reds, and shades of orange, mostly. A large chest overflowing and stuffed with various clothes sat nearby. It became clear what had been blocking the opening of the tower. A large, patch-worked tapestry reminiscent of stars; made from some sort of thin material that allowed the sun to filter through and cast patterns on the opposing wall.

The light was dim. Which may have been intentional, because of what sat in the middle of the room on a wooden stool. A paper lantern with a candle inside; the paper, however, had been cut into various shapes, casting dancing stars against the walls around them. Beside it was a wine bottle. It was a wonder in itself where all these peculiar items had come from. Zahra made an excited noise beside her, and spun in a small circle, arms outstretched. “What do you think? A little place away from everything—the noise, the studying, the worries,” she looked pleased with herself, “A place to let loose, have fun.”

"Wow..." was all that Asala could say. She entered the room slowly, spinning on her heels with each step to take in the walls. It was much like Zahra herself, a vibrant hodge-podge collection of oddities that all just seemed to coalesce into one exceptionally unique package. "Where did you... How did you..." Asala tried to ask, though she was unsure which one to go with first, or if she should even ask anything. It would've taken some time to gather all of these items, and to carry them up all those stairs. Asala looked toward Zee and laughed sweetly, figuring that no, those questions weren't necessary. Instead, she offered a simple, "It is lovely."

She's found herself in the center of the room, with the stool and the lantern. She let her hand rest on the stool for a second while she looked at the lantern, before she carefully picked it up. The stars cast by the paper moved with the lantern, before they began to gently spin as she twirled it between her figures. It looked as if they were moving against the wall, dancing in the dim light. Asala watched as the night spun on the walls, her smile never leaving her face.

Zahra was leaning up against the frame of the door, watching Asala twirl around the room with lantern in hand. She had a peculiar expression on her face; somewhat satisfied that she’d done something good
 and another one that was hard to place. “Isn’t it, though?” Her expression softened as she took a step into the room and flourished her hands to the side, encompassing the room in its entirety.

“So, you’re free to use it as you please,” her grin hadn’t wavered at all, “Slumber parties, wine nights and when it’s warmer, I’d imagine the stars would be lovely.” She paused in her tirade to look up at the buffeting sheet poised over the tower’s exposed side, and tilted her head at it. “Eventually I’ll tell the others about it.” An embarrassed laugh sifted its way out as she clicked the heel of her boot across a corner of exposed cobblestone flooring. The rest seemed to be littered with furred rugs and heavy, decorated throws. “But we could keep it our little secret for now, no?”

As always, she didn’t seem particularly concerned about permissions, or simple manners, or even if they’d ever stumble onto it before she managed to unveil it
 though where she was concerned, it was never surprising.

Asala chuckled at the mention of slumber parties. "I will try to keep it free of my notes then," she added with a self-deprecating smile. She of all people knew what her own room was beginning to look like.

"But, yes. I'd like that," she said with a smile. She could do with some down time that didn't involve her nose in a book or her notes.

Clearly pleased with Asala’s answer to keep this secret place privvy, Zahra crossed towards the large chest pressed up against the wall and kicked it open with the toe of her boot. She began digging through its contents, rifling through long silken dresses, and other assortments of strange clothes from faraway places; certainly nothing that had come from these parts.

Material slipped through her fingers as she straightened her shoulders and held up something that looked far too large to fit the smaller woman. It appeared as if she’d collected things just for acquiring it. The smile wobbled a little as she held the dress up to her face, and peered over collar, “Well, it’s our little secret then. Might as well enjoy it while it stays that way.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
He needed to leave his tower.

Academically, Cyrus knew that. In practice, it was considerably more difficult. Though he doubted Leon had intended to give him a good excuse to lock himself up for days at a time, he'd done it. But it wasn't good for him; his body couldn't handle sustained deprivation the way it once could. He had a feeling he knew why, but tried not to think much about it.

So after two all-nighters in a row, looking into everything the Inquisition's library had to offer on Reavers and alchemical blood magic—not a lot, of course—he collapsed into bed, slept for a solid twelve, dreamless hours, bathed, changed into fresh clothes, and headed down to the tavern for something to eat. There was something he wanted to do, and he supposed he could let it double as his effort to be social for the week. Maybe the month. The trek down revealed to him just how stiff he was; clearly he needed to get back to training sessions with the rest of them. The answer to Leon's problem wasn't going to be easily-found, so he should probably pace himself.

The door to the Herald's Rest swung open on well-oiled hinges. It was still only about lunchtime, meaning that the place was mostly empty, save for those that lived in the building or might as well have. That suited him just fine; he was hoping to find a particular pair of the residents. As expected, they weren't far, from each other or the entrance, and he nodded to both before going to place his order at the bar. The hollow gnawing in his stomach was impossible to ignore.

Once that was done, though, he took the basket of bread the bartender slid across to him and dropped into a seat at Zahra's table with a soft thump. She'd made it clear enough that she didn't care about the formalities anyway. “I've brought you a bribe." He indicated the basket and leaned forward, resting his cheek against his knuckles. Almost despite himself, a halfhearted smile twisted his mouth. “Don't suppose you'd let me impose my company upon you for lunch?"

“Oh, so you do know the way to my heart,” Zahra didn’t at all look displeased by the impromptu visit. For some reason or another, she also didn’t look all that surprised to see him
 even though she hadn’t seen him for days. Neither did she question the reason for such a visit or comment on his general look of disarray. Though, it might’ve been in her nature to simply accept things as they came, as if she were still navigating the seas. A nattering mother, she was not.

There may have been a brief look of concern as she regarded him over the knuckle of bread she’d begun stuffing in her mouth, but it was difficult to tell. A flicker of a brow was hardly anything at all. Seeing how fanciful her expressions were, it may have been Cyrus’s imagination. A wild grin tipped up the sides of her mouth. She swallowed thickly and waved another piece of bread at him, inching closer as if they were about to share a secret. It appeared as if she certainly hoped so.

“Impose, please,” she inclined her chin towards the empty benches and gaudy pillows surrounding them, “I do enjoy company. Seems like daytime drinking isn’t very popular in this particular tavern. A shame.” This time, she tapped the bread against her chin and swung it in a lazy circle towards the bowl of bread, “But you look particularly famished. You sure that’s all you want?”

He snorted softly. “My nefarious plan has been found out. I come with ulterior motives. I usually do." He pulled one of the soft rolls out of the basket himself, tearing a chunk off with his fingers before popping it into his mouth. Even something so simple seemed to have more flavor than he would have expected, slightly sweet and yeasty. Probably an effect of his hunger.

“Nothing too demanding though—in fact, I suspect it may be right up your alley. I need help pulling the wool over my dear Stellulam's eyes for a bit." He paused. “Actually..." He lifted his head, directing his eyes at Vesryn. The tilt of his head that followed was a clear invitation. “Three heads are better than one, I should think."

"That sounds like just the sort of thing I should be involved in," Vesryn agreed, rising from his own nearby table, bringing a cup with him. Just water, from the looks of it. Probably wise, if he was intending to survive his training time later with Stel and Khari. He sank down into a seat on one of the table's free edges. He was bereft of his armor, and without even a cloak, an advantage only made possible by the fact that he lived only a short distance above their heads where they sat. The tavern was kept comfortably warm, and he was Fereldan besides. A hardy sort.

"Good to see you, by the way," he added, in Cyrus's direction. "I'd been meaning to come by for a little while the next time I noticed something change, but..." he shrugged. "Still the same." He sounded quite pleased about it, obviously speaking of Saraya. "In any case, what are we planning and how can I help?"

Zahra’s eyebrows inched up a fraction as she deposited the bread she’d been playing with back into the bowl. She, too, leaned her cheek into her hand. Awaiting a proper answer. There was no doubt she’d be on board for this particular event as well. Fortunately, it wasn’t often she objected to partaking in anything that might be important. Or otherwise, probably. “Less dreamy this time, I hope.”

“Much less. A surprise party, as it happens." Cyrus polished off the roll in his hand before he elaborated. “Stellulam's birthday is on Firstday, which is something I doubt anyone but me knows, because she doesn't like drawing attention to herself in the manner that usually suggests." He leaned back in his chair, firm wood pressing into his back with a slight creak. “But... considering that we're effectively snowed in for the winter up here anyway, and how hard she and everyone else have been working... I thought an opportunity to forget about all of it for a night might be in order."

There were certainly some things he could stand to forget for a while, but that wasn't his primary objective. It was... difficult to explain, even to himself, but he wanted to do this for her. Support her in one of the few ways that came naturally to him. And Cyrus knew, whatever else might be true of him, he could plan. And deceive, so as to keep it surprising. For the rest of it, though, he'd need some help.

“So suggestions on how to go about this would be much appreciated. And of course you'll have to keep it to yourselves for a while." He smiled a little more easily. Firstday was still more than a month away, after all.

"Her birthday is on Firstday?" Vesryn repeated, a bit amused by the information. "And yours too, naturally. She certainly never told me, so it's probably safe to assume it's just us that know now." He hummed to himself in thought, rubbing his hands together for a moment, obviously quite interested in the idea. The tavern door opened, letting in a breath of uncomfortably cold air along with a pair of Inquisition soldiers.

Vesryn waited for them to pass, before lowering his voice slightly and leaning into the table. "Well... I imagine there'll be a fair amount of celebrating going on already for Firstday. Commemoration of the year past." It went without saying that 9:42 had more than earned a drink, either in celebration or to forget. It had been a very long year, with ups and downs for everyone, some sinking lower more often than others. "Seems it would be easy enough for me to get her down here in the evening after everyone's prepared. Not sure I could pull it off, though. She's very intuitive, and has informed me that my Graceface needs a lot of work."

“We’re celebrating two birthdays? That’s twice the fun,” Zahra’s murmur sounded far too excited and by the growing grin on her face, she certainly had ideas of her own. She inclined her head in Vesryn’s direction and scratched at her chin, “Maybe invite her to dine with you? Say that there’s a roast boar special. On the house, in order to celebrate.” She didn’t seem all that concerned with Vesryn’s ability to bring her to the Herald’s Rest without spilling his guts. Graceface or no, it appeared as if she was certain they’d be able to pull it off without Stellulam finding out their little ruse.

She already seemed as if she were barely containing herself. Jiggling her foot underneath the table, and dropping her cheek from her hand in order to lean in further. Plotting grand things for grand occasions seemed fitting for someone like her. Whether or not she had good ideas was anyone’s guess. “Leave the festivities to me.” Her eyes rolled towards the ceiling as she counted off her fingers. “Caskets of sweet ales. Kegs of wines. Maybe even honeyed wyvern wings
 instruments and dancing and singing. There has to be dancing. Oh, and cake!” At the last finger, she offered a wry wink, “There’s nothing that can’t be imported.”

There was a pause in her breathless tirade, as she straightened her shoulders, “Since it’s your birthday too, and the surprise has already been very ruined
 do you have any requests?”

It sort of figured that Zahra would be extremely enthusiastic at the prospect of a party. Cyrus shook his head slightly, moving one of his arms over the back of his chair. “I suppose I'll leave you in charge of the imports, then. I don't have any requests in particular." He paused. “But I do mean this to be for Estella. Too much in our lives has already been about me." Something he was growing increasingly conscious of, even if some part of him had always known. “There's a particular brandy she likes; I'll get you the information on the off-chance you can get ahold of it."

At that point, the waitress interrupted with his lunch, so Cyrus paused. Once she'd departed again, he returned his attention to his co-conspirators. “The finer details can wait, but... thank you. I appreciate the assistance; I'm certain she will as well."

“Of course, we’ll make sure it’s one she never forgets.” Even if it sounded like it, there was no foreboding in that statement. It was clear that Zahra was going to put in the extra effort to do something for Stellulam—one that she intended to see through right away, by the looks of it. She patted the table and stood up abruptly, eyeing her fellow accomplices, “Right then. I’ve got some ravens to send and a crew to bribe, I’ll see you two later.”

She swung herself from the bench and toppled over a few tasseled pillows in her wake, only halting just behind Cyrus’s chair to squeeze one of his shoulders. “Do try to keep yourself fed. I could hear your belly singing its own song all the way here.” A snort followed before her clopping footsteps retreated out the door.

Cyrus grimaced at her retreating back, rolling his eyes a bit. He had no doubt she meant well, though, so he was far from upset. Despite his ravenous appetite, he cut into the slab of lamb on his plate carefully and methodically before he started eating. “I'm glad to hear nothing is worsening." He glanced at Vesryn, the subject obvious enough. “I'd wondered, after the incident in the Graves." That demon hadn't been as powerful as Nightmare, but its control over its limited domain had been nearly as absolute.

He pursed his lips. There was a question he wanted to ask here, but it wasn't the most comfortable one. “I don't need details, but... is Stellulam all right? She would not tell me much of what she saw there. There are very few things she won't discuss with me, and when one of them comes up, I... well." He worried. Obviously. He'd have to be heartless not to, and he didn't think he'd ever quite become that.

"I think she is," he answered, though his tone did not give absolute certainty to the statement. "Between the way the ambush on the Red Templars turned out and that demon, it was anything but an easy time. But she doesn't let these things keep her down for very long. And if it's Loneliness that got to her, I have to imagine that what we're plotting here will help with that." He settled an elbow on the table, working his fingers through his hair behind his neck, his expression thoughtful.

"And I've been spending just about as much time as I dare with her. She does have all that work to do, so I can't be bothering her all the time. But it's been good, so far." He smiled a bit at the thought. "Very good, for both of us I think."

Cyrus considered that for a moment, dipping his chin just a fraction. “I suppose I'm expected to have something to say about that." His tone, he thought, made it fairly clear that it was only an idle musing. “But the truth is, I'm just grateful to you." He pushed a deep breath out his nose, spearing some kind of sprout vegetable on his fork. “Sometimes, with us, there's... too much history. Everything we say to each other has a lot of layers to it. A lot behind it. I can't—" he paused. “It's difficult for me to just straightforwardly support her. Much as I want to. If that makes any sense at all."

He chewed over the sprouts, swallowing a little too soon and flinching. “I don't know that it will ever prove useful, but if you should feel that you've hit a wall with her, I might have some insight. Better to ask her directly, of course, but as I said... there are some things she may not be willing to talk about." He lifted his shoulders. He didn't really have much to offer by way of gratitude, but at least he could offer advice in the unlikely event it was needed. One didn't have to be particularly savvy to tell that they did well by each other. He wanted that to work out for them.

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." He was obviously giving the subject the respect it was due. It wasn't hard at all to see that it was important to him. "We've... been going at her pace. With the talking, too. I've been trying not to pry on the things she doesn't want to talk about, and trust that I've been helping with the rest just by being the fool that I am. So far it seems to be going very well." He took a drink from his cup, pausing for a moment. "I, uh... I know there's likely to be complications from this, down the road. Pointed ears have a way of drawing pointed words from the narrow minded. I suppose if there's anything I don't know how to deal with, it's that." He shrugged, as though he didn't believe it was all that important. Or rather, it shouldn't be all that important.

He wasn't wrong, of course. “Can't say I've ever had to deal with that." Cyrus had suspected the truth about his parents for quite some time before it had been confirmed, but there simply weren't any physical signs to give away what he was. He certainly didn't intend to tell anyone. But he knew well enough how such things were received. Especially in the upper echelons of society, where lineage was exceedingly important.

“You're insulated a bit, at least. Stellulam's importance here has much less to do with her reputation than her mark." Even if both were shortsighted ways to understand her worth, there was a certain benefit in it not having anything to do with her nobility or social standing directly. “In my own experience, nobles are best treated like sharks. Don't let them smell your blood. Even if something hits, act like it doesn't. No one likes to fail repeatedly, so most will leave you alone after a while." What they would do indirectly was harder to say, but also not something he could really predict.

“Whatever you do... don't let them ruin your happiness. There's little enough of it to go around as it is."

"Something we'll help rectify on Firstday, with any luck." Vesryn grinned. "Even if Stel sniffs out my ruse before lunch."

Cyrus found himself smiling back. “Do try not to ruin everything. I don't know if Zahra would forgive you if all her work wasn't a surprise."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
It wasn’t as if Zahra often took no as an answer. At all. A pirate’s life was all about standing firm and overcoming the ebb and flow of the tides; even if the tides were a particularly stubborn friend who hoarded alchemic, little vials. Considering how adamant she was about nearly anything she wanted, she doubted it would be surprising to Rom that she was skulking down into Skyhold’s belly in order to ask him a question about all his fancy little bottles and their entreating abilities. Would he share them? No. That was for certain. That wasn’t what she sought anyhow. His knowledge could be given for free, without so much as squandering his collection. Why wouldn’t he? Unless it was some long lost family secret or an area of embarrassment
 sharing with an ally would be the only considerate thing to do.

Friends shared, didn’t they?

Of course, she wanted to become stronger. Become a better asset to her companions. To all of Skyhold. How could she do that if she was consistently ending up in Asala’s clinic of no volition of her own? It was shameful. And she hardly felt ashamed. It just wasn’t in her nature, and besides, how could he fault her for wanting to improve herself. She could practice her volleys until she was blue in the face, and twirl around with her rapiers until they became extensions of her arms, but somehow, she still felt it wouldn’t be enough. That sinking feeling had felt heavier than an anchor in her gut, threatening to spill over into sad, miserable attempts to come up with a concoction herself.

Alas, she’d probably end up dead.

Reaching the hallway to Rom’s thick-framed door, Zahra cleared her throat behind her fist and slowly trailed along the wall until she was standing just to the right of it—trying to conjure up a reasonable argument of why he should help her out. She’d never been really good at those. Convincing arguments, asking for help or anything in between. Rather different than just taking what she wanted and stomping right out. She’d never stayed in one place long enough to warrant needing to, but now things were different and asking for help was something she’d have to get used to. Rejection, as well.

She poised her hand over the door and paused for a moment. One, two, three beats passed. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and rapped her knuckles above the door handle, “Rom? You in there?”

From inside came a sudden clinking of what sounded much like glass, or some other hard surface, followed by a brief pause. "Uh. Yeah." Rom's voice came out clearly, at least after the soft little noise of hesitation. "One second." What followed was the sound of a grinding, something knocking against stone, and then being set down on a table. True to his word, footfalls approached the door from the other side a moment later, a lock was turned, and the door swung open to reveal the room's sole occupant.

Rom had a shirt on this time, albeit one lacking sleeves, and his hands were oddly colored, more purple than their usual dusky tone, but definitely not from the cold. Some residue of some kind. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyes rapidly taking things in. They glanced first to her hands, to see if she had anything, behind her to see if anyone was there, her eyes to gauge her intentions. All in the span of a second or two. Apparently satisfied enough, he turned and left the door open. "You can come in if you want, I just need to finish this here."

He seemed to be in the middle of something at his worktable, near the back of his room by the open mouth in the stone of the wall. A little cauldron sat on the table, and into this he slowly poured a dark liquid substance from a mortar, carefully, as though the rate was quite important.

Odd. Zahra was noticing that a lot of people had been looking at her like that lately. Did she look so suspicious? She’d been always under the impression that she only brought fun along with her, nothing as nefarious as the look Rom had given her. Mostly innocent, anyhow. Of course, she supposed this one was without ulterior motives. Certainly no teasing. Especially if she wanted him to cooperate with her.

She stepped inside, and shut it behind her with the side of her boot. She’d noticed the peculiar hue to Rom’s calloused hands, and as soon as he walked back towards the cauldron and hunched over it, she counted her lucky stars that he was right in the middle of what she was so interested in. Her movements were slow, languid. Careful, methodical. As if she were taking her time, mulling over an imagined conversation. If all ended in her favor, she’d leave satisfied: knowledge in hand. In mind, rather.

“Thanks,” she approached to the opposite end of the cauldron and looked into it. Not far enough to be a nuisance, but close enough to watch the dark liquid swirl into the mix. It looked rather complex. Something a sea-witch or mountain mage would do. Her mother. Her sisters. Certainly not her. “If you don’t mind me asking
 where did you learn how to do this?”

"Same place I learned the rest of my skills," he answered, eyes never leaving his work. His tone didn't really hide his disdain, but it wasn't directed at Zahra, rather at the place in question, or something to do with it. Whether the precision was required or not, he held his hands with remarkable steadiness. When the last of it dripped into the cauldron he set down the mortar and picked up a large wooden spoon instead, using it to gently stir around the brew of whatever it was inside. "In Tevinter, from Magister Chryseis. She took a personal interest in molding me to her needs, and deemed use of somewhat experimental alchemy to be beneficial. Helped me be more threatening to her enemies."

After a few more moments of stirring, he rapped the wooden spoon twice on the rim of the cauldron to rid it of some excess, and set it aside. Taking the cauldron in both hands, he carried it over to a fireplace across the room and hung it on a fixture, letting the warm flames lick and wrap around the bottom of it. "Whatever she could teach me herself, she did. What she could not, she hired others for. I proved to be a good learner, for most of it." He walked over to a bucket on the floor next to his worktable half-filled with now dirty, discolored water, and rinsed his hands in it, mostly removing whatever residue was left on his hands. The rest came away when he wiped his hands on a towel.

"Did you need something?" He seemed in an open enough mood, but likely hadn't caught on that her opening question was anything more than small talk.

Ah—of course, that’s where he’d been taught. A mistress who would invest so much in her servant sounded awfully strange to her. But having a servant in the first place did as well. She would never understand, so she’d never profess to. Zahra rubbed at her jawline, watching him work with great intent. What an awful woman she must’ve been to elicit such a scowl. She felt somewhat bad for dredging up such awful memories; though it sifted away just as quickly when he cut through her thoughts.

She dropped her hand away from her face and eyed the cauldron set off to the side. The process was intriguing. Not that she understood any of it. She’d never been allowed to look over her mother’s shoulder when she busied herself in the garden, grinding unusual plants in her mortar and whispering soft-spoken words she couldn’t understand. Seeing something so similar being done in front of her
 felt stranger still. “I, uh,” she took a few steps to the side, and retraced them again, “I was wondering if you could show me how to do that too. Alchemy, I mean.”

Any attempt to smooth out the pinch to her brows failed miserably, because she didn’t want to admit why, why she needed him to do this for her. Why couldn’t she just continue doing what she was good at: shooting her bow, sailing the seas, not reaching out for more. This wasn’t wealth or her ambitions or anything she could fit in her palms. She’d never wanted for strength before. Cunning had always been at her side, enabling her to circumvent any danger she could not weasel her way out of. Her gaze fell the floor, though she could feel her ears burning.

“I need to be stronger, Rom. Not just for myself. And this,” she swept her hands out wide, and shook her head, “isn’t enough.”

"Isn't it?" was Rom's response after a long delay. He let the hand towel fall on the worktable, making his way towards the other side of the room. "You've never let me down. I don't think you've let any of the others down. Alchemy can't make you superhuman. And anything close will come at a steep price." He stopped in front of the fire, briefly glancing down at the pot to check the contents, before he grabbed a water skin on the mantelpiece. "I don't think you need to be anything, if you don't want to be."

He took a long drink, clearly thinking about something as he did so, and by the time he lowered the skin and wiped his mouth he'd settled on something else to say. "I can make potions for you, if you want. I'm sure you could get some from Rilien, too. If you really want me to teach you alchemy, though... I can try. I've never taught it to anyone else before." And if his previous words were anything to go by, he didn't have the best examples in terms of teachers to take after. Or at least, not the kindest. He had obviously learned much from his instructors.

"When you say you want to be stronger, do you mean that literally? There's no easy potion for that, but there are things that can help you get there faster."

Isn’t it? Zahra had asked herself the same question before, because accepting something less was much easier than anything else. Doing what Khari did was much harder—improving herself by throwing herself into any fray she could find. Utilizing any weapon she could get her hands on. Asala, too. She’d proven that she wasn’t just a healer, by welcoming a spirit in her midst. Everyone had excelled in something and gone to greater heights, in order to protect something they thought was important. She couldn’t afford to sit on the sidelines. Not anymore.

Even with Rom’s words, kind as they were
 she certainly felt like she did, sometimes. Let them down. Let herself down. “I want to be more,” her voice had softened into a whisper as she halted her pacing and scrubbed a hand across the back of her neck, “I’m not looking for the impossible. Just better.” The words felt peculiar in her mouth. Her ambitions had always been selfish in nature; wild, intangible. She supposed there’d been a change somewhere along the way. Not one she’d easily noted. As if it crept up on her. She found that it wasn’t very unpleasant. This doing things for others. This was for her crew, as well.

There was a moment where her eyes crinkled at the sides, and a laugh seemed ready at her lips. It hadn’t bubbled its way out, though a smile was left in its wake. “Literally. Figuratively. I don’t want to fall behind. We can hardly afford that when we’re trying to save all of Thedas.”

She planted a hand on her hips, and blinked at the cobblestones lining the floor. The cracks in between. She’d often wondered why he, of all people, needed to use alchemy. What was he using it for, if he was already strong enough? “I would,” Zahra met his eyes, a determined jut to her chin, “like you to teach me, that is. So, I can do it on my own.” Besides, she doubted that her presence would be welcome if she were always dragging herself to their doors.

"Okay then." Rom exhaled, rubbing at his head. He kept his hair always so close shaven now, even as they descended into winter. Personal preference, apparently. "We can start tomorrow, with the basics. I hope you're good at memorization. This can be dangerous if done the wrong way, so for now you'll practice in here, a few days a week. We can decide times later." As far as Zahra knew, the only other person regularly admitted into his quarters down here was Khari, to train in hand to hand and grappling, or just to talk. In that sense, the acceptance was rather larger than his casual tone was making it out to be.

"I can teach you how to make a lot of different potions or tonics when you're ready," he continued. "We'll probably start with stamina draughts, to help you train longer. After that we can move on in the direction you want." His expression became several degrees more serious then. "One thing you need to understand, though: nothing we make will be like the things I use. You won't be able to stand in an inferno and not get burned, or have lightning wash over you like water. There are some things I learned in Tevinter that I won't pass on. Certainly not to a beginner."

It was difficult to contain the excitement growing on her face, and as much as Zahra tried to wrestle it down into something more serious, the harder it became. Her hand brushed over her mouth. Smothering the smile behind her fingers, as she nodded her head. Listening. She supposed she had expected him to outright reject her request. Even if they were friends, they each had their own lines that shouldn’t be crossed, “Of course, of course. I’ll be here.”

Her smile had softened as Rom finished his last words. That was not the kind of power she wanted. Even she had her limitations, and she would not ask him to part with anything that he felt he could not. Would not. As long as she could excel, improve. That was enough. “Whatever you’re willing to teach me, I’ll take it,” she dropped her hand from her face, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in, “If there’s anything you ever need...”

A laugh sounded. Curt. Somewhat embarrassed. It wasn’t likely she’d ever have anything he needed. Though, debts—she was never fond of those.

“What I mean is, thank you, Rom. This means a lot.”

"You're welcome." He jerked his head sideways in a gesture. "Now get out of here, I've got work to do." Judging by his little grin and his tone, he meant it in an entirely friendly way.

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

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#, 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: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
As of late, Zahra had been making progress with her alchemy lessons. Where she’d been frequently burning things and putting the wrong ingredients in, she’d begun remembering simple mixtures, proper temperatures, and grinding techniques. Grind too much and ruin the composition. Not enough and she’d risk clumps, making a useless, weak concoction unfit for consumption. Fortunately, she hadn’t poisoned herself. Despite Rom’s initial doubts that he could be of any use as a teacher, he’d proven himself wrong
 at least in her eyes. His lessons were fairly simple, or else he’d figured out a way to explain complicated things in a way she could wrap her head around. All in all, she was pleased.

Like she’d told him before, she wanted to branch out and rely less on him. Eventually to the point where she could procure her own ingredients, and craft whatever she wanted without fear of burning the Herald’s Rest down. She wasn’t there yet. It might take years, he’d said. Time, for once, wasn’t an issue. Her contract would last as long as the Inquisition, and her friends, needed her. A personal contract, of sorts. She’d never made one of those before. Of course, she also didn’t want to squander his own supplies or take up too much of his time, because he needed them too and was frequently training in his stalagmite-strewn hidey-hole. So, she’d enlisted to ask some other people for aid.

Cyrus was first on that list—she knew that he had tomes, stacks of books and probably a near-endless supply of whatever he wanted. A laboratory of his own. Asala frequented there, under his tutelage. She supposed alchemic things would be on that list as well. What he did with those things? She wasn’t so sure. Did people only make specific potions or branch out? A useless question but one that stayed in her thoughts. She never thought to ask her mother before, because she’d been born
 plain. Boring. Without any abilities. Not the ones she was looking for, in any case. Sometimes, there were shades of memories that plagued her dreams. A younger version of herself perched at her doorway, peeping in. A bubbling pot. The sound of rock scraping against rock. Sweet smells, spicy herbs.

Like always, she’d be shooed way.

Fortunately, Zahra had good timing. Cyrus wasn’t busy and she was able to describe what she needed. He set away the appropriate items in a small wooden box. She was relieved that he had agreed to let her borrow a few things. With a promise that they’d be back in the condition they’d been originally. She smiled as she turned one of the glasses over in her hands. Thin-necked with wide bottoms. Others looked like globes, outfitted with necks that were as thin as flutes, “Thanks again, Cy. He doesn’t say it, but I’m sure Rom could take a break from me.”

“And miss out on the pleasure of your company? I hardly think so." Cyrus smiled, though it was smaller than some she remembered, from before his poisoning. Still, he seemed to be in a good mood. “You're going to need somewhere to set this up, I should say. I don't think the barkeep will be particularly pleased if there are smelly chemicals and such floating around the Herald's Rest." Deft fingers packed a few more glass tubes into the box, padding them each time with what looked like clean, but old, linen rags, so they wouldn't bump against each other.

“Our Spymaster has quite a large workshop, actually. I suspect that if you were to ask, he'd find a corner for you to set up in. Might be able to talk him out of some of his ingredients as well." Lifting the box and tucking it under an arm, he tilted his head at her. “I can introduce you, if you like?"

Zahra tipped her head back in a laugh. She’d always been good at noticing the little things. Cyrus’s smile was one of them. How it didn’t quite tip up the same way she remembered. Even so, he was stronger than both of them knew, that much she understood. Especially if he was like Stel. Those two, together. Who would stand a chance? She’d often wished that her relationship with her siblings had been so strong. Had been the same. She planted her hands on her hips and watched as he padded the glass tubes, quirking her head to the side.

“You think he would?” She made a humming noise and rocked back on his heels, scratching at her chin, “You know, I don’t think I’ve spoken two words to him. Wouldn’t he think it odd if I imposed? Pleasurable as my company and wit are.” A beat passed between them before the smile tittered its way back on her lips, “But yes, I’d love an introduction and a chance.” Cyrus was right about not having any place to practice.

Who knew? Maybe the Spymaster wouldn’t mind.

“Won't know until we try." He shrugged, then led the way out of his workshop, holding the door for her with his free hand. For a while, the walk was silent, comfortably so, even. But as they passed over the wall between Cyrus's and Leon's towers, he seemed to grow increasingly thoughtful, a look crossing his face almost like uncertainty.

It took him until they were descending the stone stairs to ground level to spit it out. “Are you... all right, Zahra?" He always called her that, when he wasn't calling her captain. He hadn't quite adopted the nickname everyone else used for her, it seemed. “It's not any of my business, unless you'd like to make it that way, but... you were a bit more..." He grimaced, shifting the burden he carried. He couldn't have looked more uncomfortable if he'd tried, probably, but he pressed on. “Affected. Than I'd have initially guessed. In the Fade, and then with that Loneliness demon. Everyone seems to go to you for—"

Cyrus clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You support everyone. Myself included. All I mean to say is that... if you need any of that yourself, well. I'm here. My ears work. Never been much good at advice, or at sympathy, but I could try. You already know I'm hardly in a position to judge anyone for anything."

A smile, and a nod, and Zahra was following him into the hallway. Of course, she didn’t know that the Spymaster—whose name eluded her as of yet—would outright reject her. Maybe he had plenty of room wherever he was situated. Wee birds chirped that he’d taken residence in Skyhold’s rookery. She supposed it only made sense, since he’d be tasked with sending letters everywhere. She wondered what kind of man he was. If Stel was anything to go by, he had to be a wonderful teacher.

Her thoughts only rattled away when she noted the look on Cyrus’s face. A quick glimpse. If his eyebrows could furrow anymore, she swore they’d stick that way. At first she wondered if he was drawn to some other deep thought. A worry, perhaps? Something different than the wooden crate he carried in his arms or convincing the Spymaster to clear off a working space for her. She steepled her fingers behind her back as she walked and was just about to open her mouth to speak before he beat her to it.

The question was peculiar in nature. Mostly because she wasn’t sure where it was coming from—not until she did. Her fingers twined together, loosened and finally fell away to her sides. This clearly wasn’t something he often did. Neither did she, she supposed. She didn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable as Cyrus looked in that moment. She doubted anyone could. In any other situation, she might have laughed. But she didn’t. Instead, she let out a soft, billowed breath and focused her attention on the end of the hallway they walked down, “I’m fine.”

That wasn’t right. Not really. She matched his pace, walking alongside him. Other than Aslan, she hadn’t really heard anyone say anything like this. He’d been a silent companion weathering her complaints and her cries. “Everyone has problems. Especially here. I do, too. I just haven’t dealt with them properly. Not like the others.” That much was true. She’d seen everyone else make so much progress in their pasts and presents, and while she’d made some steps
 it wasn’t enough to stifle her nightmares or ward away those pesky enemies, skulking in the Fade. “I didn’t deal with mine at all, Cy. Because I was a coward.”

She wasn’t sure if that still stood. Being a coward.

Still. It felt nice hearing that she’d been useful for something other than her ship. Her bow. Her crew. She’d never thought that her words meant much. Maybe she was just blowing smoke, or offering an ear, as he put it. It felt good. None of her problems could be solved here, even if talking about them might do her some good. She understood that well enough. Her issues were miles away, and she was afraid. Afraid of what might happen if she pursued them. “I have
 a lot of nightmares,” she pushed her hair behind her ears, “similar to what you’ve seen. And heard. I wish they’d stop.”

He looked at the ground as they walked, allowing a second silence to settle over them like a fog cloud. Or maybe he wasn't letting it, but had no choice. Didn't know what to say to throw it off. “I wish I'd known." The words, when they eventually came, were soft. Heavy. “I could have helped, back then. I wish I'd asked." He'd never explained the particulars of his former magic to her, but it hadn't been difficult to glean that it was something different from the standard fare. He'd been able to guide them all into that garden in the Fade, after all.

“Your family... arranged a marriage for you, then? To a man from the Imperium?" It was an invitation more than a question. To elaborate. The peculiar gentleness of it could only mean she was quite free to decline.

Zahra hadn’t meant to dredge any of that back up, though she had. She glanced over in his direction and followed his gaze to the ground. She’d never profess to understanding what that kind of loss felt like. She pursed her lips and bumped her shoulder into his. Softly. “You would’ve ran out screaming in those dreams. My monstrous mother.” It was meant as a little joke, mostly at her expense. A glimpse of levity to the situation. Something to chase the heavy cloud away. If only a little. Besides, she hadn’t asked him to either.

She scratched at her chin and focused on stepping on the cracks of the cobblestone floor, “Faraji Imamu Contee. Magister’s son. Quite a catch from the Imperium, I was told. Especially for a lonely, stupid fisherman girl.” The last bit was said ironically. She didn’t believe that. Not quite. Or else she wouldn’t have escaped on that boat so long ago. “It’s common in Rivain. Pairing your children off to support the entire family. My mother arranged it herself.”

There was a pause as she skirted around a crack and planted her feet at a threshold, “She's a hedge witch. Someone gifted with spirits. Like Asala. My sisters, too. But not me.”

He clearly considered that a moment. Then a sigh passed from his nose. “My entire family's magical. Always have been. I used to be terrified that I wouldn't be. I thought that if only I could... make myself do it, find the magic and use it, they'd..." His mouth pulled to the side, snow crunching steadily under his boots. They'd moved outside and now crossed the central bailey. “They'd want me. Us. Love us, accept us, take us back, I don't know. Our grandparents were alive when our mother died, and sent us to an orphanage anyway." She could see his throat work as he swallowed.

“It got me out, when I used magic the first time. But that was all. None of the other things I'd wanted—not even close." His eyes closed briefly before the striking blue of his irises reappeared. “Apprenticeships aren't too different from marriage alliances, in the Imperium. I was given to a more powerful house to be raised by strangers." He didn't say anything else. Didn't attempt to say their experiences were equivalent, or to draw any parallels. He didn't even tell her how the arrangement had been for him, but it wasn't that hard to guess. He'd already revealed much, several months ago now, and his master was still sitting in Skyhold's dungeon.

“I'm sorry. That that happened to you."

Not sodifferent and entirely different at the same time. How people lived. How many problems people had in the Inquisition. A proper mess, they were. It was a wonder how anyone functioned in the place, her included. Though she’d long accepted that there were issues she couldn’t or wouldn’t sort through. Zahra had been lucky enough to escape the Imperium. It hadn’t been all that better back at home, but at least she’d had a chance to run away. She supposed she was loved. In a way. At least, she hadn’t been sent away. Not yet. She hadn’t given them a chance. Her father had been useless; but her brothers, she’d loved them to no end.

To have no one. No one besides your sibling in an unfamiliar place with no stranger to rescue you was
 unbelievable. Her circumstance wasn’t desirable, but there’d been an out. People like Cy and Stel—they didn’t deserve the cards they’d been dealt. Not in the slightest. To expect something so badly and have it fail. Horrific. She’d once thought that having magical abilities would have saved her from everything she’d had to face. An unwanted marriage. A miserable relationship with her parents. Her mother’s love. Her acknowledgment. It never worked out that way. In both cases.

Zahra studied his face until he opened his eyes. Only then did she shift her attention towards the direction he was leading them in. She focused on the snow crunching beneath their feet and the gentle sway of glass tubes. “Me too.” For what happened to him all those years ago. It wasn’t something that would fade, not entirely. The wind nipped at their faces and plumes of white puffed from their lips. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you escaped. However long it took. With Stel. Feels like a victory when good things happen to good people.”

She certainly thought Cy was a good person.

The hesitance on his face suggested he didn't quite agree, but he didn't argue, either. Perhaps that was something. Instead, he tilted his chin, indicating the tower beginning to loom in front of them. “This is him. Here."

They entered through a door on ground level, which put them into what looked like a practice space. Grainy dirt, almost sand, had been spread in a thick layer over the floor, churned, it seemed, by many pairs of feet. Racks of practice weapons clustered at one end: light swords, two-handers, even a few very large, blunt axes on poles, like the ones Ves used. Knives, too, from the look of them, all made of wood or dully-glinting metal. There were dummies, as well as more exotic devices the use of which was hard to guess at while they were in pieces. But Cyrus didn't linger, instead taking them up the staircase. The second floor looked to be a residence, though the door at the end of the hall was firmly closed.

The third floor proved to have what they wanted. The rookery was probably one floor above still, but here the door was open, and peering inside granted quite the peculiar view. Several workbenches fit in the space, which was an undivided whole. There were quite a lot of books on the shelves, but more than of them were devoted to neat, tidy storage containers, wood or varying metals, all organized and labeled in perhaps the neatest handwriting imaginable. Still further ones had glass bottles, vials, and flasks, their contents labeled on the shelves themselves rather than just the bottles.

Near the center of the room, at one of the workbenches, a small cauldron bubbled over an inset plate, which was the cherry-red of hot iron. Enchanted to heat things, maybe. Behind it stood a very peculiar-looking elf. His hair was his most immediately-obvious feature: white as the snow outside, just long enough to brush his nape. Then he looked up, and his eyes were... a very peculiar shade of citrine-orange. The ruddy sunburst brand on his forehead and the obvious elegance of his dark blue tunic, embroidered in gold, only served to pile on the oddity, really.

He spoke as flatly as the brand suggested. “Cyrus. You have brought Captain Zahra to my workshop. Why?" There didn't seem to be any displeasure or chastisement in his tone. In fact... there didn't seem to be anything at all.

“Rilien, Zahra. Zahra, Rilien. I'll let her speak for herself as to why she's here, of course."

“Just Zahra, please.”

Captain Zahra sounded as peculiar as the Spymaster, Rilien, appeared to be. Or perhaps, he’d just made it sound that way. She’d never met a Tranquil before and seemed perplexed by the sunburst brand on his forehead. She did try not to study it too closely. Even so, she had the sense that she was being stared straight through. As if her intentions were being laid bare, and she wouldn’t need to utter a word. That, however, wasn’t the case.

She, too, tried not to distract herself on all the goings-on of the laboratory. Workbenches, odd tubes and slender vials with varying colors of liquid. Cauldrons pushed off to the side, just like her mother's. There was a lot to take in. Though she did prefer Rilien being here, not quite shooing her away yet. She wasn’t sure how he would have reacted if she’d wandered here on her own—perhaps not so kindly. So far, so good. “I was wondering if I could borrow a little piece of this room. A corner, maybe. For alchemic purposes.” She paused and hooked a thumb towards Cyrus, “I was informed that the Herald’s Rest might not be so accommodating if I brewed potions in their midst. Something about the smell.”

There was a moment of silence, before she rocked back on her heels, “I was also wondering if I could procure some of your ingredients.” A nervous titter sounded. She could hardly blame herself when she was asking for this much from someone she hardly knew. He didn’t seem all that bothered by it. By them traipsing in here with a bundle full of tubes. Expectant. Already asking for favors. Even if it was because of the Tranquillity, it put her at ease.

He considered that for a moment, blinking languidly at her, then dipped his chin. “Very well. There is an empty workbench to your left. The other belongs to Sennesía, and this one is mine. As long as you do not interfere with our spaces, you may use the other as you like."

Rilien paused a moment while Cyrus set the box he carried down on the indicated table. “Also, I can provide you with some of the common reagents you will need for alchemy at the entry level. As you progress, we can negotiate rarer acquisitions, as my supplies are not infinite." How he knew what level her alchemy was at, or what she'd need, was hard to say, but he seemed entirely certain about it.

Zahra made a noise of excitement and pumped her hand in the air. Her grin had already begun wobbling its way across her face, all signs of nervousness fleeing at the sign of victory. While she hadn’t doubted Cy’s influence on the Spymaster, she certainly hadn’t known him well enough to expect that he’d simply give her a space to work in. That he had had been a relief. She nearly bounded over to him, though she stopped and thought better of it, “You won’t regret it.”

She wheeled around and hopped towards her workspace, where Cyrus was depositing her box of goodies. That Rilien would agree to all terms with nothing in return did confuse her. At least at first. She’d been slowly coming to terms that people in the Inquisition did just that—gave with no intention of asking for something in return. Strange. Before Cy had the chance to make his exit, she snatched up his elbow and rounded up on him, eyes dancing, “Thanks again.”

Relying on others wasn’t so bad after all.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
The room Khari shared with Widget in the barracks admittedly wasn't much. Bunk beds, pushed up both of the side walls. Since the other pair had never been filled, they just had one each, and had more or less divided the room along the center line, though neither of them was remotely territorial about it. Widget's half had a small desk, usually covered with mechanical bits and pieces or charts that Khari didn't know how to make much sense of. Khari's just had various pieces of armor, stacked as nicely as she could get them, whatever weapons she was borrowing from the armory, and then clothes, folded and stuffed into a loaner trunk at the end of her bottom bunk. Her desk had a couple of books on it, at least.

The Inquisition was never getting back the one Stel had given her, but she was pretty good about returning anything else she took in a timely manner, at least.

Right now, her half also had a few souvenirs from the visit back to her clan she'd made near the end of last year. One item in particular might have been at home in a room belonging to any other Dalish elf, but definitely not Khari. She kept forgetting it was there, actually, and being reminded only when she staggered back into her room at the end of a long day of training, dog-tired and in need of the sleep she snatched between the late hours of the night and the hour before sunrise, when she got up to do it all again.

But Mick was doing something or other with his family today, and so Khari had an unusual amount of free time. When she walked past the bow yet again, she finally found herself in a position to do something about it.

Better yet... she might be able to kill two birds with one arrow. Metaphorically, at least. Khari was a shit shot, and she didn't really care to spend the time she'd need to change that. A bow was hardly useful to someone who spent her time in the middle of melee, and had to get in people's faces to fight. But that didn't change the fact that her mom made really damn good ones, nor the fact that Khari was just a little bit of a shit, and a little bit petty. So she'd stolen it, of course, in the wee hours before departing Dirthavaren with Rom.

Great. There was the other bird.

Shaking her head to herself, Khari unbuckled her vambraces, shucking her armor like a snake sloughing off old skin, stacking it with the rest and wiping herself down before donning a new shirt, a white one with billowy sleeves, and then shrugging a leather vest on over. It was still cold as, well, the mountains in winter, so she pulled on her cloak, too, then shrugged the strung bow over her shoulder. It felt weird, but thankfully it would only be temporary.

Whoever had designed Skyhold had been smart enough to know that the tavern went right near the barracks, so it didn't take too long to get there. Ducking in through the door, Khari was immediately smothered in the familiar bubble of warmth from the constantly-burning fires, and let out a soft breath. It didn't take her long to find who she was looking for—Zee was in her usual spot, and apparently Stel was with. That worked out pretty well, she supposed.

“It's a party and I wasn't invited. That's cruel, you guys." She grinned, obviously not even slightly offended, and waved slightly from where she was before traipsing over to where they sat, plopping herself down on the bench next to Stel, on one of those squashy pillows Zee seemed to have filled the place with. The bow knocked awkwardly against the wood, reminding her of its presence. Oh. Right.

Shrugging it off her shoulder, Khari lifted it and set it down on the table. “I got you a thing, Zee. Stole it, actually. From my folks. Figured you might like it even better if it was contraband." Her grin spread, and she retracted her hand, leaving the gleaming length of polished ironbark on the tabletop. It had been stained dark, left to soak in dark purple berry dye of all things. It had a really nice color because of it, almost black but still just barely a mulberry hue. Not without purpose—it would be harder to see that way than if it had been left the pale shade of natural ironbark. It was carved with the traditional symbols and designs of Andruil. There was no getting around that with her mom. She might be a craftsperson now, but she'd been a huntress first, and Khari knew she still was one, in her heart.

It appeared as if Zee was knee-deep into whatever boisterous conversation she was having Stel, hands gesturing wildly and lips pulled into a smile. There may have been a waggle of eyebrows, though Khari hadn’t been close enough to hear the subject at hand. As soon as she’d plopped down at their table, she’d turned her head and swung her languid gaze in her direction, feigning an apologetic pout, “But you’re always so busy with
 all that sweating and running and swinging heavy things.” She knuckled at her nose, “Besides, you know the party never starts without you.”

She’d chosen to wear one of her loose brown vests and a billowy, laced shirt underneath, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Whatever furred cloak she’d been wearing was draped across the top of the bench she was lounging in. Those who were in the Herald’s Rest appeared to be simply eating or huddled by the fire, holding their hands out. Some of her crew lingered in the background and it appeared as if Brialle had taken up a peculiar-sounding instrument in hand, strumming soft notes and humming along with it. Her practices had become more frequent as of late, possibly due to the endless inspiration the Inquisition provided.

There was a moment of startled silence when Khari settled the bow across the table. She uncrossed her leg and abruptly stood up, hands planted across the surface of the table. It nearly upset the glasses she and Stel had there, though they maintained their balance. “Bloody hell...” it came out as a whisper, disbelief coloring her features. She reached over and traced a fingertip down the limb, slipping her it off the bow’s neck. Only then did she snatch it up in her hands, moving away from the table in order to inspect it properly. She turned it this way and that, towards the light of the lantern. Plucked at the bowstring, and briefly brought herself into position, as if she had an enemy in her sights.

The excitement had only grown since first sighting the bow. A shit-eating grin curled across her mouth as she spun back towards Khari, bow tucked close to her chest. Whatever tests she’d been doing while they sat there appeared to have been successful. The result was clear. She’d rejected so many others before. But this one was different. “You stole it for me?” Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and she laughed. Loudly. “It’s wonderful. The weight. The feel. It’s—I haven’t seen such craftsmanship in ages, I mean it. Thank you. Thank you.”

Like a child who’d been given candy on their nameday, Zee’s jubilation was as palpable as the warmth of the fireplace.

"From your family?" Stel wore an obvious smile, watching Zee handle her new bow with the obvious joy she had. Perhaps it was infectious. "So it's Dalish, then? Looks like you got the best, Zee." She raised her glass to her lips and took a sip, clearly quite amused, and inclined to prod things along.

Khari huffed a laugh, leaning her elbows on the table and picking up what had previously been Zee's glass. Wine, by the look of it. That'd do, and it wasn't like her pirate friend would care if she stole a bit. Tipping it back, she took a hearty swallow, swiping the pad of her thumb along her lower lip to catch the slight excess there. “You got it. My mom's the head crafter for the clan. That's her work—she invented that dye from scratch. Pretty, isn't it?"

Just because she'd once carried around the ugliest banged-up sword in the Inquisition didn't mean she failed to appreciate that kind of thing. It was a good bow. She knew that without knowing the first thing about them, because her mom wasn't the kind of person who ever cut a corner or took a shortcut or left anything to chance or the hands of lesser craftsmen. Khari'd been on the foul end of that relentless perfectionism before. It felt kinda nice to have something to show for it. That bow might save Zee's life someday. But she'd happily settle for the grin on her face if it never needed to. “Test it out later and tell me how it shoots. I'll pass it along next time I write."

“Ironbark?” It wasn’t a question but rather an awed mumble, as Zee held up the bow to her face, and inspected it further. From the looks of it, she’d at least heard of it though it wasn’t likely she’d ever seen it up close before, or held something crafted from it in her hands. Her eyes were dancing as she tapped her finger along the traditional engravings swirled across the sides, twisting it around to reveal a hare and a hawk on its underbelly. While she may not have understood who or what Andruil stood for, she certainly reveled in its beauty.

“It’s far more than that,” she cooed against the grain of the wood, pressing it to her cheek, “Your mother’s a genius, I’ll have you know. I’ve never seen such a bow before. And I’ve seen many.” The way she said it sounded lewd. Most of what she said did. Just as a swordsman preferred the feel of certain blades, so did archers. She nodded her head and finally plopped back down on the bench. She did, however, keep the bow set on the table, taking up most of her space.

“Oh I will,” if it hadn’t been for the company at hand, she may have run off to do just that, “and you better pass along my compliments. It may just cancel out the whole stolen-gift bit. Though, if your parents are anything like mine, maybe not.” She snorted. From how excited she’d been, even if Khari’s mother were to demand the bow back
 she might have needed to pry the thing from her cold, dead fingers.

“Yeah, I won't lie.... probably not. But they'll just have to deal with that." In a way, it was a return, a variation on a theme. A defiance on her part, but one turned to a purpose, not just useless raging against things she felt were keeping her down. She probably could have asked, and been given what she asked for. But she couldn't quite make herself do it yet, so she stole. It was a half-step forward, and maybe she'd get lucky and her folks would understand that.

One of the tavern's waitresses approached, bearing an empty cup for Khari, who accepted it with thanks and a grin, immediately grabbing the neck of the half-empty wine bottle sitting on the table near Stel's elbow. Several inches filled the tumbler before Khari was satisfied with how it looked and let the burgundy stream taper off. Several swallows later, she set it down against the wood with a thud and a near-slosh, sighing a bit too heavily for the situation.

Eying the other two for a moment, Khari leaned forward against the table, linking her legs together at the ankle and smiling. Seeing them just made her feel happier. Weird, how that worked. She figured that was what friendship must be about. The real kind, where people were honest with her and she was honest with them. It was... good. Better than good. “Glad you like it, then. Sorry I didn't steal you anything, Stel. I figure Ril's got you nice and covered, as far as equipment goes, and we honestly don't make much else. Unless you want an aravel. Do you want an aravel?" It was mostly a joke, but she feigned seriousness as well as she could. Surely not well enough to fool either of them, with how perceptive they were.

Estella laughed softly, shaking her head with fondness and rolling her eyes as she took another sip of her drink. She was certainly much more careful about it than Khari had been. More moderate. That was normal, though. "I think you'd have had quite a time trying to steal an aravel out from under their noses," she pointed out. "Also not sure what I'd do with one, exactly. They're for sleeping, right? And transport?"

A short hum accompanied Khari's nod. She wasn't being near as careful as Stel about how much of the wine she was having, mostly because she was trying to work around to a question she still wasn't completely sure how to ask. Wine was supposed to be pretty good for stuff like that; hopefully by the time she had a decent buzz going, it'd just... come to her. Like a flash of inspiration, or... something.

“Yeah. Uh... land-ships, I guess. Though my clan's actually work in the water still, unlike some people's. All different sizes, too. They're pretty convenient, if you live on the move." She figured if she was talking this much about aravels to people who would never need or possibly even see one, she really needed to get on with her question. Or it'd just kind of sit there. Awkwardly. At the back of her mind. Ugh.

Pursing her lips, she rolled some of the wine around in her mouth for a bit, letting the dull sting engulf her tongue before she swallowed. “Uh. Can I ask you guys a, uh... personal question?" Her eyes flickered from one to the other. It wasn't like she could really ask anyone else about this.

Zahra had been watching her intently. Occasionally her gaze drifted to her cup and then back to her face as if she were trying to sort something out in her head. Or read her face. Whichever it was, she appeared to be waiting for something to happen, or Khari to say something. As soon as the question was posed, she pursed her lips around a smile, and tilted her head to the side, “Of course. I was waiting for something the way you’ve been slogging that back. What’s on your mind?”

Come to think of it, she'd probably been pretty obvious about that. Khari glanced down at her glass, now empty. Given the speed she'd been drinking at, she was beginning to feel slightly fuzzy around the edges. It'd have to do. She took a look around the tavern, confirming that no one else was really in earshot, then pitched her voice lower anyway.

“Uh, so..." She sucked in a breath, held it between her teeth, then let it out in a gust. “I think I have a problem. And I really, really want to make it go away. Because it could fuck everything up, and I don't want to fuck this up." Sighing, she slid her arms forward across the table until she was half-laying on it, as much as she could be while keeping her seat. For a moment, she left her forehead pressed to the varnished wood, but then she turned her face to the side, using one eye to look at them over her outstretched arm. When she spoke next, it was barely more than mumbling.

“I'm... shit. I'm attracted to Rom."

That was the word people used, right? Attracted? For when you noticed the way another person looked even if you hadn't before and thought it was... nice. Better than nice. And then it got kind of awkward as hell because she felt the really uncomfortable churning in her guts and started paying attention to things like how he smelled, which was ridiculous and not what she should be focusing on. It was distracting, and she was pretty bad at hiding things, which meant he was probably going to catch on pretty soon. She didn't dare contemplate the possibility that he already had. She'd been hiding it as well as she'd ever hidden anything. She hoped.

At least until she'd blabbed it to these two, anyway.

A thick silence followed her words.

It collapsed in on itself as soon as Zee’s hand smacked down on the table, and she erupted in a roar of laughter. Tossing her head and curls, rocking back in the bench with her hands clutching her belly. Tears were forming at the corners of her eyes as she wiped at them with her palms and knuckles, obviously attempting to stifle her laughter to form intelligible words. Her first couple of attempts only ended in chortling snorts, and waving hands, with hoarse sorry, sorry.

A few intakes of breath later, and she managed gotten a hold of herself. Enough to wipe at her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt and regain her composure, red-faced and still sporting a wobbly smile. It was difficult where she’d begun to find it funny or why the hell she’d found it so hilarious in the first place, but it appeared as if she were preparing to say something. Possibly useful. Hard to tell with someone like her. The knowing look in her eyes, however, was impossible to mistake for anything else, as if she’d known all along.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny. I shouldn’t be laughing. That was just a little more adorable than I was expecting.” She huffed out another breath and eyed her over the table. Not quite seriously, but something a little closer to that and a little further away from the tease Khari may have expected from her. She held up one finger, “First of all. Why do you think that would ruin anything?” Another finger joined it as she tilted her head to the side, “Secondly. There’s nothing wrong with that. Being attracted to him. Doing something about it, if that’s what you want.”

Her expression flattened itself out and she waggled another finger up. Three. “What if it’s mutual? What would you do, then? You’ll never know if you don’t say anything and that, I promise you, is worse.”

Stel didn't look entirely unamused, either, but she was a lot more graceful about it, constraining things to a subtle little smile that was basically her equivalent of laughter anyway. "I think I understand what you're worried about," she said. "It doesn't take a genius to see how close the two of you are. I'm sure this just feels like a layer of complication you don't need. But... I don't think it'll automatically ruin anything. Can I ask when you came to this realization?"

Khari groaned softly, turning her face back down into the wood for a while. It wasn't easy to mortify or embarrass her, she knew that for a fact. She didn't have a proper amount of shame, as she'd been told many times before. But shit, this was embarrassing. Grimacing, she lifted her head, folding her arms under it and resting sideways again.

“I don't know. It was kinda..." She wasn't certain gradual was the right word, because it had honestly hit her like a wall all at once when she actually did the realizing part. Probably the actual getting there part had been more gradual. “I mean, it's not my fault, right? He pretty much treats shirts as optional at all times. You know that." She scrunched her nose at Zee in particular. “I hardly noticed at first, but I mean, come on." She smacked a palm on the table, rattling a few of the objects resting on it, then pushed herself abruptly up into a sitting position.

That, as it turned out, was not the smartest idea. For a moment, her vision blurred, head swimming. She blinked a few times, taking slow breaths until it passed. “I'm dense, not blind." Funny how the difference had never really come back to bite her before now. She'd lived around men her entire life. Just... not men like Rom.

“And anyway, it could, you know. Ruin everything. It's like... I've never had friends like this before. Like him. Like you guys, even. If everything gets weird because I do what I usually do and just... blurt out what I really think—" She shook her head. “I can't ruin it. I can't. It's too important." She didn't even want to take the chance. “Even if I could, and even if he, uh, reciprocated—" She almost couldn't let herself consider it.

“What then? He's the Lord Inquisitor, and I'm... I don't know. Not the kind of person that..." Her thoughts were a mess. Maybe that was how it'd be, too. A huge mess. She certainly couldn't imagine how it'd work. “I'm a crazy elf who wants to be a knight."

“Oh?” Zee’s expression had toned itself down considerably. She, at least, appeared to be listening intently. Soaking up the information. Whirling it in her brain. Though from the looks of it
 not to make another joke, though it appeared as if she’d enjoyed Khari’s little display of embarrassment. “I think you mean, you’re an amazing person just like he is. The strongest person I know, personally. And I think he’s never met someone quite like you. In a good way.”

She glanced sidelong at Stel and smiled. It was softer this time, as if she were taking cues. “There’s a saying about seeing something for the first time, and not being able to unsee it ever again. That’s a little like this. It could. When has that made you ever give up before?” A fingertip traced its way across the bow once more, “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.”

Plates rattled in the foreground as some of the barmaids picked them up. Almost peculiar with such a serious conversation taking place. She exhaled softly. “This is too important. That’s what you said.” She inclined her head towards Stel and arched an eyebrow, “My suggestion isn’t going to be easy at all. Probably harder than any training you’ve ever done.” A humming noise sounded. Reflective in nature, “So, what do you think she should do, Stel?”

Stel huffed softly, lifting her shoulders. "Well... I'm hardly impartial here. But, well. I think you should take some time to think about this a little more. See if maybe you can't see it making sense after all." She tipped her head a little to the side. "One thing I would say, though... don't you think you might be selling him a little short? Even if the worst happened, you brought this up and it was weird for a while... you don't really think he'd abandon your friendship over it, do you? And surely you wouldn't either." Her mouth tugged upwards on the left, leaving her with a soft half-smile.

"So... it might be awkward for a while, but you'd recover. Probably be able to laugh about it, in time. That's hardly ruining anything, is it?" She turned to Zee. "But what were you going to suggest?"

Zee’s mouth formed a line, and sidled into another pout. “You took the words out of my mouth.” A toothy grin stretched across her face as she leaned forward and reached across the table, “Minus the waiting bit. I’m not one for patiently waiting
 but I suppose that can’t hurt.” It was clear that Stel and Zee both believed in her. In him as well.

She patted Khari on the arm and then dramatically plopped backwards, dropping the bow in her lap. “I agree with Stel. If your positions were reverse, I know that you’d fight tooth and nail to make sure that didn’t happen. He would too.” He’d never let her down before, so why would he start now?

“Huh." She hadn't really thought about it in those terms before. At the same time... she knew Rom wasn't like most people. It wasn't that he was weak or anything, he just... had had a very different life from everyone else she knew. She couldn't predict how things would go because she just had no way of knowing where and when that was going to make a difference. Maybe it would in a case like this, and maybe it wouldn't. For all they'd shared, he'd spoken so little of his history. Of who he'd used to be, and which parts of it were harder to let go of, or simple to relinquish. So much of their friendship had been about now. And about the future. The past had butted in where it showed up at all. They hadn't exactly welcomed it into the dynamic, so to speak.

Maybe that was an oversight. Khari liked to pretend she didn't care about it at all. And it didn't matter, to her, not as much as the rest. But she knew it mattered to him. She grimaced.

“I... yeah. I'm gonna think about it, and then... I dunno. Try something. Maybe. I guess." It was hardly the wholehearted commitment she liked to attack life with, but Khari was pretty good at identifying when she didn't get stuff, and she might have just found something she needed to try harder to understand first.

But, well. First things first. “Thanks, guys. For talking it out with me. I mean it."

This friendship stuff had way more benefits than she'd ever thought it would.

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

0.00 INK

#, 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: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by AugustArria
Vesryn suspected that without his elven ears, he'd have been quite popular at court.

Perhaps as an amusement more than anyone to be taken seriously, but popular all the same. Enough charm to be friendly, enough bravado to be interesting and unpredictable. A divisive figure no doubt, either loved or hated, if he was considered at all. Instead he was none of those things, because he was an elf, and few of these masked nobles regarded him as more than a curiosity. A strange choice for the Lady Inquisitor to have on her arm.

Arm in arm was how he and Stel had gone about so far, at least after she was done being presented to the Empress. Vesryn didn't warrant such an honor, and so he'd needed to meet up with her after. The Inquisition's party was split, and he currently found himself with Rilien and Zee as well. Where exactly to begin in this particular hornet's nest was beyond Vesryn, but he was pretty certain either Stel or her teacher would have a good idea, considering the amount of people they knew between them. As before in Val Royeaux, Vesryn simply wished to be of assistance when he was capable of it, and to not get in the way when he wasn't.

Beside him, Stel sighed, somewhere between relief and weariness, at a guess. Probably not an excellent sign this early in the night, but they had been confronted with a near-constant stream of introductions. This was the first time they'd had a moment's pause since they entered the building. "Well, that was nerve-wracking," she confessed, no doubt referring to her introduction to the Empress. "It's... very difficult to look at her and not... well." She left the statement unfinished, but it wasn't too difficult to understand where she'd been going with it.

However gilded and glittery this event made things seem, Celene's politics were hardly so clean. The fact that more than half the people in this place had probably agreed with some of her worst decisions was a bit more real, with all of them assembled here.

Pursing her lips, Stel squeezed his forearm where she held it, perhaps not entirely consciously, because she actually turned to address Rilien. "Any ideas on where to start? I see all the Bards are from Le Nichoir tonight." That was the group their Spymaster had once belonged to, one he apparently still had some form of connection with.

Rilien nodded slightly, just a minuscule dip of his head. He wore the Inquisition's mask just like all of them did, but he obviously had a reputation here quite independent from that. Elf or not, he didn't seem to be relegated to the status of mere passing interest or object of near-voyeuristic fascination or outright disdain, like the other nonhumans in their little group were. It was hard to get a read on just what anyone did think of his presence, but it was definitely not the same.

“Celene would have chosen the entertainment. That means she has an interest in making certain that only Dame Cygne's Bards are in attendance. We will not have been the only ones to notice; I've no doubt Gaspard's people will be watching them closely as well." He folded his hands into his sleeves.

“We could always inquire of Lady Aurelie herself. She will not tell us anything she doesn't want to, but she likes to play games. Especially with me." He exchanged a meaningful look with Stel. “So it might be productive."

Zahra’s attention was torn between her current company and those who flourished past them—flourished, because of their sweeping dresses and overly-extravagant gestures, and frequent sidelong glances. It appeared as if she had a hard time not crossing her arms or settling them at her hips, as she might have done bereft of lace and fineries. Instead she set them at her sides, occasionally drawing them up to readjust her mask that looked as if it needed no readjusting. Most likely to keep her hands busy.

For all her bluster and confidence, she didn’t appear to be enjoying herself as much as she might have, considering the heaviness of their circumstances. She exhaled through her nose, and turned back towards them, “A good start as any, I’d say.” She rubbed at her jawline, and glanced over Rilien’s shoulder. Back into the gaggle of mask-wearers, assembled in little clutches. Tittering among themselves. Whispering, gossiping.

When no protests were forthcoming, Rilien inclined his head slightly and smoothly turned, guiding them unerringly towards a balcony set off the main ballroom. Whether he'd spotted this Lady Aurelie earlier or simply knew where she would be from habit, he appeared to have no hesitation in his route, effortlessly navigating them through the crowds to the relatively easy air of the outside.

In fact, there was only one other person out here at all, a rather tall woman dressed in pale gold. Her mask appeared to be constructed of real feathers in a lace weave, all pristinely-white, setting off the blonde ringlet curls iced by silver that fell to the middle of her back. She held herself with a grace easily the equal of the Empress's, and perhaps considerably more fluidity. It wasn't hard to imagine that she'd formed the organization that had trained their very own Spymaster.

"Dearheart." She addressed Rilien with clear fondness in her tone. Genuine, as far as could be discerned, though of course there was no doubt she was a practiced liar and actress both. "I've been expecting you. And you've brought me such interesting company, as well." With a delicate flourish, she curtsied.

"A pleasure, Inquisition. I am Aurelie Montblanc, Marquise de Valle. But please: Aurelie is quite sufficient."

“Lady Aurelie, this is Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius, Serah Vesryn Cormyth, and Captain Zahra Tavish." Rilien, as the mutual acquaintance, intoned the introductions on their side, gesturing neatly to each in their turn.

The Bardmistress's eyes followed the motions keenly, an assessing gaze sweeping over each of them in a way that felt distinctly impartial. She lingered just a moment on where Stel's hand rested on Vesryn's arm, before lifting her attention back to their faces, a slight uptick to the corner of her mouth. "Such intrigue you bring with you. Whatever the outcome, this night will be spoken of for generations, of that you can rest assured."

Vesryn wondered how they could put up with living and interacting this way all day, every single day. Masking their words and their tones and making it impossible for anyone to ever tell if anything was genuine. She seemed so fond of Rilien, it almost made her appear sweet, but if she was the one who trained Rilien, there could be no doubt that she was one of the most deadly people in Halamshiral at the moment. "It's quite the feeling," he admitted, "knowing that history is being made all around you. Blink or take a moment to catch your breath, and it could be gone and done with before you have a chance to do anything about it."

And indeed, he found himself wanting a moment to catch his breath already. The constant scrutiny was wearing more quickly on him than he expected. For Stel's sake more than his own. It was ridiculous that them walking arm in arm was considered among all of the Inquisition's intrigue, but so was just about everything about this country, if he were being honest. "Is there anything in particular you're hoping to see tonight, Lady Aurelie?"

Her smile was slow to spread, but it did, making the thin lines at the corners of her mouth deepen enough to be noticeable. "I hope to see the end of a war, Serah." Sighing softly, she leaned back against the balcony rail behind her, laying her palms on the stone and letting her fingers curl over the edge. "To see my countrymen stop killing each other on the fields that should be used to grow our food and house our people. Too much blood is as fallow-making as salt and scorched earth."

“You would much rather they kill each other here." It seemed that, whatever their actual relationship was like, Rilien did not mince his words for his mentor, either.

Aurelie chuckled, a dark thing, dry like parched earth. "Of course I would. Contains the damage, and it's good for business, besides. No, it's when it spills out to bother everything else that I find it all most distasteful. That needs to end tonight."

"We hope to see that too," Estella said, her tone quiet, but firm. "You could help us, Lady Aurelie. All the Bards here are yours, and there's no one better at knowing things than a Bard." She pursed her lips, clearly choosing to speak from the heart herself. "No doubt you'd know about just about anything that happened before we could hope to." She paused, as though weighing something, then took a breath to continue.

"We believe that someone supporting Corypheus intends to make a move tonight. If we shared our information, we'd stand a better chance of preventing that from happening."

The Bardmistress tilted her head, birdlike in a manner befitting her professional name. "My, my." She expelled a breath from her nose, something in her facial expression softening for just a moment. "You'd make a terrible Bard, ma chérie. Pretty as a picture and sweet as madeleines, but so fatally honest." Though the words could be interpreted as a criticism, she didn't seem to mean anything negative by them.

"The truth is, most everyone is at least aware of that possibility." She explained this almost kindly, shaking her head a little. "They simply all believe themselves smart enough to avoid the knife and take advantage of whatever power vacuum such an agent would leave, you see?" Aurelie lifted one of her hands, using it to nudge a curl behind her ear. "I can't give you what you want, Lady Inquisitor. Professional discretion. But I can give you this: they who bark the loudest never bite the hardest. Watch your backs. I would hate to see you die." She pushed herself gracefully away from the balcony rail.

"Truly." As she left, she touched her hand to Rilien's.

He remained completely still until she'd passed back inside of the building, then glanced down at his hand. Raising it to the level of his chest, he loosened his fingers, revealing a small piece of paper. On it appeared to be one line of text, in elegant, loopy handwriting.

“Nightshade grows in the lunar garden." He raised his eyes to the rest of them. “As I said. Games."

"I would hate to see us die, too," Vesryn said, after he'd watched her go. This particular game seemed to have an obvious enough lead, but he had little clue as to what they would find on the other end. He didn't count on himself to be the one to pick these things up, though. After all, he hadn't even noticed her passing him the note, and his eyes had been right on her as she went. "Nightshade in the garden, then? Seems someone might be getting poisoned?"

Stel pursed her lips. "Nightshade can look like a normal plant," she said thoughtfully. "Its other name is belladonna, which literally means 'beautiful woman,' or elegant lady, or something equivalent. And lunar..." Her brows knit. "I think that's an allusion to Celene. Her name refers etymologically to the moon. So I think it might mean something like... there's someone around Celene who looks elegant or beautiful but is actually poisonous?"

She glanced at Rilien, as if hoping for some kind of confirmation of her guess.

He inclined his head slightly. “With Aurelie, it is likely to have layers of meaning. I would not be surprised if one or more attempts to poison someone were made tonight. Nightshade works well as a coating for weapons, also. Lunar garden probably has the double meaning of Celene's immediate surroundings and also possibly the palace's garden more literally. It is closed off for the evening, which means we should exercise caution if we mean to breach it. That may become necessity, if no better clues present themselves."

Zahra wandered a few paces away from Stel’s side, eyeing the party-goers, and reaching out towards one of the platters being carried by an approaching serving-man. Cockles and various specialties arranged in a bed of exotic greens; there were melted cheeses, as well. Her fingers wriggled closer. Beckoning the snack into her hand. The servant seemed to take notice, and was making his way through the throe of people.

There was a noise off to Rilien’s right. The sound of footsteps coming from behind them. Barely audible, as if they were being purposefully kept in check. Someone who strode on the side of her boots instead of their heels; quiet. Unobtrusive. Heard only by those keen enough to listen for such things; out of Vesryn’s line of sight.

A gloved hand clasped onto Zahra’s forearm and halted her advance towards the tray. It belonged to a meticulously dressed man in black and red finery. Much like the others, though his mask was peculiar enough to warrant a second glance. It hid the top portion of his face and framed his high cheekbones, made entirely of black leather, ending in a short, crooked beak. Under scrutiny, tiny scale patterns could be seen textured across the mask’s surface. Seeing how everyone wore masks, it was difficult to tell who it was, though it was clear that she did not recognize him. Her expression was one of surprise, mouth gawped open and hand held poised in the air.

The pause hadn’t lasted long—though he was looking down into her face, seeing how he was quite a bit taller in that regard. Something like a smile peeped out from beneath the beak of his mask as he turned Zahra’s hand over, cloying her fingers apart with his own. He drew his free hand from his hip and hummed softly, pressing it against her palm and forcing her fingers to close once more. A quick glance behind his shoulder indicated that he was well aware she was not alone, noting their presence with little more than an owlish incline of his head.

“Enjoy the evening, won’t you?” Baritone. To her, to them. His voice held no malice, no verbalization that betrayed his intentions. It was warm. Or intrigued. As everyone here seemed to be. Quick as a snake uncoiling from its quarry, the man released her arm and took a step backwards, bending at the waist in manner that may have looked like a hasty bow. He didn’t wait for any response at all, disappearing up the nearest flight of stairs that led towards the front doors, and back inside.

There was a sound of crinkling paper. Zahra’s stupor ended shortly after. Mumbling as she was at the object in her hand. A small note. A letter, neatly folded into her palm with a familiar sigil stamped across the middle flap. By the widening of her eyes, she certainly knew what it was. She shook her head and sighed harshly through her nostrils, slipping the thing into the bosom of her dress in a less than discreet fashion, “I’ll explain later.” A tight-lipped smile tugged its way to her lips as she rolled her eyes, “Games. I swear, I’ll have enough of them by the end of this night.”

Stel looked quite concerned for a moment, as though she might ask after the matter now rather than wait, but Vesryn could see her intentionally quiet the instinct, constraining it into a small nod instead. "If you're sure."

When that proved to be the case, the small group moved back into the ballroom proper, some minutes after Aurelie did the same. The dancing didn't seem to have begun yet; the Bards looked to be setting up their instruments in preparation for it, however. The scrutiny was almost instant upon their reappearance—whatever breather that had been was quite clearly over.

Fortunately, the first faces brave enough to approach them were quite familiar.

"Stel!" The accented tenor was known to Vesryn as well. When the party diverted their attention in the direction it had come from, it was to see a much-recovered Julien D'Artignon approaching, flanked by Gauvain. The young Marquis was in a burgundy shade deeper by several degrees than Stel's red. Healthy color had returned to the visible portions of his face, the rest obscured by a dark grey mask which bore some resemblance to a fox, stylistically.

Upon reaching the group, he smiled widely, most of all at Stel. Bowing momentarily over her hand, he did not attempt any flourish quite so dramatic or invasive as kissing her knuckles. "Finally found you. Wasn't easy, with all these annoyances about." He rose and ran a hand back through his hair, left loose to his nape. "Vesryn, Rilien, good to see you again as well." He offered an arm for each to clasp in turn.

"Forgive me; I don't believe we've met." He seemed quite content to cut through the formalities and do his own introductions, and with Zahra he did, offering his hand in just the same way as with the others. "Julien D'Artignon, at your service. This is Gauvain, my steward." The elf behind him bowed a bit more formally, though he seemed comfortable enough, even giving the party a small smile.

Whatever unpleasantness had happened before certainly did not show on Zahra’s face, almost as if she’d shrugged it off her shoulders and traded it in for something a little more jovial. If it was feigned, she was a splendid actress. Her smile, at least, appeared genuine when Julien rounded up to face her, clasping his hand in her own. She gave it a shake, and arched an inquisitive eyebrow, “Pleasure is mine, Julien. Gauvain. I’m Captain Zahra Tavish, though you can call me Zee if you’d like.”

The sentiment was clear enough. Any friend of Stel’s would be counted as one of her own as well. She released his hand and grinned wide, rubbing at the back of her neck, “I know all too well about annoyances—gawkers, mostly. You’d think they’d have better things to do.”

"You'd be sorely mistaken, I'm afraid," Julien replied, expelling a frustrated breath and shaking his head. "Sometimes I manage to forget how much I despise court, and then something reminds me."

Stel glanced between him and Gauvain. The question was written plainly across her face, but she looked as though she wasn't quite sure how to give voice to it.

Perhaps fortunately, Gauvain answered himself. "I told him everything," he said quietly. He had the grace to look quite chastened about it, no doubt but a fraction of his feelings at the time it happened. "Thank you, for allowing me the opportunity." From the way they interacted with each other, all had been forgiven and no permanent harm done. Rather a significant amount of largesse on Julien's part if so.

The nobleman nodded. He was, upon observation, having some difficulty looking long at anyone not Stel, but he was also clearly consistently making the attempt to do so. Whether she had observed the same thing was unclear. "We're both grateful," he added more seriously. "We actually come bearing a message, from our mutual, ah, acquaintance. Q. She's here, and would like to meet with you, Stel. It seems to be important, but she wouldn't tell us more than that. I don't think she trusts me." A touch of melancholy colored that revelation, but he didn't seem inclined to linger on it.

"Somehow I think that has more to do with her than with you," Vesryn said, smiling sympathetically. He doubted a woman such as Q trusted anyone, even those she worked with regularly. Probably just a necessity of her chosen line of work. As for the typical placement of Julien's gaze, Vesryn could hardly blame him. He of all people could understand why someone would be drawn to Stel, which hadn't been too difficult to see in Julien before in Val Royeaux, and it was the same now. Jealousy had never been an emotion that Vesryn tended towards.

"In any case, it seems best that we indulge her, no? Q would not be here without a purpose, and if she's willing to divulge that purpose, all the more benefit to us." Knowing what he did of her, any plans she had here were not likely to be helpful ones. But perhaps he was just being cynical.

“Where would she like us to meet her?" The eminently-practical question, of course, came from Rilien.

"There's a gallery open to the guests this evening, and an unoccupied balcony off of it. The smaller of two. She'll be there unless it's crowded. If there are too many others about, she said just to make yourselves available and she'll find you." A concerned expression flickered across Julien's face. "Not too available, mind. I don't quite trust her, either. Not anymore." With a subtle head shake, he glanced between all four of them.

"Anything you need, anything we can do—we're at your disposal. If nothing else, we'll keep an eye on things in here while your Inquisition is about."

Stel offered him a smile. "Thank you, Julien. And Gauvain as well. For now, just... let us know if anything seems strange. Beyond the usual, I mean."

"Can do. Much as I prefer everyone's company here to that I'll find anywhere else, I understand you've work to do. Best of luck." With a decisive nod, Julien excused himself, Gauvain in tow.

"We should update the others," Stel ventured, glancing up at him and then over at the other two. "And then... find Q."

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

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#, 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: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Patience was never one of Zahra’s virtues.

That certainly hadn’t changed since joining the Inquisition. Better to rip off the bandage and just get done with it, rather than drag it out. As of late, the letter felt as if it were burning a hole through her pocket. She’d kept it there since receiving it in Halamshiral. How she hadn’t ripped the damn thing open by now was anyone’s guess. She certainly didn’t know. Self-reflection had never been one of her strong suits either. She supposed, if she were being honest with herself, she didn’t want to open it alone. What with her destructive thoughts, she wasn’t sure how she would react. She wasn’t even sure what it was about.

It had to be connected. Which was why she was striding across Skyhold’s grounds in search of the only one who truly understood what was going on. Who understood what was at stake. It wasn’t because she didn’t trust the others. She did. More than she could express in words. But he’d seen more. Slivers of herself she’d thought dead and gone, hidden away. Buried in ale, and a slathering of smarm. Like Stel had said
 he’d know what to do. Or at least give an unbiased opinion. Steer her in any direction that wasn’t the Herald’s Rest—she’d done enough of that already. Sulking when no one was looking. Drawing her fingertips over the lip of the envelope, too cowardly open it.

She could already feel a pensive frown pulling on her lips, eyebrows drawing together. Even if she’d wanted to smother it away with a smile, she knew well enough that Cyrus would forgive her somber state. Fortunately she hadn’t needed to go very far to find him. A sigh sifted past her lips. Far harsher than she’d intended. She held the letter tucked between her knuckles; occasionally flapping it against her leg. The lumpy bit in the middle, hard as stone. It was the first thing she’d noted about the letter when the man crooked her fingers closed. Something else was in there, aside from the obvious: a piece of parchment.

A mystery man with a letter that might have some kind of curious object inside sounded like all kinds of trouble. It wasn’t something she wanted to invite inside of the Inquisition, because she’d seen enough magical objects to know that nothing was at it appeared and she was better off asking someone proficient enough to know the signs. Cyrus fit that bill, as well, even without his magic. He’d read countless books. Experimented in that lab of his. Grew up in Minranthous of all places.

Drawing up to Cyrus’s laboratory, Zahra paused and squinted at the doorway. Left slightly ajar. Peculiar. She always thought he revered his privacy. Or else, didn’t like people barging inside, like she often did to everyone in the Inquisition. Even so, she lingered in the hallway. Tiptoed closer. Perhaps this was only one of the many changes he’d undergone over the last year. She’d noticed it, little by little: a blooming construct, sloughing off old skin. He smiled more, at least.

She pressed her hand, and letter, against the door, before rapping her knuckles against the frame. “You in there, Cy?”

“I am." The answer, simple and precise, came from surprisingly close inside. A moment later, the door opened inwards, Cyrus himself on the other side of it. His appearance didn't make clear what the valence of his mood was on this particular day: his tunic, sapphire blue but otherwise plain, was a bit on the wrinkled side, and he hadn't bothered with a belt or anything, but the dampness of his hair suggested he might have just bathed after some kind of exercise. A few of them always seemed to be coming and going from Rilien's tower, presumably to use that dirt ring she'd seen on the bottom floor.

The room itself was... disheveled. The artifacts of research lay about in a way that could have been organized, but probably only in a way Cyrus himself would understand; like a cipher without a key anyone else could access. Books lay across the large central desk, a few others scattered over the arms of chairs or upside-down on the coffee table. He seemed to lack a sufficient number of bookmarks, and had resorted to stuffing some tomes with scraps of parchment, labeled neatly but just as cryptically as they were arranged. It was impossible to guess even the subject of his search—what text she could see looked to be in either Tevene or... that might have been Orlesian, but it was hard to say.

He tilted his head at her, standing in the center of the room like a sentinel at the eye of a very peculiar storm, the ends of his hair still dripping slightly onto his shoulders and back. “Something I can help you with, Zahra?"

Like a sopping wet pup. Nearly. In any other moment Zahra might have commented on his state of dress, but this time, she only raised the letter in her grasp and gave it an idle shake. She didn’t want to admit it. Or even speak her reasoning aloud. That much would stifle and choke her, make her feel smaller than she already did. She hoped he wouldn’t press her. Though she doubted that he would.

“I figured we could open this together,” she gave the letter another shake, and raised her shoulder in a half-shrug. Only a few had seen the exchange. Cyrus hadn’t been one of them, but she supposed he’d only warrant a short explanation before catching on to the implications, “Another letter. This time, in the Winter Palace. I didn’t recognize the man
 but there’s something strange about it.”

She wouldn’t push past him without being invited inside. Not when she was asking for something.

True to her predictions, he seemed to catch on immediately. “Ah. Of course." Setting down the feather quill that had been idling in his left hand, he took several large steps backwards, gesturing almost as if to ask why she hadn't already come in and made herself comfortable. Stepping in revealed the rest of the workshop: a few more pieces of furniture, a pair of armor racks with his equipment on them, and curled in one of the armchairs, a small black cat with very large green eyes, who blinked once at Zahra, quite slowly, before deciding that her presence clearly did not merit any more interest than that.

Cyrus lifted his hands to his head, slicking back the errant strands of hair, then brushed his palms off carelessly on his trousers, clicking his tongue and setting about the task of clearing some space. “Sit wherever you like. If you move anything, just try and keep the place marked when you put it down if you can." He picked up what appeared to be a mug, sniffed the contents, and made a face before setting it on a small end table near the door, probably where the occasional servant came in to clear away his refuse and dishes.

Messy.

The thought intruded as Zahra stepped inside Cyrus’s chamber. She might’ve spoken it aloud if she hadn’t been so enthralled by it. Chaotic intelligence; books heaped in every nook and cranny, enough to make her wonder if he read them all at once. How he could keep all of that in that head of his went far beyond her understanding. While she’d always been a storyteller, she had never been much of a reader. Her favorite books were wistful things; grandiose tales of adventurers who saved all of Thedas. Once upon a time. Frivolity. Stories she remembered being read in her youth. Filled with places that could take her far away when the present grew too heavy to bear.

She doubted he read the same sort of drivel.

A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she heeded his invitation and perched herself in a nearby chair. It was set in front of the larger, cluttered desk. She wriggled in her seat, moving over so that she could carefully remove the half-opened book from the chair’s arm and place it face down on the desk. There was enough room to upend the letter. Good. She pulled the chair closer to the desk and leaned her elbows across the surface.

“There’s something else in it,” she hooked a finger in the corner, and dragged it across in order to rip it wide enough to extract its contents. She felt something slip out before she had the chance to react. For something so small, the size of someone’s palm, it sounded heavier than it appeared. It bounced once before spinning to a stop. A reflective piece. A shard of glass. A mirror? She wasn’t sure. There was a scintillating ripple across the surface, almost unnaturally so. It made her uneasy, though she wasn’t sure why. “
 a piece of glass?”

A slip of the letter slipped out into her hand. Much smaller than Maleus’s letter had been. Cryptic, even. She pursed her lips and dragged her eyes away from the shard, opting to read it aloud for Cyrus’s sake, “By blood and lyrium were they drawn. Inexorably to the unreachable city, the heart of all creation. At a touch, the gate swung wide.” She paused and shook her head, letting out a frustrated groan. It was gibberish. A joke? She was foolish to think it was anything else. “What the hell does this even mean?”

Cyrus pursed his lips. “That is a dissonant verse. Not in the canonical southern Chant. Canticle of Silence—" he paused, almost as if consulting some kind of mental map or inventory, eyes flickering towards the ceiling— “2:8 and 2:9, though with a bit of missing matter between. It references the Magisters who entered the Golden City. Why anyone would recite it to you is rather more mysterious." He crossed to the desk, leaning over it to capture the shard in his fingers and raise it towards his face, without so much as a hint of any hesitation.

Fearless, reckless, or aware of what it was, then. The third possibility at least bore out. “This is a piece of an eluvian. Remember the one you found in the basement?" He turned it over a few times, a small line forming between his brows. “I'm not sure why anyone would give you this, either—it's useless outside the context of the mirror it came from, and they are not easy to repair when broken. It takes special elven crafting tools and rather esoteric magic to do properly."

He paused, setting the shard down carefully and taking a seat at last. “And someone in the Winter Palace gave this to you?"

That didn’t mean much to Zahra. She wasn’t well-versed in anything that involved the Chant or the Chantry. Hedge-witches and fishmongers had no need for such convoluted things, or so her mother always said. She frowned and smoothed the edges of the parchment paper over the table. Lilted writing. A steady hand. Just as mysterious as the man was. A stranger who wanted something from her, or else, figured she’d understand this ridiculous message.

“Sounds like a riddle to me,” she puffed out a sigh and tapped a finger across the wax seal she’d ripped in half. It was somewhat familiar. A dragon or serpent of sorts. Seeing how concerned she was about the contents of the letter, she’d nearly forgotten about it. She was sure she’d seen it before. Somewhere. She tried to conjure up the memory. Scrape it back up from the back of her mind. Nothing came.

Her mouth gawped open when Cyrus snatched up the shard and held the piece close to his face. Concern welled in her stomach. Flipped it in knots, expecting the worst to happen. She’d seen the worst happen before, too many times to count. When a moment or two passed she let out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding in. Safe. Well, nothing had exploded. A good sign as well as any.

“Yes. Someone.” she scratched at the nape of her neck, “I don’t understand any of it.”

He'd noticed her glance at the seal; that much was clear. Reaching for the envelope, he pressed it shut and grimaced. “Contee again. I looked into them for you, as I said." A short pause. He licked his lips, thoughts taking him somewhere else for a moment, perhaps. “Blood and lyrium." He repeated the words in no more than a murmur. “Blood magic and lyrium trafficking. That's what they do, as far as Cassius knows."

Glancing around quickly, he grabbed a sheaf of parchment and his quill, dipping it hastily in ink and scratching out notes at a speed that left the ink spidery and sharp. “That's a reference to them. 'The unreachable city, heart of all creation...' rather too arrogant for Minrathous, though the double-meaning is probably implied." Cyrus was more mumbling to himself than speaking to her, that much was clear, his eyes lit like a small boy's who'd just received an unexpected gift. Sweets, perhaps, though he didn't seem quite the type to have enjoyed anything so simple. Perhaps this—a puzzle with just the beginning of a clue—was what he'd enjoyed instead.

“'Heart of all creation.' An eluvian shard... the Between. Crossroads, it must be. Not that he'd have been." He snorted softly, still writing at a slapdash pace, and glanced up at her, his hand continuing to move independently of the guidance of his eyes. “He wants you to connect Skyhold's eluvian with another, probably for a message, since no one in Tevinter can actually travel through the mirrors. Probably knows we have people here who can do that kind of thing, because he wouldn't be able to."

He stopped, both hand and tongue stilling completely for several seconds. His tongue got going again first. “He has an agent here. In Skyhold. It's the only way he could know that."

Zahra was listening. Or at least she was trying to. She couldn’t see what he was writing from where she was sitting and she doubted she would be able to follow along at the breakneck rate he was going. A few times, she’d wanted to clear her throat and break him out of his rapture, his obvious reverie at message she had already deemed useless. Apparently he was making connections she had not even considered.

“I’m assuming this message wasn’t intended just for me, then.” The implication was clear. There was no way in hell she would have been able to decipher all of that, let alone make the proper connections. She would’ve tossed the damned thing in the trash before figuring anything out. Brooded over several bottles of wine. If the man knew that much about the Inquisition, he certainly would have known that. It frustrated her, if only a little, that she would have been entirely incapable of comprehending this on her own.

It showed in her face. She could feel it pulling her mouth into a thin line. Her eyebrows drew together once more, “An agent? Here?” As preposterous as it sounded
 it wasn’t out of the question. Who, though? Who would go so far? Why? Even if she posed the questions aloud, there’d be no answers. Her hand moved from her neck and rubbed at her temple. “That’s
 a problem, isn’t it?”

She slumped back in her chair and felt the balloon in her chest deflating. She suddenly felt exhausted. “We have Contee. An agent. A magic mirror. A little riddle. So, what do we do now?”

To his credit, Cyrus waited patiently for her to work through her thoughts; listening attentively as she puzzled out further implications. But when she directed the last question at him, he smiled. It wasn't an expression of mirth, exactly. More like... satisfaction. As though he'd been anticipating it and already had the answer. “Now... we talk to Harellan. He'll be able to find the eluvian that shard came from, and connect it to the one in Skyhold, temporarily at least. If someone wants to send you a message, we'll receive it, and decide what to do from there."

He picked up the shard, then stood. “If you don't mind coming with, we can take care of this right away."

And indeed, it did not take long. Harellan proved to be an elven man, unusually tall though not quite as much so as, say, Ves. His dark hair was shorn on both sides and the back, but hung in a thick tail from the top of his head, as black as Cyrus's. He bore no tattoos on his face like Khari had, but he didn't look quite like a city elf, either. Once the situation was explained to him, he agreed readily to help, and the three of them proceeded to the basement, where the Inquisition's eluvian was still kept.

Harellan disappeared into the mirror, returning about an hour later with news that he'd found the source of the shard, and they should now be connected. With a touch, he caused the surface of the mirror in front of them to ripple. "The connection will last only as long as both parties will it." He glanced at the both of them, arching a dark brow. "So tell me if you want to disconnect."

As soon as Harellan touched the mirror’s surface, an image appeared. A silhouette of a figure, smoothing itself out over the ripples. Soon enough it took the form of a man—familiar in the sense that she’d seen him before, at least. Recognized his shape. His crooked mouth and languid eyes. Halamshiral hadn’t been that far away. The memories were still crisp enough to recall.

The man himself was dressed entirely in black garb. Meticulous, sharp clothes. A nobleman’s attire, maybe. She’d seen Faraji wear something similar. Buttoned up on both sides of his jacket and high-collared; lined with deep red and sweeping down to the sides of the mirror, where she could no longer see. Black hair, cropped short. His eyes were a shade of brown, but appeared so dark they were nearly black. He had the same high cheekbones she remembered. He wasn’t smiling. He hardly had any expression at all. His arms were poised over his chest, fingers tapping along his forearm.

Impatient. Waiting.

The background looked like a basement of sorts. There wasn’t much else in the room itself. Not that they could see much from where they were standing. The Eluvian was a mystery she couldn’t wrap her head around
 seeing this unravel in front of her was just as shocking as knowing that Cyrus and the others had traveled through it at some point. She found herself incapable of much besides standing there, feeling stupid. Speechless.

“You’re late,” it appeared as if she hadn’t needed to say anything at all. The man’s gaze flicked off to the side, as if he were regarding the other two present. If he was at all surprised by her company, he wasn’t showing signs. There was a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had come. Perhaps, only a trick of the mirror. Only then did he turn to face them properly. His features were too sharp. Eyes ringed with bags. Not quite the picture of health. “I haven’t much time, so introductions will have to wait.”

“I’m not a friend. I have my own intentions in all this. That much, I’ll make clear.” There was no maliciousness in his statement. It was spoken as a fact. Even so, it made her stomach turn. “But I have been helping your brother Maleus. The first letter was my doing and the next steps will be, as well, if you accept my offer.” There was an edge to his tone, as he glanced off into the rippling darkness. This time, his words came faster. “Two of your sisters have been married off. One, sold to slavery. Maleus is here, so is your mother. Your other brother works in the lyrium mine.” Established as coolly as if he were talking about the weather, and not her family.

Zahra’s hand drew into a fist. There was an angry swell blooming in her gut. Guilt, too. A stone, reminding her that she had no right to be angry. She wasn’t sure where to direct any of it but she wanted him to slow down and answer her damned questions, “Hey, slow the hell down—”

His finger rose up. Gloved. Silencing. “I will contact you again. But not in this manner. One question. Our time is up.”

“Who's your eyes here?" Cyrus crossed his arms over his chest, his tone every bit as clipped as the man's. Clearly he at least intended to take advantage of the offer, though it was unclear whether or not he expected a truthful answer.

There was a pause, as if he were considering Cyrus’s inquiry. He tilted his head to the side and raised a hand towards the mirror, though he kept it from touching it as Harellan had. The singular word carried a heavier weight than Zahra expected and forced her backwards a few steps.

“Garland.”

Just as quickly as he’d appeared, his figure rippled away and revealed nothing at all.

Cyrus knew enough to recognize who the name belonged to, at least; he turned towards her after the image faded, brows knit, exhaling heavily. “Well. I... can't say I was particularly expecting it to be one of yours." His tone was unusually delicate; he cleared his throat. “Are you... is there anything I can do?"

“Fuck!”

The swell bloomed and burst until Zahra turned to the side and slammed her fist against the cobblestone wall. It sent an electricity and rattled straight to her elbow. It stung. But this was worst. Hearing his damn name spoken. A lump bobbed in her throat as she leaned against the wall for support and let out a shaky breath through her nose, willing the angry tears away. She succeeded on the front and stemmed the quaver of her lip, raking a hand through her hair.

“Fuck
” this only confused things further. If she were aboard the Riptide, and something of the sort happened he’d be lynched. It was a betrayal. Left to the vultures, bones picked apart. But there were too many questions and not enough answers. What did he have to do with this? Was he speaking to Faraji? Did he know all along? Bile rose in her throat and threatened to spill out. Fortunately it hadn’t. “I
 no, I need some time. I don’t want to ask, Cy. I shouldn’t.” Her teeth ground against one another, “Leave this here, for now. Please.”

She swallowed around the lump. “I need to talk with him first.”

Cyrus nodded, just once. “As you wish." He'd keep her secret if she needed him to. That much was obvious in just three words. But he pursed his lips, and offered a few more anyway. Haltingly, like he didn't quite know how.

“I'm sorry, Zahra."

Zahra straightened her shoulders and stepped to his side, facing where they’d initially come. She knocked his shoulder with her knuckles. She, too, wasn’t that great with words. She couldn’t dredge up a smile, or even look him in the eye, but knowing that she wasn’t the only one bowing under the weight made her feel
 lighter. Less alone.

“Thanks, Cy.”

She needed a drink.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
It was finally beginning to look like spring in Skyhold. While the chilly edge remained, and probably would for a time yet, the garden couldn't lie about the changing of the seasons. The flowers were finally beginning to bloom again after their long slumber during the winter months. This was no less evident in the branches of the dogwood tree, its creamy white and pink petals already blossoming. In preparation for the rest of the spring, Aurora had enlisted Asala's help in cleaning the garden so that the plants that had not yet bloomed would find a welcoming and cozy home when they finally did. Asala stopped at the foot of the dogwood tree to take in the sweet scent of its flowers.

"I've always loved dogwoods," Aurora said, coming to a stop beside Asala. She glanced up at the woman and smiled, pointing at the tree while she spoke. "They bloom so early, so when they do, you know spring is on its way. And their flowers," she said, reaching up to pluck a one from a low hanging branch, "Are always so pretty and smell so sweet."

She took a deep breath through her nose, and agreed. "They are," she said, enjoying the scent of the dogwood.

Asala watched as Aurora took in the sight of flower in her hand, before her gaze shifted back to her, the smile to her lips widening as if she thought of something. She held up a finger and beckoned for Asala to lean down, and when she did, Aurora stuck the stem of the flower behind her ear. When she took a step back, she wore a look of victory on her face before, gesturing with her head to the rest of the garden. "Come on, the others need some care too," she said, turning to make her way toward the first plot.

Even in the early spring or late winter, there were a few plants that bloomed early. Though no few of them were still waiting for more of the warmth that later spring brought, Asala could still see a few colorful petals of violets, snapdragons, and a few lenten roses still blossoming. When they came to a stop, Aurora handed Asala a pair of gloves and small set of clippers, and gestured toward a flowering vine of yellow flowers. "Can you start by pruning the jasmine? She's starting to wander."

As soon as Asala wandered off to tend to the jasmine, swaying slightly in the breeze, a voice crooned just over her shoulder. Close enough to startle, but drawing further away as if the person had taken a couple of steps backwards, “Beautiful.” A pause, and a familiar laugh crackled in the pirate’s throat as she finished her sentence, “aren’t they?” She always appeared to mean something different than the obvious. Words between words. Or else, it was her smile that bellied ulterior motives.

She raked a hand through her curly hair and fished something from her back pocket, taking a moment to sweep her hair into a messy ponytail. She, too, had been struck by spring fever, dressing in a lighter fare. A white, flowy tunic with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and short leather pants that ended just below her knees, though she’d foregone shoes and wriggled her toes in the grass. For a moment she seemed lost for words; a miracle, in her case. Her gaze drifted off to Asala’s ear, then back to her face, before she peered back around her shoulder.

“What’s that one called? Smells good.”

"Oh, it's a uh... uh," She stammered, momentarily forgetting its name. Zee had surprised her, and made her lose all the thought processes she might have had. Her mouth hung agape for perhaps a moment too long, her lips working to find the words on their own. At least, up until she stopped herself and closed her mouth. She then frowned with pursed lips, tilted her to the side, and slowed down to actually think. "It's a dogwood," she said snapping, finally finding the words again. "Sorry, you caught me by surprise," she said, with a small chuckle of her own.

Zahra’s smile was less even now. The amusement gleaming in her eyes spoke volumes. Startling her was a source of amusement, though she did mouth a wordless apology. Her smile wobbled into a grin as she rounded to Asala’s side, and peered close enough to one of the hanging branches for her nose to nearly touch a petal. She gave it another sniff, before straightening her posture, and twining her hands behind her back. “You did look rather focused. I couldn’t resist,” she chuckled softly and pursed her lips up at her, “Though Dogwood’s a strange name for such a sweet flower.”

She glanced about the garden before swinging her gaze back to Asala. Glancing off in the distance, where Aurora had disappeared to. Perhaps. “I’ve noticed you here before,” if the bold implication bothered her at all, her Graceface had gotten better since playing Wicked Grace, “It does suit you. Tending the gardens. Is there any particular flower you like best?”

Asala scanned around the garden at the still burgeoning plants. There was still some time yet before all of their colorful petals would bloom to life. Still though, she searched the bare stems in order to find an answer for Zee's question, until finally she just offered a simple shrug. It wasn't a question she thought about, nor had anyone asked yet. She found it difficult to come up with an answer on the spot, especially when most of the ones in the garden hadn't flowered yet. "I... don't know, to tell you the truth," she said, swinging her gaze back around to her. "But I am fond of the bright ones, you know? The colorful ones?" She tried to explain, flexing one of her hands to mimic the pop that brightness would infer.

"How about you, hmm?" Asala asked, turning the question back on her. A curious tilt of her head accompanied the question. "Do you like one in particular?"

Zahra appeared pleased with the answer, and without a beat pointed a finger up at Asala’s face. “I like that one best,” she admitted easily, before wagging her finger towards the flower tucked behind her ear. The grin hadn’t eased from her face, but she’d taken a moment to reconsider her words. Rocking back on her heels, as if she were growing impatient with something. Finally, she rubbed at her jawline and hefted out a soft sigh. Disconcerted. It wasn’t a common occurrence, but around her of late, it had been.

“Actually, I didn’t come here to ogle the flowers,” she made a face, something reminiscent of a pout. Difficult as it was to tell what the woman was thinking
 she appeared to have something on her mind. Her gaze drifted up towards the dogwood hanging over their heads before she cleared her throat, seeming to come to some internal accord. “I didn’t get to dance with you at the Winter Palace.” The remark sounded rather accusatory, though without any edge. Like she was sulking about it.

Flowers weren't the only thing blossoming in the garden. She could feel the warm heat of the flush crossing her cheeks, and she began to absently play with a braid of hair that rested on her shoulder. However, once Zee explained herself, Asala dropped the braid and raised her palms upward, like she was physically trying to dodge the blame. [color=#4E9AB17]"I-I, uh.. Well, you see,"[/color] she stammered, trying to find the best words to explain herself with. It was... difficult, however, as they were proving to be terribly elusive. "It's, well, I mean it is not like I didn't think about it..." She explained, a frown working itself onto her lips.

"It is just," she began, finally allowing her hands to fall back, where she held the wrist of one with the other. "There were so many people, and they were all... Watching us. It was... Nerve-wracking, I suppose. I had already stepped on everyone else and I... Poor Romulus, I think I bruised his toes something terrible," she said, still feeling a little guilty about that. That dance was different than they one they had on Estella's birthday. There was no pressure there, and she was enjoying herself. Not so at the Winter Palace. "I just did not want to step on you too."

Zahra’s pout smoothed itself out. Though her eyebrow remained raised. Inquiring further explanation. Her stare was skeptical for a moment, before she simply appeared amused. This time, the smile that pulled the corners of her lips up appeared softer. She held out her hands in defeat and shook her head, “Okay. Okay. I suppose that’s a fair reason.” Clearly she hadn’t thought about how this conversation would go. Talking out of her ass, as she liked to say. “Though I wouldn’t have minded you stepping on my feet, you know.”

She gave the garden another quick glance. She chuckled as she regarded Asala once more, as if finally coming to a decision. Or a bad idea. Her hands dropped from behind her back and she drew one up in front of her, palm facing skyward. There was a flicker of awkwardness in her face, quick as a blink; or else, a trick of light that made it appear so. “Why don’t we do it here, then? I’ll perish of heartbreak otherwise, toes intact.” There wouldn’t be a tavern full of people stomping their feet to the croons of a bard, nor any masked men and women spinning on marbled floors to the sound of wailing violins.

Only two people in a garden.

"Oh. Well. We cannot have that, can we?" she said a smile, though the blush on her cheeks reemerged with a vengeance. Asala then extended her own hand, and placed it into Zahra's. "Oh, right," she said while a thought came to her. She dipped into the curtsy that Marceline had taught them in preparation for the Winter Palace. Only a moment passed before she chuckled at her own little jest.

There was a moment of stifled silence, before Zahra tossed her head back in a rattling laugh that could have only come from deep in her gut—the snorting sort she was notorious for when something tickled her fancy. She hm’d, and curtsied herself. It wasn’t nearly as practiced. Those at the Winter Palace might’ve thought her uncouth for such a poor effort. Her smile, however, only burned brighter.

She drew herself up and slipped one of her hands at Asala’s lower back. The height difference was immediately noticeable, though not as obvious as Leon’s had been. She seemed to know how to fit herself into the equation without making anything uncomfortable. She hummed a low tune in the back of her throat. Not at all unpleasant. Something reminiscent of the waltzing pieces they’d played in the Winter Palace. She started them off in a gentle sway, eyes shuttering closed for a breath, before opening to meet hers.

A girlish, toothy grin brightened her dusky features as she spun away from her, hand still linked with hers. She was light on her feet. Almost graceful, if she wasn’t giggling so much.

Now that she wasn't worried about the prying and judgmental eyes of the Orlesian nobility, the steps came easier for her and the stepping on of toes was kept to a minimum. Once Zee reeled her back in, she giggled and nodded. It was... much better than the ordeal back in Orlais. Now, it was her turn. Asala took Zee's hand with her when she raised it above her head, and spinning her in place. She smiled and let her head fall back in a laugh as she watched locks of Zee's hair bounce around. "You still have the prettiest hair," Asala managed to get out before the blush reclaimed her. "But..."

With the but, Asala let one of her hands fall away from Zee's just long enough to reach up and pluck the flower that Asala had planted in her own hair. Twirling it around with her fingers, she reached forward and gently brushed aside a strand of her hair, and settled the flower just above her ear. "There. It, uh... Looks better on you, anyway," she said with an embarrassed smile, the heat from her blush threatening to turn her ashen skin crimson.

For a moment, Zahra’s impish expression wobbled away. It was her ears that reddened first, blooming across her dusky skin. Their proximity made it even more noticeable, though she averted her gaze, focusing rather hard on something to Asala’s right side: the dogwood, perhaps. A nervous titter sounded as Asala’s hand drew up to her face, forcing her to swing her gaze back to her, letting her slip the flower behind her ear. “I didn’t think you remembered much from that night,” her coo was less confident than before, though she didn’t look at all displeased.

All of the sneaky smarm, quick quips and teases that usually flitted from her tongue seemed to still, however. She gave her hand a squeeze and finally stepped away from her, tune silenced from her throat. She gave Asala another little bow, curly hair obscuring her vision for a moment as she looked to the ground. She straightened her spine and this time, regarded her with peculiar expression. Wistful. Thoughtful. “Thanks for the dance, kitten. I did rather enjoy it. Now, I must bid you adieu. I’ll leave you to your flowers.”

She made a gesture with her hand and turned to leave from where she’d come. Though Asala could no longer see her face, Zahra had lifted a hand to the flower she’d tucked behind her ear. It almost looked like there was a bounce to her gait.

Without thought, Asala took a step forward, her hand partway reached out toward her before she caught herself. She hesitated for a moment, before it finally fell limply back into place by her side. She stood there for a moment, the flush still present to her cheeks, its heat affecting her thought processes. About a hundred thoughts and feelings assaulted her at once, until finally she just giggled. With the laughter the redness to her cheeks bled away and she was finally beginning to be able to think clearly again, though she still felt like her head was swimming. Eventually, her gaze dropped back to the gloves and clippers she'd dropped on the ground when Zee had surprised her. She sighed quietly as she dipped low to pick them up again.

With Zee's departure, the flowers didn't seem as vibrant. At least, not in comparison.

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 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

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#, 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: 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: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Zahra gave a furious huff as she planted her foot on the shoulder of the straw dummy, kicking off to extract her rapier from center mass. She’d been nearly throwing the bloody thing around to temper her rattled nerves. Sweat trickled down her spine, dripped off her chin and made her eyes sting. Shooting arrows hadn’t been enough. Her father. The damned, infuriating man. When had he become so bitter? She might as well have left him to rot in Pressa. Left him to Faraji’s lackeys. They would’ve set him on fire. Thrown him to the sea. Let him starve in a cell. Bloody good that did to his sensibilities. Gratitude—pah! Miles away.

Arrows were sticking out the ground surrounding the dummy like porcupine needles; others were pinned into its red painted face, in varying angles. She’d long abandoned pulling them out. Her bow and near-empty quiver had been set to the side, leaned up against another dummy. A bottle of amber-colored liquid was nestled between them. A good portion of it gone, as well. She hadn’t been planning to train today. No, she’d wanted to introduce her father to some of her friends. He’d refused to come out of his room. Refused her invitation with the slam of the door. In her face.

She wrinkled her nose and plunged the blade into the ground in front of her, watching as it wobbled. It swayed with the slight breeze that swept down into the training grounds. Cooling the sweat from her face. A beautiful day. One she might have enjoyed if she weren’t so annoyed. She had stripped down to a loose white tunic, though it stuck uncomfortably to her back. Her trousers had been rolled up just below her knees, and her sleeves to her elbows: out of the way. Bare-foot once more, toes curling into the grass and dirt. It made her feel calmer. Grounded. In control.

Even if she felt the furthest thing from it. Having him here made her feel small. Guilty. Like a child. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like that, or allowed herself to feel like that. Conversations with him were strained. One-sided. Intentionally so, she assumed. Whatever barriers existed between them had been drawn solely on his end. He had no interest in pursuing any sort of relationship with her. Not from what she could see. It was fair, wasn’t it? He worried after her brothers and sisters; and his wife. The ones who’d stayed behind as a family. So, why did it grate on her nerves so much?

“I do hope it's not me you were imagining when you shot at that unfortunate straw fellow. I do rather like my face." Behind her, Cyrus hopped the fence, something tucked under one arm. He surveyed the damage with some interest, noting the arrows that had stuck in the ground as well as those embedded in the dummy itself. The holes from her repeated stabbings seemed to be of particular note as far as he was concerned. “And my organs."

He offered her half a smile, askew on his face like it wasn't supposed to be there. From beneath his elbow, he extracted the bundle and handed it to her. “I have it on good—or at least confident—authority that food is panacea to most kinds of trouble. So I brought you some. I can cook, believe it or not." He seemed to expect that this would come as a surprise. That made sense though; most blue-blooded types never learned to do that kind of thing. It was servants' work, to them. “I hope you like sweets, because it's baklava."

“I assure you, your face is far too handsome to mutilate,” Zahra scoffed and wriggled her toes through an errant weed. Milk thistles and dandelions, too stubborn and unruly to know that they shouldn’t grow there. Like her, in a way. She flicked her finger against the pommel of her blade, and watched it wobble once more, “Oh no, I was imagining anyone ungrateful enough spit at our feet when we chose to save them
 y’know, from a certain and gruesome death. I’ll admit, it doesn’t happen often. But when it does—” She puffed a sigh between her lips and sagged her shoulders, raking a hand across her face.

She peeked between her fingers at him. Though she’d been happy enough to stew in her anger, she found herself not minding the company.

Her hand dropped away from her face, gaze dragging from the haphazard smile on his lips to the bundle tucked beneath his arm. Curiosity tickled at her. Smothered the flame of anger she’d been trying to put out moments before: alone. As if hailing his conclusion, her stomach gave an indignant rumble. Her expression froze for the barest moment before it relaxed into a smile, before it finally crackled into a grin. “Very surprised,” she pursed her lips, and flopped down on the ground, “But pleasantly so.”

The grass and dirt was soft enough here to be comfortable, trodden on as it was. She’d chosen some of the furthest training dummies to pummel, set up beneath a couple of large elm trees so they were somewhat shielded by the sun. A decent enough place to eat whatever a baklava was. She patted the ground beside her and arched an eyebrow, inviting him to join her if he wanted to.

Cyrus sat without protest, folding his legs under him and setting the bundle down in his lap to unwrap it. It seemed to be some kind of light brown, sticky pastry from what she could see. “It's a northern dessert from Tevinter." He seemed to have expected that she wouldn't be familiar. Or maybe explaining was just his way of making conversation—he certainly seemed to be called upon to do it often enough. “It's layers of this thin dough with hazelnut and honey between, and a little sugar."

He picked up one of the wedges, about the size of his first two fingers together, and passed the rest over to her, biting into the confection with care. A few bits of the crust still flaked away and fell onto his breeches, but he brushed them off with a hand, unconcerned. After swallowing, he spoke, keeping his eyes on the food. “Ungrateful for a rescue? Sounds familiar. The old man's not taking things too well, then?" His tone conveyed no surprise.

Overhead, a hawk squawked, and to their sides, blunt swords clanged together. Errant soldiers balked at each other, shoving shoulders and swinging blades in the nearby ring used for sparring. A scuffle, a thump of a back hitting dirt. Normal sounds for a place like Skyhold. Ones she’d come to find comfort in. How strange. Zahra crossed her foot over her ankle, and leaned back against her elbows as Cyrus settled down beside her. She smiled impishly and tipped her head up at him, “You’d make a fine husband yet with that cooking prowess. Prospective wives must be beating at your door.” Another grin cracked across her lips, with a laugh that meant no harm, “I’m woefully lacking in that department.”

“Are you? I was under a different impression." He didn't elaborate, though, just letting the words sit comfortably there without explanation.

The imaginary was enough to lighten her mood. Cyrus baking in the kitchen. Hunkered over the ovens. She’d only ever wandered in there to pilfer pies and cookies probably meant for someone else. Delicious morsels, dragged back to her den as if she were a magpie. The notion wasn’t far off. She hadn’t been caught yet. Or else, the cook had taken pity on her and allowed her to plunder her sweets whenever she wanted. She accepted the bundle and settled it into her lap, leaving it unfolded. She took her own wedge, and bit into it with far less care than he had. Messy eater she was; an honest one, though. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finished swallowing before opening her mouth to speak, “Now, this. This is good.”

He’d have to teach her. Or keep making more.

“You’d think he wanted to be left to the wolves the way he goes on about it,” she snorted and gestured wildly with her hand. Crust dropped onto the ground around her. She took another bite, tentative. Slow. Mulling the conversations they’d had recently. She’d spoken her thoughts aloud before, mostly to Cyrus. He would understand. “Maybe we should have. Left him alone, like he wanted.” It wasn’t a kind thought, but it was honest.

He wasn't the sort who'd scold her for it—that much was long obvious. He had far too many flaws and unkindnesses of his own. And perhaps a bit more self-awareness of them than he'd once possessed. “Maybe." He seemed to doubt it, from the note of skepticism his voice carried. “But I don't think you'd have been any more satisfied with that outcome than this one. And you might have always wondered how things would have been otherwise. Here there's no need for speculation. He would have been dead, or enslaved, or something similarly-nasty, and you stopped it from happening."

Cyrus lifted his shoulders, finishing off his wedge of the dessert and swiping the pad of his thumb over his tongue to remove some of the sticky residue. His manners were better than hers, but they definitely weren't table-perfect. At least not right now. He leaned slightly, putting his back in contact with the trunk of one of the young trees and pulling his knees up at a slight angle. His arms draped naturally across his abdomen, loose and relaxed. Or as much so as he ever got. He looked like he was thinking hard about something, but it only lasted a few moments.

“I think if you do something right for the thanks, it's probably not all that worthy anyway. Not that I'm an expert in doing the right thing, mind you. It's just a suspicion I have."

Zahra had never considered herself a good person—and she thought maybe Cyrus might understand that best of all. Of course, she didn’t think he was bad or unkind. Quite the opposite. But in a swell of selfless, moralistic individuals filling the Inquisition, she floundered trying to do what was right. What they might consider right. Goodness made no sense to her. Not in the conventional sense. Raiders, pirates and even the dirtier shade of mercenary companies flew darker sails. Their compasses did not strike kindly notions. She doubted she would have done much of anything if she hadn’t joined the Inquisition and surrounded herself with them: the Irregulars. Her friends.

She tipped her head up at him and pursed her lips. Maybe. It sounded nice, the way he said it. He didn’t quite believe it and neither did she, if she was being honest. It was nigh impossible to try and dip back into what she might have done on colder days, when all she cared about was the lick of salt on her skin and the feeling of a coin purse pressed into her palms. Her crew, her lavish lifestyle. Nothing less. She had changed. Slowly. As an insect might, unfurling from a cocoon. Unexpected. Though, not entirely unpleasant. Would she have wondered after him? Or forgotten him along with the rest of her family? She wasn’t sure, though an undeniable truth rang out in Cyrus’s words.

She might have. He certainly thought so.

Zahra stuffed the remaining wedge in her mouth and chewed around his words, eyes shuttering closed. Sweet. It had worked to loosen the nerves bunched in her jawline, where she’d been grinding her molars as she paced in front of the dummy. She swallowed and opened her eyes once more, turning her fingers over to lick the honey off. There was silence that followed his words, comfortable. A moment to mull, before a snorting laugh rattled from her. She rolled her attention back towards him, leaning most of her weight on her forearm. “A suspicion?” Her laughter died down into a wobbly smile, “I do think you’re right though.”

“Maybe I just don’t know how to be a daughter anymore. Wasn’t much good at that either, I’m afraid.”

He shrugged almost lazily. “Sounds like they weren't great at being parents." They had attempted to force her into the marriage that had ultimately pushed her away from home, something he'd expressed nothing but distaste for. “You're good at being plenty of other things, in any case. And I'd say trying to fix problems you did not cause qualifies as above and beyond basic 'daughter' requirements."

A smile tugged at the corner of Zahra’s lips: wistful. He was right. They hadn’t been great parents by any conventional means. She wasn’t sure what it meant to be a good one, but figured after watching Marcy, it was a lot closer to how she was with Pierre. It was nice, seeing them together. Had she been lucky enough to have the same sort of upbringing, she supposed her life would have ended up much differently. She wondered, often. How different all of their lives would have been if they’d been loved properly, by the ones who were supposed to. Where would Cyrus and Stel have ended up?

Somewhere else, most likely. Would that have been better? She wasn’t sure. Life sometimes dealt dirty hands that ultimately led them to the circumstances they were in presently. Perhaps she’d never have known the rigors of the sea; the slap of the tide on the bow of her ship, or how good it felt to sway at the mantle. If she’d learned anything over the years, it was that hardships molded stronger people. Made them harder, quicker. More compassionate, in some cases. She’d seen it over and over again in the Inquisition. She chuckled low and stretched out her legs, “I’ll take that compliment.”

Adjusting himself, he un-bent one of his knees, laying the leg flat on the ground and tilting his head back against the tree bark. He wasn't a natural fit with an outdoors scene, to be sure—he looked very displaced with his stark coloration. Black and white and a blue very different from sky or sea. The soft browns and greens and greys of the bailey were at odds with him. Or he with them. If he noticed that, it didn't seem to bother him any.

“I never used to worry, you know. About whether I was doing the right thing. About whether I was a good... just a good person, I suppose. I always figured I'd be rational, and skilled, and how 'moral' I was didn't matter much. The closest I ever really got was wanting to be a good brother, and knowing that I wasn't." His tone was quite factual, devoid of any any anguished undercurrent, but it was unclear if that was a genuine lack or merely a very careful omission. “Now... sometimes it's all I think about. Was that answer too insensitive? Something I did too coldhearted? What would Stellulam or the others have done or said? It's maddening. And still I can never tell if I'm doing it right." He grimaced.

“Whatever it might be worth, I think you're doing a sight better than that."

Regarding Cyrus with another unabashed, leveled stare, Zahra pursed her lips and turned over so that she was laying on her back; hands coming to twine behind her head. A strange sight, the two of them. He, who contrasted so much against his environment and her, a woman destined to face the billow of sails and the spray of the ocean. As odd as they appeared, she doubted that either of them would have it any other way.

That Cyrus would harbor such thoughts hadn’t surprised her. How she saw him differed from how he saw himself. That was much was clear. Even so, it was refreshing to hear that she was not alone in having them—struggling to be better than she was, and wondering if she was doing it properly had never occurred to her before. These worries were new. Unfamiliar. Strange. She took a deep breath, and exhaled softly through her nose. Her smile warbled as she turned to look at him once more, “Thank you.” A pause, before she swung her gaze towards the leaves hanging overhead. “Though I do think you’re selling yourself short. Maybe we’re both doing better than we think.”

“Besides, I’d much prefer you do and say things the Cyrus way. Maddening as it may be.”

He snorted, a skeptical sound, but he did not try to refute her. “Well, there you go then. If that's what you think of me, you can hardly think worse for yourself. You've done things your way, and that was the way you can live with. Doesn't seem to be much point in second-guessing it. Only way to go is forward. Stellulam says something like that, sometimes."

Zahra’s mouth quirked up once more, as she turned back onto her forearm, “Stel is a wise one.” An optimistic way of looking at things. She hummed low in her throat and made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to strangle the man whenever I see him.” At the very least, he didn’t come out of his chamber enough to pester her with those lukewarm, judging stares, bellying all the disappointment he must’ve felt laying eyes on her. He didn’t come up to the Herald’s Rest either, so she was quite safe there.

“This did help, though. Promise to bring me sweets whenever I’m too furious to face the day?”

He scoffed softly, but then placed a hand over his heart, smiling with mock gallantry. “I promise."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Family matters in a place as remote as Skyhold
 it was the last thing Zahra thought she’d have to deal with.

In retrospect, she supposed her idea was foolish to begin with, but she couldn’t stand her father’s biting insults anymore. The way he looked at her with unseeing eyes as if he knew all of the things she’d done since leaving Pressa and thought her less for it all. Discomfort couldn’t adequately describe their encounters. Their little, clipped conversations; her feeble attempts to mend a broken bridge. He was unpleasant and riddled with an age-old fury that hadn’t dampened over the years. For a blind man she had nothing to fear from, his words rattled her to the core. He was not the same. Neither was she.

It wouldn’t have bothered her so much if he simply wagged his tongue at her. But he seemed to have judgments in spades when it came to her friends as well. Of course, about the ones who had been unfortunate enough to meet him in Llomerryn. Apparently, Cyrus reeked like a Tevinter dog. He could tell from his voice; haughty, proud. Just like the others, he’d said. Leon: a brute. Not a commander, but a war-monger. Rom seemed to be the only one he hadn’t commented on. She was quick to remind him that without their aid, he would have died in the gutter. In some alley. Scorched by the Tevinter he hated so much. Perhaps, left to starve in Faraji’s personal cell. A useless hostage.

The truth was ugly. It seemed to shut him up, at least. For a time, until he filled his belly with ale and roared across the Herald’s Rest. She hadn’t outright said that she would have left him there to die, but each time he spoke ill of her companions, it came close to leaving her lips; an arrow she refused to let loose. Cyrus would be proud. As of late, she’d been watching Maccio there, cheek pressed against the wood of a table, milky eyes shuttered closed. Snoring. A line of drool at the corner of his lips. A shade of what she remembered. Of what she tried to recall. At night, she dreamed of them. A kinder version. Her father, her mother, her siblings.

The memory of her father’s arms and her mother’s scent. Fresh grass and pine, fish and salt. The feel of rain on her skin. His wide, goofy grin and the pitiful look in his eyes when he described the world beyond the reef. How large it was. How good of a girl she’d been that day. His face was no longer decorated with lines of laughter, but instead with crinkles around the mouth; a derisive sort that formed from frowning too much. His spine, much too rigid. She had no good memories of her mother. Even now, she couldn’t seem to remember what her she looked like; she was less tangible, a shrew-eyed woman barred behind a door she was not allowed to enter.

This was a bad idea.

Zahra oft wondered why she even cared to change his mind about the Inquisition. About the Irregulars, and all those she fought beside. Maybe she wanted to prove a point. That everything she had done amounted to this. A good cause. Something she was actually proud of. She was a part of this. Saving the world. Her absence, however much he viewed as a slight, had been necessary. She’d found a place for herself. A home. She wanted him to see that. And if anyone could leave a good impression on someone, it was Asala. The familiarity wouldn’t hurt. Maccio used to deal with the Qunari for as long as she could remember, making round trips to nearby villages, trading fish native to Pressa.

Besides, Asala was the kindest person she knew. She was soft. Like daisies, or tulips. Colorful. Lovely. A light in the darkness. It was the reason she stood in front of her door. The reason this might work. She had her knuckles poised a few inches from the wooden frame, her eyes coming to shut as she rummaged through her mind for an appropriate explanation. Hi—my father is a wretch and I wanted to introduce you to him so he won’t think that we’re all treacherous snakes, only me. It sounded all wrong no matter which way she tried to piece the words together. Perhaps, she would understand regardless. She hoped so. Humming softly, Zahra pulled the laces looser on her billowy tunic. It felt restrictive.

Only then did she clear her throat and knock.

Nothing stirred on the other side of the door. No gentle footsteps, no soft voice asking for a moment, nothing. Seconds passed in silence, and it appeared that the door would remain shut. Eventually, footfalls could finally be heard, but not from inside. "Zee?" Asala called from behind her down the hall. She'd come from outside somewhere, as she had the look of recent activity to her. Her clothes were loose, in the style she usually wore when she didn't have a cloak pulled over them. Her shirt had a wide neckline undoubtedly to allow for her horns, and the pants she wore were pulled up to her knees, revealing strong calves and bare feet. With her hair tied up into a messy bun behind her horns, she looked like summer.

As she walked, a marmalade cat weaved in between each step she took, though she didn't pay it much mind. Apparently it wasn't a uncommon thing, with how she continued without much heed to the feline. "Were you looking for me?" she asked, pulling up to a stop, the cat missing the next step, before pausing himself, and looking upward toward the two of them. "Sorry, I just thought that we would go for a walk. It was a lovely day," she explained with a happy smile.

“Ah—!” An embarrassing noise squeaked out as Zahra jumped away from the door. She’d had her ear nearly poised against it for fear that she hadn’t knocked hard enough and was moments away from trying once more. A mess of curls flung themselves in front of her face, as she attempted to rake them back into place. There was no point acting as if she hadn’t been startled. Just a little. She turned on her heels and swung her gaze to Asala, mouth poised in a fool’s grin. It took her a moment find her voice and quiet the staccato beat of her drumming heart. “I
 really thought you were inside.”

She drew a fist to her mouth and grinned behind it, clearing her throat with a theatrical flourish. Of course, she was stalling. Buying herself time to pose the question without sounding like she was losing her mind. Perhaps she was. She did look rather pretty, though. That in itself was worth the visit. She felt overdressed in comparison—as if she were going to war, or at least dressed for a battle. Leather and laces, covering most of her body. Less like a scurvy raider with questionable attire; less like a brothel whore, he’d said. The fare, from what he could remember. Clothes that all pirates wore. What did he care? He couldn’t see anymore.

“I was, actually.” Zahra’s gaze drifted down to the feline settled at Asala’s feet. Far more well-mannered than some hounds she’d seen. Her eyebrows drew together, before she looked back up. None of this was easy. Weathering Maccio was horrible enough for her. Subjecting Asala to him as well
 felt much worse. A soft sigh sounded as she rocked back on her heels, twining her hands at the base of her back. “I’m sure you’ve heard already about my father being here. Somewhere. Well, mostly in one place.” She gave her head a shake, “and I’m not sure if it’ll help at all, but I thought, maybe, if he met someone familiar to him, he wouldn’t be so difficult all the time.”

She had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. It was. She’d understand if Asala rejected the idea outright. Bloody hell, she might’ve, in her place. “I was hoping you’d help me, ah, tame the beast
 in a manner of speaking.”

"Familiar?" Asala asked with an inquisitive tilt of her head. It was obvious she wasn't aware on how she might be considered familiar, but regardless she shrugged. "I mean, if you think it may help," she added quickly with a nod of her head. She then paused for a moment in thought, and huffed a little in light humor. "It certainly could not hurt... Could it?" Asala asked with an ivory brow raised. She chuckled and raised in hands in a show of trust, willing to follow Zee on this.

She then reached by Zahra, and twisted the handle on the door, and let it swing open. The cat at their feet then darted through their legs and entered the room on his own accord, and made his way toward her desk-- particularly the part that had a ray of sunlight shining down on it. From the outside, it appeared that her book collection was steadily growing, with only enough space cleared out on her desk solely for her and the cat. "Be nice, Bibi," Asala said, poking her head in after him. With the cat returned home, she then turned back toward Zee.

"So, what would you like me to do," Asala asked, gesturing with her hands as she spoke.

Zahra stopped bouncing on her heels and unclasped her hands. Her toothy grin tempered itself into a smaller smile. Though she’d long since come to expect Asala’s kindness in these situations, it still surprised her. She was all give, give, give, while she simply took and usually offered nothing in return. It was a habit she was working on breaking. Surrounded by such selfless people, she assumed that one day, they’d rub off on her. After all, she was growing used to asking for help. Not long ago she would have rather swallowed a sword than stoop so low. Debts were as unpleasant as dealing with Maccio. This, however, did not feel that way.

She laughed a little. Familiar, yes. The fact that Maccio wouldn’t even be able to recognize one of the people he used to trade with was a problem she’d considered from all angles. Her voice, perhaps? Accent. She’d been hoping that he could place it as he had done with Cyrus. A stretch, definitely. Impossible? She doubted it. If anything
 perhaps Asala could gore him with her horns as proof. The thought provoked an involuntary snort. “He used to sell speckled trout from our home to some of the surrounding Qunari villages. Vindar, Kont-ar. The smaller fingers, too.” She paused and lifted her shoulder, “Well. It can’t do much worse.”

Sidestepping to allow Asala to open the door, Zahra watched as the cat zigzagged around their feet and disappear into her chamber. Geez. She’d thought Cyrus’ book collection was accumulating. A chaotic mess of words and whatever else they stuck their noses into. Things that went far over her head. Probably. Hers, however, appeared a little more organized. A flip of tail and the door swung back into place. She waved a hand back in the direction she’d come, “To the Herald’s Rest. His favorite place to mope.”

What, indeed. “I’d like you to convince him that the Inquisition isn’t what he believes it is.” Her voice lowered an octave, taking on the tone of what she seemed to think a withered, old man sounded like, “A warmongering waste, filled with unsavory characters. A mockery to all of Thedas.” She cleared her throat once more, and spoke normally, “Seems as if he believes the opposite of anything I say.”

She frowned at that, tilting her head to the side as they walked. She thought about it for a moment before she spoke, "I... do not know I can change his mind," she said quietly, before glancing back up at her. Her eyes widened and she began to shake her hands, like she was trying to fight off her own words. "I mean, I do not agree with him--obviously," she added with a nervous chuckle. "You all are wonderful people and not at all unsavory-- I think you are all very savory..." She let the slip of words hang in the air for a moment before she closed her eyes and huffed in embarrassment.

"What I am trying to say is," she said, the blush ebbing from her features, "I am unsure that a few words from me will be able to shift his opinion." She nodded, apparently pleased with finally saying what she initially meant to say. Only afterward she allowed herself a self-depreciating smile. "I am not the... best at talking. Clearly," she said, with another small laugh. "But if you want me to, I will most certainly try," she added, giving Zahra a wide smile.

Zahra pinched her chin between forefinger and thumb. There was a very good chance that Asala was right. Maybe Maccio’s mind couldn’t be changed. Maybe he only hated the things she loved because of the premise of it all. It was something she held close to her heart and he’d already shown disgust at anything she’d found outside Pressa’s reef. Outside of her family. Even so. She studied Asala’s expression as they walked and focused on her words, only glancing away long enough so that she wouldn’t walk into a wall. Her jaw worked for a response, and staggered to a startling halt as soon as she processed what had just been said.

Savory. You.

The small staircase leading out into Skyhold’s grounds almost stopped her entirely. Her foot lifted and found air, forcing her to overcompensate, and fling her arm out to catch herself against the cobblestones of the wall. A laugh sounded. Her too-loud, too-obvious awkward laugh that echoed down the hallway. Had she been properly prepared for that she would have been ready for an inappropriate quip to turn the tables. It died on her tongue, murky eyes trained on Asala’s face until could face her no longer. She quickly ascended the staircase, nudged the door open with her shoulder, standing halfway outside, waiting for her, “Well, that might do it. Tell him that we’re all savory in the Inquisition.”

A deflection. A joke. The warbling grin hid itself behind one of her hands as she turned her gaze back across the grounds. There were subtle sounds. Busy sounds. The clanging of metal and hammers and people working on something or another. It was a welcome distraction from the warmth spinning uncomfortably in her guts. Making assumptions and reading between lines when there was likely nothing there. When Asala joined her side, she shut the door behind her and began leading them towards the Herald’s Rest. Her footfalls were no longer curt and crisp, but sluggish and dragging. Delaying the inevitable. “You might be right, kitten. No use giving up until we’ve tried, right? Us Irregulars are stubborn as hell.”

The scent of herbed meat and grilled vegetables met their noses as soon as the door opened. Tankards were in the process of being filled and laughter rang out across the din. Closer to the empty fireplace, strings were being softly plucked. A gentle breeze billowed the brightly-colored curtains aside, windows pushed open to accommodate the patrons. An early day for drinking. Hardly surprising. The Herald’s Rest served some of the best food in Skyhold with Brialle at the mantle, and those tired from a long day of training oft came to unwind. Zahra held the door for Asala and stepped through herself afterwards.

Spotting him wasn’t difficult—not that she thought it would be. He was perched on one of the benches by himself. She braced herself at Asala’s side, eyebrows coming to knit. His milky eyes sat above splotchy scars, staring in their direction. There was a distinctive look on his face, one that she’d come to expect since he’d come to Skyhold. The frustrated pinch to his lips, the disappointment that already preceded each and every step she’d taken to get where she was today. A wretch. Treacherous snake. Pirate, raider, waste. Had he called her a kinslayer, she would not have been surprised. He could do little more than blame her for all of his woes; for everything that had befallen their family.

She lowered her voice and leaned towards Asala, “Fair warning. He’s rather unpleasant.”

She turned toward Zahra and hitched her shoulders with her palms raised, wordlessly asking what now? A passing moment, it seemed, as her eyes turned back toward the man in question. She visibly hesitated for a second or two before shrugging--mostly to herself. She must have decided on something, or perhaps decided to just do with it, because soon she was crossing the tavern's floor. She caught some of the eyes of the other patrons, a fact she undoubtedly noticed herself, as one arm wound across her body to clutch at the other's elbow. Though as awkward as she seemed, she did not seem frightened, just... uncomfortable.

Once she reached Maccio's table, she hovered for a moment most likely in an attempt to find a suitable greeting. "Um, hello," she began, "Do you, uh, mind if I took a seat?" she asked gesturing toward the bench in question. Eventually, she took one glance into the man's face, then looked back at her still gesturing hands before she finally stilled them. Apparently she just realized the futility of it. Fortunately, he'd miss the ebb of crimson to her cheeks as well.

Zahra dogged her heels a little more hesitantly. She wasn’t exactly frightened. Just wary. Her skin itched the smaller the distance became, and for once, she found herself following Asala’s lead. She eyed the curious patrons with a much more definitive look—only long enough for those gazes to turn away. She didn’t particularly mind any flavor of attention but she understood well enough that it might bother her. Or at least make her uncomfortable. Seeing how she wasn’t a regular resident of the establishment beyond the impromptu celebrations they sometimes had
 it was expected that she’d turn heads.

She maintained her silence, partly because she was unsure what would happen. How he would react to someone actually trying to speak to him. The grumpy expression on his face seemed to have the effect of dissuading any polite exchanges. Beyond simple greetings, he’d kept to himself. Though he did raise his head in Asala’s direction and blink owlishly; eyes all the more unsettling now that they stood in front of him. His lips peeled back into a scowl before it smoothed itself over into a speculative, thin-lipped frown. An uncomfortable silence passed until he broke it with a lift of his shoulder, “You may.”

The voice that came from Maccio was as ragged as his appearance. A dragging roll of the tongue that betrayed his origins; a fisherman’s drawl. It was still as gravelly as she remembered; as if from disuse. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but her, and only when he had to. Zahra took great pains to sit next to Asala without making any noise, and for a moment, she thought that he’d heard her. The moment passed just as quickly and he turned his attention back towards the sound of Asala’s voice, the lines of his face pulling along his forehead. Confusion clear as day. “And why would a young lass sit with such an old man? There’s plenty of seats here, I reckon.”

Asala shrugged, then raised a brow-- perhaps internally noting the futile gesture. Regardless, she continued. "There are, uh," she answered, glancing around at the other empty chairs before returning to the man who sat in front of her. She did not retreat beneath his eyes, perhaps understanding that he could not actually see to stare. "It just seemed that you, um... Could use the company?" Asala asked, more than stated, followed by a sweet smile.

Maccio made a humming noise in the back of his throat as he stared at her. There was a moment of recognition that passed across his face; a twitch of his eyebrows, raising along his salt and pepper hairline. He squinted at her, though it was clear that he couldn’t actually see her. Probably a force of habit more than anything else. The next silence that followed felt much more considerate, as if he were mulling her words in his head. “Well. I wouldn’t mind the company,” he dragged his palm across the table, before finding his tankard and bringing it to his lips, taking a long dredge.

Zahra’s surprise was short-lived. In all likelihood, he probably saved all off his animosity for her. Stored it up in a bottle until it threatened to spill over. Someone could only stay angry for so long or it’d be exhausting. As soon as he set the tankard down, he squinted once more. He cleared his throat and tilted his head to the side, “Mind telling me where yer’ from? You don’t sound like the rest of ‘em, is all.”

"Oh, uh," she began, "From a small fishing village on the south coast of Rivain?" she answered, easily enough. After though, she tilted her head and added, "But... before that? Par Vollen." Undoubtedly she added the last bit for him to confirm that she was, indeed, a Qunari. "I, uh, heard you were from somewhere similar? Not Par Vollen-- of course," she corrected quickly, giving herself and embarrassed chuckle, "But a fishing village?"

Only then did Maccio’s eyes light up. The solemn lines in his face seemed to soften and crinkle up into a smile. A semblance of one. That too seemed to be a rarity. He tapped a hand against the table, causing some of the bottles and his tankard to bounce, and settle once more. “Pressa—just a wee finger off Llomerryn. But our fish couldn’t be find anywhere else, not a lick. I’d of loved to visit Par Vollen.” He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug as if to say that it was a shame.

The conversation faded into the soft strums of Brialle’s lute, accompanied by her words. Singing something about the shadow in the tower. The whisperer of crows. The white-haired man with eyes in the walls. Maccio set his elbows on the table, and leaned forward slightly. “What’s someone like you doing in such a wretched place?” There was a twist to his lips, though he maintained an amiable demeanor, “Sharks, the lot of them. Just like the Imperium.”

Asala frowned at that, but it wasn't an angry frown. No, it was more of a... thoughtful frown. She did not immediately try to tell him he was wrong, or try to justify the Inquisition to him, but instead she simply tilted her head and spoke. "I... feel like I can do good here," She began, "I have been here since the beginning. I have seen our share of victories... and our defeats," she frowned at that. As a part of the medical team, her point of view on both was undoubtedly more visceral than for the ordinary soldier. She had seen first hand the costs the Inquisition had to pay, for both their victories and defeats.

"But they try, regardless. All of them," she answered with a warm, and nearly proud smile. "They try, in spite of the costs to themselves because they believe what they are doing is right," she continued, with a glance to her side at Zahra. Her smile widened by a fraction, before she turned back to Maccio. "And I believe that they are." she added.

The blind man looked at her, hard-eyed; a gaze as sharp as newly-whet steel. It made Zahra bristle at Asala’s side, hands poised on the bench as if she were readying to clear the table. She wanted to: dearly. Outraged words threatened to fling themselves from her tongue, because he was wrong. Only when Maccio tilted his head to the side, clearly focused on her words, did she shift her weight back down on the bench. She caught Asala’s sidelong glance, and matched her smile with one of her own; a few shades smaller. Had it not been for her presence, she was sure she would not have been able to weather his obvious distaste, his ignorance.

"Skyhold is not so bad," Asala added with a thoughtful look. She looked across the table at the older man and pursed her lips. "I, uh, do not know if you have gotten the chance to take a walk through her grounds, but if you would like... I would be more than happy to show you around, and show you what I mean." She paused for a moment, before she quickly began to gesture awkwardly with her hands again. "I mean, uh, if you would like to of course," she added quickly.

There was something magic about her, besides the obvious. Her hands. Animated, lively things. A little hypnotizing. She was sure that if Maccio saw her, as well as heard her, he’d be as smitten as she was.

“Do good, you say?”

Maccio raised a hand to the scruff of his chin and scratched idly. There was another bout of silence, filled in with the clatter of tankards and the tavern’s general ambiance. This one, however, felt less heavy. He shuttered his eyes closed for a moment and suddenly pushed the bench backwards a few inches, scraping it against the floor. Bushy eyebrows raised as he opened his milky eyes and scooted away from the table, straightening his spine in feeble attempt at a stretch. He held his elbow aloft and looked in the direction he seemed to believe Asala was in. His mouth pursed itself into a thoughtful line, “If you’ve got time to show an old trawler around
. who’m I to refuse?”

The closest thing to a yes she would get from him, Zahra was sure. She set her elbow on the table and leaned her chin into her upturned palm. Seemed like she wasn’t needed at all. Might’ve done much worse if she’d announced her presence in the first place. She’d have to thank Asala later. How, exactly, she wasn’t sure. She arched an eyebrow, puffing an errant curl of hair away from her face before mouthing a thank you.

She had much to be thankful for.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Even Zahra noted how strong she’d gotten over the past few months. The fact that it was discernible, rather than felt, spoke volumes about how she felt about her progress. Muscles she’d never known to exist had begun to form. Biceps. Shoulders. Everything she needed to lance an arrow clear through someone’s skull. An archer’s dream. She felt strong. Stronger, in any case. No longer did she huff and puff up the stairway like she was on the brink of death. An improvement on her endurance. Not only had she begun regularly concocting her own little potions—under Rom’s supervision and frequent recommendations that she should practice self-restriction or else she’d find herself much in the same place he had, but she’d also stayed true to a regimen. A rarity, given her lack of conviction in most things.

Alchemy was a tool; not a crutch to lean herself on.

It was a reminder she took seriously, even if her impatience was in conflict. She could tell by the pinch of his brows whenever they had their lessons that it was no laughing matter. How would she have fared in his place? Not so well if her drinking was anything to go by. Sailors, and pirates, by default linked arms with some sort of dependency. Whether it was freedom or liquor or any other kind of unsavory inclination, they were bound and doomed once their boots hit the boards of a ship. Usually. There were exemptions. She hadn’t met one yet.

This was a perfect day to test her mettle. The day was in full flight and she had already delivered the questionable challenge letters underneath Khari and Rom’s doorways; a wink of levity in her slanted scrawl. All sloping letters and eccentric spirals; the wording was ridiculous, but she assumed they would’ve understood it anyhow. She hadn’t actually sparred with anyone besides Marcy and Ril. One was planned, and the other was quite impromptu. She’d learned much from both
 but had always wanted to toss dirt with those two. The sun had fortunately dipped behind a formation of clouds, allowing a little shade across the training grounds.

Favoring a lighter fare of clothing for the smarmy weather, Zahra had chosen a fitted leather vest and billowy, dark brown trousers that were rolled to her knees. As was common in Skyhold, she’d forgone shoes. She stretched her arms over her head in a wide arc and let them fall back to her sides again; a grin already set on her face as she awaited their arrival.

Khari was the first to show, lightly-armored compared to usual, like she wasn't quite sure if she were going to be needing it or not. She was still doing up some of the pieces as she walked actually, an enterprise that was clearly frustrating her. Grumbling, she came to a stop a few feet from Zahra, blowing a puff of air upwards to force a stray red curl out of her face. It worked for about two seconds before the lock fell back down in exactly the same spot.

The issue was one of lacing—it seemed she hadn't threaded them through beforehand like she probably should have, and was now effectively trying to stitch herself into the hardened leather plates. “Why is this harder to get into than plate?" One of the laces finally fit through the eyelet, but that still left her at an awkward angle, considering that they ran down her sides beneath either arm.

Zahra’s attempt to withhold laughter ended in an unwomanly snort—not so unlike her usual bouts of laughter, though she doubled over, and planted her hands on her knees, before finally straightening and crossing the yard towards her. So many laces, it was a wonder that Khari had enough patience to put any of it on. “Let me, let me,” she grinned wide, and circled around to Khari’s side, flapping her fingers away so that she could finish lace them up herself.

It wasn’t difficult to do from her angle. A second pair of hands was essential, or there’d be a lot of frustration. She wondered if this was the reason knights had those assistants, yes. Squires. Did templars have the same kind of person trailing along beside them? Chevalier? Someone who would help when they were needed. Learning along the way. Someday, she supposed, Khari would have someone like that at her side, teaching them what it meant to be a warrior. She hoped so.

“Here I was thinking that anything made of steel would be a bloody racket to get into.” She gave her a pat and stepped off to the side, “I don’t know how you do it.”

"Lots of practice, if I had to guess." It seemed Rom wasn't long after Khari, though he'd emerged from the main keep, geared up as he usually was by baring his arms up past the shoulders, with his leather armor only where it was needed. No doubt he didn't struggle putting that on, or taking it off. Sometimes it seemed like he didn't ever leave home without it, or his blades. The ones he wore today weren't sharp and deadly like the others, though, more useful for painfully prodding weak spots to let his opponent know that in a real fight they'd be bleeding all over the place now.

He pulled on a second bracer, the protection extending along the top of his hand to protect his knuckles as well. He flexed his hand to test the tightness of it, apparently finding it adequate. "So what are we up for today, Zee?" He seemed in a decent mood. Possibly from his continued recovery from those potions of his. She hadn't seen him take one in quite a while now. Not since she'd made it back to Skyhold at least. He was quite possibly done with them altogether.

That Zahra was wearing the least amount of armor hadn’t escaped her, but she was an archer, and usually only bore leather bracers and little else; even when using her rapiers. Movement was a priority. She was beginning to realize that it was her main strength and she only just had begun working on her endurance to meet the requirements of lasting more than a few minutes. Her window was small, but she was optimistic that she’d improve with time.

She clapped her hands together and wandered to the center of the training grounds. “I’ve seen both of you spar before. And while you’ve been away, I’ve been training quite a bit.” An eyebrow rose, inquiringly. She spun into a slow, languid circle, hands sweeping out to her sides. “I figured it’d be fun to see the fruit of my labors.” She pulled her hands back to her sides and grinned wide, teeth bared, “With bets, for flavor.”

Khari blinked, crossing her arms, though not in a particularly aggressive way. “Wait, what are we betting? Because if this is another game where we have to take our clothes off, I'm not drunk enough to play it."

“No, no, not thatkind of game,” Zahra waggled her eyebrows and stepped off to the side of the grounds, hunching over to pick up her blunt blades. They were somewhat thinner. Perfect for swinging blades with as much precision as rapiers. Clearly not as sharp as those made for penetrating the thin defenses leather armor allotted. But, enough to let someone know that if they’d been sharper, they would have done damage to hobble them.

“Bets to see who can take someone down the quickest,” she tapped her blade on the ground and tipped her head to the side, “They don’t need to be as tawdry as those, unless you want them to be. Stripping our clothes would be awfully strange.” Her lips curled into another smile, crinkling the corner’s of her eyes, “Personally, I’d love an extra piece of pie at our meals.” She rolled her shoulder into a stretch and shrugged her shoulders, working out the kinks. Challenges always pushed her to her limits, this was no different.

Rom looked a little amused by the idea. He made his way over to the edge of the practice ring, allowing the two women to occupy the center. "If you can take down Khari at all, I'll get you all the pie you can handle." There was no doubt he was capable of it. Being Lord Inquisitor had its benefits, after all, and one of them included the ability to nab anything he wanted from Skyhold's kitchens. It was something he'd been known to do, from time to time.

He put his back to the wooden fence, stepping up to sit on the highest rung of it. "Enough pie to undo all the work you've been doing lately."

Khari grinned, apparently pleased with the direction of the conversation for some reason or another. “That's not a whole lot of incentive for me, but this is a spar, so I really don't need any. Pie's nice though." She considered the ring around them, then reached back over her shoulder to pull forward her own weapon. It was certainly much heavier than anything Zahra would ever bother to use, and quite a lot longer as well.

He was right. It’d undo all her hard work—though she figured that all she needed to do was train even harder to allow herself the satisfaction of an extra pastry on her plate. Skyhold’s pastries were divine. Zahra lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and stepped off to the center of the grounds, grin tempering itself into a smile, “Bragging rights are just as good.”

It was a challenge. A small taunt. She could already see the flicker in Khari’s eyes; the woman always loved a good fight whether it was with her fists or her ridiculously large sword. Sparring was a battle in itself. It was one of the things she loved so much about her. For a moment she glanced at her own thin blades and decidedly tossed one to the side, drawing one of her hands at the middle of her back: fingers splayed.

What Zahra lacked in ferocity and brutish strength, she made up for in agility. Flexibility. Grace, in a sense. Rapiers were used by those who could dance; and if she’d learned anything from Marcy
 fencing was a calculated art that relied on reflexes, and calculated movements. Attributes she could take advantage of. Temper like steel. She drew her foot backwards and slowly sidestepped to Khari’s right, blade poised vertically. Waiting.

It would no doubt be an exaggeration to call anything Khari did in a spar or a battle dancing. They'd fought alongside each other often enough for Zahra to know that. But the Khari that looked back at her now was clearly a very different one from the early days, when she'd have risen to the bait like a hungry shark. Instead, her expression was almost blank, like she wasn't even paying attention to what Zahra had said, only the way in which she was standing. Assessing, analyzing. Strategizing.

But when she moved, she exploded. With a sudden lunge, Khari brought her sword around faster than anyone had a right to move something that large, going in for an efficient overhead cleave. It wasn't actually aimed for Zahra's head, of course—even a practice blade would do a lot of damage if it hit there. Instead, she went in for the forward shoulder.

It surprised Zahra when Khari hurtled forward after the minuet of non-action—she’d been watching her closely. Looking for chinks in her posture, in her stance, perhaps. There was no doubt that she’d learned much from Leon and Lucien both; she was redefining what it meant to be a chevalier, all on her own.

However, she had misjudged her speed. It forced her into an awkward position of sidestepping to the left, twisting her torso sideways, and bringing her rapier to clang against the flat side of Khari’s blade. It did nothing but allow her enough time to stumble off to the side. Bare instincts, rather than anything else. If she’d taken any longer than a second to react, she would’ve caught her arm in the downward cleave.

This left her in an unfortunate position where she couldn’t take a second swing. Not how she’d originally planned. Instead, Zahra took a few more circling steps, kicking up dirt, and attempted a forward thrust towards Khari’s belly.

Khari shifted to the side slightly, just enough that the blade skimmed past the surface of her armor instead of posing any genuine threat. Unlike Zahra's dodge, it didn't unbalance her much; she stepped closer and went in for a pommel strike to the sternum.

Zahra only backpedaledenough for Khari’s strike to fall shy of her chest. A few inches, at best. She’d watched Khari enough times from across the grounds to know how she moved, but even still, she was surprised by just how quick her movements were. She was a far cry from the woman she’d met on the shoreline, baring her teeth against dragons and giants. Wide-eyed and curious; a beast of a woman who railed at the chance to battle against something much larger than herself.

She supposed that that Khari was still there, under the surface. Whatever her lessons had taught her proved much more efficient in a duel. Any attempt to taunt her proved fruitless. She couldn’t even catch her eye. As she rounded at her elbow, she couldn’t help but think of a chess board. Where once Khari had moved about with a relentless fury, she moved with purpose. Guessing where she’d move before she planted her foot down.

After parrying a few more strikes, twirling out of reach, Zahra managed to catch Khari’s shoulder, after receiving a few blows of her own. Instinctive. Quick strikes. Ineffective compared to Khari’s furious strength. But if they had been true blades, they may have been enough to send someone to their knees. She leveled one at the back of her leg. Enough to hobble, if it had been a true battle. She couldn’t help but grin as she set her blade in front of her face, and stepped into her, attempting to stall the downward strike at the base; catching the pommel. A rapier would falter against a much larger sword, unless the combatants were close enough to snatch at their wrist.

She had. Though, not particularly successfully.

The stand-still didn’t last as long as she wished it would. Panting as she was. Sweat trickled down her spine, and dripped off her chin. Khari managed to slip closer still, slipping her arm beneath her armpit, tossing her off her feet. Into the air. The world turned upside down. Even if she’d wanted to halt her momentum, she doubted she could. She hadn’t expected it. Not until she landed on her back and her breath heaved out of her. Her rapier clattered off to the side. It took her a moment to curl into herself, before she started laughing. Cackling.

“Strong as a bear, you are,” it came out as a wheeze, bared through teeth, “Guess you win this one.”

Khari grinned in reply, the narrow, dauntless focus of a moment ago dissolving as though it had never been there and leaving only the gregarious elf woman behind in its wake. Like someone had snapped and produced light in a dark room, chasing away the shadow and foreboding all at once. Staking her practice sword in the ground, she made her way over to Zahra, offering a hand to help her back to her feet. “Sorry I threw you. Don't get a chance to practice that, usually. Most of the people I fight are a bit too heavy for it, and Stel's too slippery."

Zahra reached up and grabbed onto Khari’s hand, letting her pull her back up. She planted her hands on her hips and rolled her shoulders, stretching out the ache in her back. She’d definitely feel it tomorrow. The grin hadn’t left her face, though. She never wanted anyone to go easy on her. It would’ve been insulting otherwise. “That’s alright. Surprised me, that’s all.”

Jokes aside. She noted the difference. Her lack of endurance had improved. She doubted she would’ve been able to last that long against Khari before, not with her relentless style of fighting. It was something, at least. There would be times in the future where a bow would not be at her fingertips, where she’d have to square off against someone much stronger than she. “Here I was thinking I’d made all the progress,” once she steadied her breathing, she sidled to Khari’s side and slung one of her arms around her shoulders, hugging her close, “Alas, I don’t think I’ve got slippery in me.”

She hummed low in her throat and waggled her eyebrows in Rom’s direction. A challenge, in not so many words. “I don’t think I’ll be winning any pies today, but this, I think, is good enough.”

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: 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: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Image

No longer creatures of the Maker’s light.
From the height of heaven they plunged,
And Tevinter saw them burn across the sky like falling stars
Where they touched the earth,
Twisted darkness grew, poisoned by their hate.
And the clouds covered them and wept.
– Canticle of Silence 3:14
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If the Irregulars were anything, they were people that actively tried to give Zahra heart-attacks; en masse.

Between scraping up the broken-bodied duo, Amalia and Ithilian, and seeing the others traipse through the front door, all in one piece, but with Stel sporting new, frighteningly central wounds
 she figured they’d be the end of her. Grey hairs, abound. Not that it was all that surprising. She’d heard the gist of their travels over wine, and the warmth of Catus’s lounge. Brand’s promised bottles were empty by the end of it. It appeared as if their journey hadn’t been any less demanding then their own. Trudging through forests and shrubbery in search of family. Facing ancient ruins and elven descendants. Undergoing grueling trials and coming out of it successful. That, in itself, hadn’t surprised her at all.

They were tight-lipped about the rest of it. She didn’t mind. There were things best left unsaid. Whatever they had done hadn’t been fruitless. Vesryn looked somewhat better than what she remembered. Still gaunt. Still pale. But even she couldn’t miss the brightness to those green eyes of his. She’d said as much. Teased that he could have his most handsome in the Inquisition throne back if he’d like. She’d been keeping it warm. The smile she’d earned bordered on a scoff, the ghost of a grin that she hadn’t seen in awhile. The relief she’d felt seeing them all there was palpable; hearing their story and regaling them with her own reminded her of being at the Herald’s Rest. Comfortable. At ease, in such an alien place.

In retrospect, Minrathous made her skin crawl.

In all likelihood, the estate itself was as gaudy and impractical as any Tevinter nobleman’s house. While she might have fully imposed herself on the man’s generosity, milking it for whatever he was worth
 she felt no inclination to do anything but wander the halls, poking her head into different quarters just to keep herself occupied. To keep herself in motion. Even if Bastian had been all too accommodating to their cause, she couldn’t help but feel confined. How much it reminded her of what could have been had she lived here, in such an estate. Gold-trimmed. Walls decorated with portraits and banners and depictions she could only guess at. Stark coloration and hallways that made her feel smaller than she was. The whole damn place made her feel small.

It made her think of how close she was to them. To him.

Zahra paused in front of the large double-doors leading down into Bastian’s front yard. Ridiculously large. She failed to see the point. No one here was quite as tall as Leon, so why the bloody hell? The thought only distracted her for a moment before it was fouled by other things plaguing her mind. She’d passed down the hallway several times already. Frankly, she was getting tired of it but always seemed to find herself standing in front of them, arms crossed. A soft sigh puffed from her lips, annoyed by something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. An itch she couldn’t scratch.

The door swung open and she froze in place, not quite expecting anyone to have come from outside. A small figure weaseled themselves into the crack in the door, diminutive enough to only warrant a small space, and promptly shut it behind them with the heel of their boot. It took her a moment to realize that she was standing there; mouth gawping open to find a greeting and finding none. Bouncing black curls. Sharp-featured. No more than fifteen years old. Hard to tell, though. Dressed as all the other servants were, the Bastian house emblem emblazoned on her tunic. She’d seen the elven girl before, working in Bastian’s kitchen. An aid, perhaps? No matter how well they were treated, slave still sounded too sour in her mouth.

Bright eyes pivoted up to hers as she held a piece of rolled parchment in her hand, flapping it in the air, “You are Lady
 Zahra? Er, Tavish?” Her voice was soft and low, a tickle of a grin easing her mouth up at the edges. Mischievous in every sense of the word. There was a hanging pause, as if she was expecting something. She slowly retracted the paper back to her side and stared at her. Openly. She certainly didn't think it was rude at all.

“Ah, yes. Yes. That would be me.” It took Zahra a moment to find her tongue, clearing her throat behind one of her hands, and turning to face her properly. She arched an eyebrow down at her and smoothed her hands down the front of her shirt, wondering. Considering the letter in her hand, now held behind her back. She couldn't tear her eyes off of it. Hoping. Wishing. A trickle of dread ran down her spine, and a longing that surprised even her.

“This has your name on it, Lady. Dunno who. Dropped it off at the door and ran off, way I see it. Don’t happen too often.” The way she emphasized lady made her think that she was openly mocking her, or didn’t care so much about formalities. Neither did she. She liked her already, this wee lass. Bastian had good company. “S’pose you should have it, then. If you’se who you say you are.”

The servant-girl hadn’t given her much time to react let alone thank her, seeing how forcefully she pushed the letter into her stomach before scampering off down the hallway. A whirlwind gusting in and disappearing as if she hadn’t ever been there at all. She snatched it up before it could fall to the floor. It felt familiar. A flash of red caught her peripherals, dragging her gaze down. She felt cold and hot all at once, bristling at the wax symbol underneath her thumb. A dragon. Coiling serpents. The Contee sigil. She was already in movement. Thoughts jumbled over each other, threatening to spill. She stomped down the hallway, clutching the damned letter to her pounding chest until she reached Cyrus’s doorway. He was probably there.

She hoped he was.

With letter in hand, Zahra knocked her knuckles against the wooden frame, a little more forcefully than she’d meant to. “Cy? Cy? You in there?”

It didn't take Cyrus long to appear. He of all of them looked least changed by the results of whatever had taken place in Arlathan forest, though there was a certain pinch to his expression. She was coming to recognize it as one that showed up when he was brooding over something, which he did a lot, but not as often as he'd used to, maybe. His eyes moved from hers, down to the letter in her hands, and he stepped aside immediately, wordlessly bidding her to enter the room.

It was as nice as any of the other guest accommodations, if distinctly impersonal. No books strewn all over the place, or random bits and bobs, or the big-eyed shadow of a cat that always slept in his chair back at Skyhold. The table was almost completely clear of anything, actually, except a few sheets of parchment and some charcoal. It looked like he'd been doodling.

“This is probably insensitive of me, but I sort of hope that envelope means we have something to do."

Zahra tried not to bowl him over in the process of entering his room, holding the letter aloft in a similar fashion as the little elven-girl had. She hadn’t halted her advance until she stood next to the oaken table pushed up against the furthest wall, beckoning him over with a tilt of her head. Her eyes trailed across the sheets of parchment already stretched over its surface, and she paused. Doodles. He’d been doodling in here. The imaginary was enough to stagger her maddening thoughts.

Pouring over books during their stay was what she’d expected. Bastian had them in droves: his own personal library, at their service. Even in her frenetic state, she’d noticed the pensive look on his face. Thoughtful, a ruminating sulk. Broody. She’d seen it before. Subtle as they were, she was coming to know the small signs he revealed. There was something on his mind as well. This would be a good distraction. He looked like he needed it as much as she did.

“You’re not the only one,” she’d been teething at the bit to hear any bit of news since coming to Minrathous. It was foolish to think that just because they’d come here, anything would happen at all. They played on Corveus’s terms now, not their own. She dug her finger into the corner of the letter and dragged it across, tearing it open, in order to tug the letter out. It only took her a moment to smooth it out across the surface of the table, set beside Cyrus's doodles. She paused, eyebrows screwing up. Completely, utterly alien. The words made no sense to her. Swirling letters in fine penmanship, meticulously written, forming words she'd never read before.

Avanna.

“What the hell—” she prodded a finger in the middle of the page, hard, and made an ugly sound in the back of her throat, “is this? It’s
 I can’t read this.”

“It's Tevene." Cyrus picked up the letter, smoothing out the creases with his hands as well as he could, before scanning it over. No doubt the language was no challenge to him, as he was both a native of the Imperium and educated enough to know several tongues besides. “He wants to meet you in a public location. Specifically one in front of the Grand Proving Arena, though apparently we're not allowed to take the most public route there. He suggests that you bring friends, and reminds you that nothing comes for free, though he has as yet refused to name his terms."

Tsking softly, he tossed the letter back down onto the table with a soft whump. “It can only be something quite unpalatable. No doubt he hopes to draw you in and reveal it to you only when you feel you have no choice but to pay." He crossed his arms, finding and holding her eyes. “I can get you there the way he wants, of course. But I do advise caution... and not bringing along anyone you think especially unsubtle or vulnerable to manipulation, as he surely intends to attempt it."

A breath sifted from Zahra’s lips as she leaned her shoulder against the wall. Of course, he’d chosen a language she couldn’t understand
 but he knew her friends well enough to know that some of them had come from Tevinter. However vicariously, he knew of them. That fact hadn’t eluded her thoughts either. How much he knew didn’t really matter. It was enough to set her on edge, set her teeth to grinding. How had he known they were here?

She scrubbed a hand over her face, and let it drop back down to the corner of the table. She eyed the letter once more. “A mystery man with a nameless price. Man’s a wee bit pretentious.” It didn’t sound all too appealing given the fact that they didn’t know what those terms were, but if he was reaching out to them, it was something he believed them capable of granting. Besides, the decision had already been made. She would go. She would ask him to go, as well. Her gaze met his once more, and held it there, “Don’t s’pose I have much choice in the matter.”

The implication was clear as a bell. In between the lines, stark as daylight. She didn't have to ask him. She knew the answer, as readily as she knew her own if he needed anything from her. Without his support, she wouldn't have come nearly this far. Maybe, she wouldn't have done it at all. He seemed to think that she would, in any likelihood. Save her family. An obvious choice to so many people. She thought differently. The people she surrounded herself with made her a better person; softer, in some cases.

Someone who wouldn’t steer away from their goals. Leon immediately jumped to mind. Solid as a stone, that one. She’d need that aplomb at her side, and as Commander of the Inquisition, she doubted he’d be swayed by much in the means of manipulation. What could a man say to any of them? How would he try and manipulate them? Magic. It was a dangerous factor. One that she did not understand: its boundaries, its extent. Her other choice was obvious: Rom. He was as subtle as they came, quiet as a mouse. Being familiar with Minrathous and how nobles operated certainly helped. “We should ask Leon. Rom, too. If they’ll come.”

She was asking a lot, after all.

Cyrus considered the selections for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “Considering the parameters, they'd probably be best suited." He didn't seem to harbor any doubt that they'd agree to it, either—not after everything. “If you would like to do the asking, I'll inform the others of our departure, make sure they know where to look if something goes wrong." Perhaps he knew where the Contee estate was, or at least had a way of finding out. Minrathous wasn't that large a place, after all.

He turned as if to leave, but then reversed his direction again, pursing his lips. “We'll... we'll find them, you know. And if the price isn't one you're inclined to pay, we'll find a way around it. I've been told I'm fairly good at that sort of thing." He offered an uncomfortable half-smile, then resumed his exit, intent no doubt on informing the others of what was about to transpire.

They would do it if Zahra asked them to. It was peculiar, even now. Knowing that she had people in her life who would be willing to go so far for such a selfish reason. One that had no guarantees, no assurances; certainly no certainties that Corveus was telling the truth. He wanted something from her. From them all. Even so. Even so. They’d go with her. Her smile was genuine as she nodded her head and inclined her chin back towards the door, almost feeling abashed by his statement, “Alright then, I’ll go get them. Meet back in the lounge?”

As soon as he skirted out the doorway, she pushed herself away from the wall and stepped into the hallway. Following the soft sound of retreating footsteps. She watched Cyrus’s retreating back and swore to herself never to make any more foolish assumptions. Not when it came to her friends. They’d never given her any reason to before. There was a bloom of too-grateful, too-lucky spreading throughout her chest like wildfire; she was undeserving of it. Of them.

Her deliberation broke with a crooked smile as she strode in the opposite direction.

They were something she’d gladly, willingly hold close.

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

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#, 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

0.00 INK

#, 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

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#, 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: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
It hadn’t taken them long to return to Bastian’s estate, briskly traversing the winding streets until they came panting to the front doors. Cyrus was spirited away to one of the rooms, while plans were drawn up to leave aboard the Riptide as soon as he was stabilized. A bobbing, swaying ship, would only hamper the healing process if they couldn’t stop the bleeding. Too crowded in the room, they’d said. She believed them. They would have their hands full keeping him from falling apart. Zahra, and the others, were left alone to their own devices, either to pack their things or take a breath. Relax for as long as they could, before the long journey home.

Relaxation would not find her. Sleep seemed hilariously out her reach. Exhausted as she was, she felt restless. Her thumping heart, beating loud in her temples. It made her feel dizzy. Lost. The wound he’d suffered was
 grievous. She couldn’t get the image out of her head. It replayed, over and over again. Thumping to the ground like he weighed nothing. A listless corpse. All the blood. On her, him, Leon. She’d never been the sort to agonize over what-if’s, but there they were, reconstructing into plausible angles, precautions she could have taken, but didn’t. Seeing him like that made her stomach turn over, sick. What would Stel think? What would she say? That she was the cause of it, because she’d been selfish enough to involve him in her business, and he, the smarmy, selfless fool had jumped in front of a blade to save her idiot-brother.

She gripped onto the front of her shirt and slumped against the wall, eyebrows drawn together. The fabric pinched between her fingers as she loosened her grip, letting her hand fall back to her side. Sitting here, tormenting herself over what had already happened, would do no one any good. Most of all, herself. Still, she didn’t think she was ready to face the others, especially Stel. A soft sigh slipped from her lips, as she pushed herself away from the hall, facing towards the lounge area closest to the kitchen. Bastian had allowed Corveus sanction for the night, but nothing longer than that. Tevinter politics. Something she understood, and cared, little about.

Maleus hadn’t strayed far from his side. From habit, perhaps. Their relationship was as inscrutable as Corveus was. Though the shroud of mystery surrounding him had dampened considerably since escaping his families estate, seeing how there was no longer anything to hide behind. No mirrors, no masks. That, in itself, was a comfort. She didn’t like being kept in the dark. About anything, let alone something so important to her. As for Maleus’s proximity to the man, she wasn’t sure how she felt. Whether the roles were still in place, Corveus being a dominus, and her brother, a simple slave, hounding faithfully behind. She hoped that wasn’t the case. She hm’d quietly, and decided quickly enough. She needed to talk to her brother.

It was a start, at least.

Zahra found them easily enough. In the kitchen, talking in loud, brazen voices. There was a laugh she didn’t recognize, along with one she did. At first, she lingered beside the doorway, cursing herself for eavesdropping. She couldn’t help it. Leaning slightly forward, but enough to be tucked away beside the door frame, she could see them facing the counter. Maleus was seated in one of the stools, a knuckle of bread in one of his hands, talking with his mouth full and Corveus was standing behind him, hands fiddling at the heavy collar wrapped around his neck.

“Stop squirming. I swear, it won’t hurt,” Corveus chided, pushing at his shoulders. He drew one of his hands up to his mouth and shifted, exhaling sharply. Biting at his thumb, deep enough to draw blood.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have this thing wrapped ‘round your neck,” her brother’s response. She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. He didn’t seem to believe him, the way he was trying to square his shoulders, raising them so that the collar shifted closer to his ears. Still, he hadn’t moved away. Only wrenched his head to the side, allowing a better vantage.

The lordling drew his finger down the top of the collar, dragging it downwards, a look of consternation twisting his features.

There was a hissing noise, and the black, polished hinge was being bent under the pressure of whatever magic he was using. His hand lingered there, careful enough not to touch skin. Another sound. This time, an obvious heavy, metal crack. A clean break, right along the middle, where someone else had applied the initial weld, still a yellow-gold with the applied heat. His hand slid away and he made a sound, a rather triumphant hmph. “See. How does that feel?”

Maleus was the one who drew his hands up, cracking the collar wide enough to slip from his neck. His expression was unreadable, a veil of muted surprise. “It feels
” He held it for awhile, before his eyes swung towards her, and the confusion melted away, replaced by a grin she sorely missed. The drawn out look on his face didn’t escape her, and neither did his eyes, red-rimmed. Like he’d been crying.“What’re you doing, gawping there? Snooping isn’t like you, Zee.”

Zahra blinked, stupidly. When had she—glancing to the side, she hadn’t realized that she had taken a step in, without thinking. No, she’d never been good at snooping. On anyone, or anything. Too loud, always too loud. It wasn’t her style. She much preferred bullying her way into someone’s business, nosy as ever. She wasn’t sure why she’d done it in the first place. Maybe, she hadn’t wanted to interrupt. Corveus looked mildly uncomfortable by her presence, though she couldn’t discern why. She didn’t mind seeing him look unsure, awkward even, rather than smug. Almost looked like he wanted to vacate the room. She cleared her throat and cocked her head to the side, “Thought I’d drop in and see how you were doing.” A pointed pause, before she glanced over to the only other person in the room, “You too. I’ve got questions, and I think I deserve some answers. We all do, y’know. For the shit we went through.”

They could mourn afterwards, when they were safe in Skyhold. For now, she needed answers. Badly. For Cyrus, for her.

Corveus seemed surprised by this, though he didn’t protest. Instead, moving to perch himself on one of the stools. Clearly unprepared. He set his hands across the table for a moment, before decidedly pulling them into his lap. “As you wish. I’ll answer what I can.”

An irksome response. One that she expected given how uncooperative he’d been so far. She circled around the counter, and chose to lean her elbows on it, facing them directly. There was a set to her lips, one that she oft used with people who often bullshitted her. She wouldn’t allow it here. Maker knew, she had so many damn questions, blustering to be spoken aloud. One at a time. She studied Maleus’s face, and turned back towards Corveus, eyebrows drawing. “Your brother died today, because you agreed to bring us there. Doesn’t that bother you? Why would someone like you even want that?” It didn’t make sense to her. She couldn’t stop the question before it tumbled out, a startled lilt. Confused. He was family, after all. Like her brother was to her.

To his benefit, he hesitated before speaking. Floundered for words, whereas he seemed to nonchalant before. Not so assured this time, cornered into a query that he didn’t quite seem to know how to answer. There was a pinch to his brow, as he studied his hands, set in his lap. He seemed to turn them over, as he broke the silence, “Faraji. He changed over the years. He used to be
 good. Or better. I don’t expect you to understand how things operate here in Tevinter. There are people who stand on each others shoulders just to have more, and there are families who will go to any length for an edge, for power.” He seemed to chew on his words, before continuing, “Faraji was a product of ill upbringing. He became dangerous, to himself and everyone else. Cruel.”

“Ill upbringing?” There was a terseness to her tone, one that she failed to smother down. Incredulous. Half the people in the Inquisition had ill upbringings. What made him any different? What made their suffering horrible enough to warrant torture? The same sort of exasperated outrage tickled out, threatening to spill over. Back in the estate, she’d understood why Cyrus was so angry at his response, how he’d casually dismissed the inhumanities they passed by. It made sense to her then, and now. But she’d wanted so badly to bring her family home, that it seemed
 less. That implication, in itself, made her feel sick. How she could decided who was worth more, and who less. It was something she wouldn’t readily admit. Not now, maybe not ever. She felt the same thing when she’d seen Cyrus on the ground, and decided that he was worth more, certainly enough to leave those prisoners behind.

Corveus met her gaze for once, and held it. “Magisters don’t only frown on anyone who crosses too many lines. Blood magic. Experimentation. They excommunicate. My mother never cared for those lines. She walked them. And those who knew, ignored it. Faraji was unlucky enough to be her favorite. The heir to the family.” He raised his hands, disfigured and mottled with scar tissue. Slash wounds forming white and pink bands. “And I served my own purpose, making sure the magic wasn’t dangerous enough to kill him. Dutiful sons.”

Maleus seemed ready to squabble to his defense, though he kept his mouth firmly closed. He gripped the collar tighter in his hands, offering a feeble, “It’s true, what they were doing there. Corv kept me from the worst of it, y’know. If it wasn’t for him—”

Zahra waved a hand at him, dismissively. She’d heard enough. Maybe, she didn’t want to hear anymore. That people like that actually existed, treating family like dirt, like something so easily expended, made no sense to her. It made her sick. She didn’t want to hear anymore, certainly not from Corveus’s mouth. Didn’t want to think of Faraji as anything other than a monster, one that had hurt one of her friends. Her family. She breathed out, and remembered something.

“The prisoners. What about them? Cy
 we said we’d get them out of there.” A demand. It sounded like one, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what he could do from here. From the sounds of it, he didn’t carry much weight there, in the first place. Her hand had drawn itself into a fist atop the counter, and she was sure, so sure, that if he replied with anything but benevolence, she’d crawl over the table and strangle him. The prisoner’s were left to who-knows-what kind of future treatment. They deserved freedom most of all.

This time, a small, wistful smile tugged on the corner of Corveus’s lips, skin taut against sharp cheekbones, “That’s something I can do, until I find a way out of Tevinter. I didn’t fulfill my side of the promise, did I?”

She never did hear what the end of his deal had been.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

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#, as written by AugustArria
With their business in the city concluded, and all members of their party able to safely move without risk of injury, the Inquisition finally left Minrathous behind.

The smugglers would need to be paid extra for the length of time they were required to stay in the city, as the extra tasks that came up along with the severe injuries that had needed tending to kept them in the house of Magister Catus longer than they intended. Rom felt they were lucky to get out with their lives, given the way everything had gone. But as the city on the island shrank into the distance behind him, the idea became real. He was going home.

Not Minrathous, but Skyhold, where he'd found himself. Even if he had made great strides on that in the Imperium. His farewell to Chryseis had been as awkward as he expected, but it didn't need to be anything more. As long as it wasn't threatening, he was okay with it. She still had a great deal of thinking to do, she said, but he was confident she'd eventually come around to something different. He hoped he could one day return to Minrathous, and feel like it was a different place than the one he left. Different for the better.

"How is anyone supposed to walk when the floor's rising and falling beneath you?" His new slave asked the question, stumbling towards him with a hand anchored on the ship's railing. Rom sat at the bow, his back leaned up against it, relaxed and enjoying the calm weather and the breeze as their ship took them east.

"You'll get used to it," he answered. "Probably." Though Rom had freed Brand shortly after acquiring him in exchange for his services to Bastian Catus, the young elf insisted he'd serve the Lord Inquisitor anyway once they got back to Skyhold. Outside of the Inquisition he would almost certainly become a criminal somewhere, as his skills were mostly in dishonest areas to begin with, and he'd never really been taught to respect the law, if he could get away with it. It was probably for the best that he wanted to stay with Rom and his new friends.

"Must be all that Rivaini in you. The sea's pretty to look at, but I'd rather do that from afar." He wasn't puking yet, which was good. It remained to be seen how he'd do once they got farther from shore. For the moment, he sank down near Rom, leaning one arm over the ship's railing and letting the sea spray hit his hand.

From behind them came the sound of a creaking door as the hatch to the deck below opened and admitted Estella, who blinked a few times to adjust to the light before climbing the rest of the way out. She stretched her arms above her head and made her way to the rail not far from them, offering Rom a nod and a smile as she leaned forward against it. "Just think," she said, a hint of sardonic dryness inflecting the words, "by the time we get back to Skyhold, there's likely to be snow." She shuddered, though it seemed to be mostly put-on.

Turning herself so she was leaning sideways into the rail, she offered a hand out towards Brand. "I don't think we've properly met. I'm Estella."

He took the hand without much in the way of reservation, giving it a shake. "Nice to meet you. I'm Brand." Rom was quite certain he knew who Estella was already, and what her position in the Inquisition was as well. He probably knew a lot about everyone on board already. Eavesdropping was a hard habit to break. "How's your brother doing? Up and about yet?"

If Estella was surprised he knew about that, she kept her reaction rather minimal, only tilting her head slightly before she nodded. "Well... it was quite an injury, so I doubt he'll be back to normal for a bit yet, but the worst is long gone." She sighed rather deeply through her nose, letting her hand fall back to the rail. "Our lives are never uneventful, I suppose."

As if the thought had prompted it, her eyes shifted to Rom. "I never did hear much about what happened with Marcus. Beyond the obvious, I mean." No doubt she referred to Ithilian's rather obviously-missing arm, and the fact that they lacked either a chained Venatori leader or his corpse was both obvious and indicative.

"It, uh... didn't go as planned," he answered, stating the obvious. It rarely did in their operations, but normally they were able to work their way through it with improvisation and a whole lot of effort. Not this time, though. "I don't know what the history is between them and him, but I think you'd be hard pressed to find any people that hate each other more. He... predicted Decius's capture I think. And his willingness to turn against Marcus to save himself." A great deal of knowledge of the people involved was required for that plan to take shape. Knowledge that Chryseis was intelligent enough to want to secure the Venatori leader pursuing her alive. Knowledge that Decius would put his own life over his master's when pressured, and knowledge that Ithilian and Amalia would accept the risks anyway, if it meant another chance at his life.

"There was blood magic, a barrier that could recognize the two of them. Ithilian and Amalia. We were separated, forced to deal with Venatori while they were trapped in a fight with Marcus. The one that poisoned Cyrus, Leta, she was there too."

"Wasn't all bad, though, right?" Brand offered. "You were able to pilfer his place some. Might learn something from that."

"Might," Rom agreed. "I hope it's worth it, if we do. Hard to feel like it wasn't a failure right now." Rom wasn't blind, and could see that the pair he'd pledged to help had been through an incredible ordeal over their lives. How much of that stemmed from this one man he couldn't say, but he'd had a chance to help them end it, and it just slipped away.

"I don't know too much about it, either," Estella admitted, "but I know it goes all the way back to Kirkwall. Before, even. Something tells me they won't see the end of it until Marcus decides they will." He did seem to have the advantage in resources, and the freedom to go where he chose, which was not always open to the likes of the other two, one an elf and the other so obviously alien to most places that she might as well have been something other than human.

"Still... it seems like you parted with Chryseis on... all right terms?" Her mouth pulled a little at the characterization, marking her uncertainty that it was the right one, exactly. "And it seems like we're leaving with an ally we didn't have before." Estella flashed a brief smile at Brand.

"That... that went all right, yeah." It was hard to disagree with either of those things. As much as Brand could tire him, he always did appreciate having him around before, keeping him sane. And as for Chryseis... "I thought for a while... I thought I'd have to kill her someday to be free of her, like Ithilian and Amalia need to with Marcus. But I think we moved past that. I'm not sure I want to see her again, but... I think if I do, it'll be okay."

"There was the, uh, other part you haven't mentioned yet." Brand's hesitance was purely for show, Rom knew him well enough to see that. The only time he didn't come clean and say what he intended was when he found pleasure in drawing it out. "You know, with Khari?"

Rom exhaled, resolved to just endure it. He wanted a reaction, of course. Being teased wasn't exactly something he was most experienced with, except for where Brand was involved. The elf looked Estella's way. "Balcony. Sunset. Passionate kiss. Very romantic."

Estella's eyebrows lifted towards her hairline, but as usual, she wasn't the type to crow and mock, at least not anything other than very gently. But her smile was warm, genuine, and perhaps the faintest bit knowing, as though this news hardly surprised her much at all. "Congratulations," she said. "You deserve each other, and I do mean that as a compliment." There was a faint hint of mischief to the glint in her eyes, but perhaps she meant to save whatever intentions underlay it for Khari rather than Rom himself.

A snorting laugh crackled just behind their shoulders, accompanied by heavy, swaggering steps. Hardly one for subtlety or stealth, Zee appeared soon after, crossing along the deck with more confidence than she ever showed land-side. She stomached the tide with little more than a comfortable saunter, correcting herself easily. Though a grin had already tipped the corner’s of her lips up, she looked as exhausted as the others did. She only slowed her steps when she found herself at Rom and Brand’s side, sinking low enough to sit, scooting close enough to the railing to stick her legs through.

“Balcony. Sunset. Passionate kiss,” she repeated, in a much more lewd tone, eyebrows rising into her hairline, “looks like I missed the best bits.” Her smile tempered itself, as she leaned her cheek against the railing. She glanced up at Rom and puffed a breath out, “Finally, huh?” Despite teasing him so much, she, at least, seemed just as genuine, in her own way. The question seemed wholly rhetorical. Either way, she was clearly pleased by the new development.

"Yeah, uh..." He wasn't really sure how to talk about this. Maybe to one of them at a time he could have, in different ways for each one, but talking to a group right now just wasn't going to work. "Right, so." He looked Estella's way, confident that she'd be willing to rescue him. "Vesryn's looking better. I take it you found what you were after, in Arlathan?"

His confidence was not misplaced. She nodded, face softening for a moment. "Nothing permanent, but yes. Enough for now, thankfully. It was... an interesting place, but not one where I'd want to risk to overstaying my welcome."

"Hang on," Brand cut in, confused, "Arlathan? You were there?"

She nodded readily enough. "Yes. I have, ah... some family there, as it turns out." Her mouth pulled. "Which is something that really needs to stay between us, for several reasons. Though I suppose no one would believe it even if I shouted it from the rooftops, really." Her hand went to a spot at her sternum, a slight irregularity in her tunic suggesting some kind of object rested there. Hanging from the thin chain at her neck, no doubt.

"Though admittedly I didn't bring any of them on board with me," she continued, moving her eyes to Zee. "How's Maleus doing?"

Zee let the uncomfortable subject slide, in order to listen to Estella. Distracted as she always seemed to be, it was easy. She started when the conversation listed onto her and hm’d softly, seeming a little lost for words, though she recovered quickly enough. Her hands clasped to the railing so that she could lean backwards, locking her arms in place. “He’s doing better, I think. Not sure what he thinks of all this. It’s a lot to take in.” She let go of one of the railings and made a vague gesture. The Inquisition, their assembly of misfits, and being saved from damning existence was a lot to digest, after all. “I thought I’d forget his face. But he
 he really looks happy. Keeps insisting that he meet the great, griffon-riding Lady Inquisitor. Pretty sure he thinks Skyhold is filled with statues of you and Rom.”

Brand let out a single, loud hah at that. "Sorry, I'm just imagining Rom in some inspiring pose." He paused, looking between the two Inquisitors. "It's not actually like that there, right? I like to think I know the difference between wild rumors and actual intelligence, but you never know."

"No," Rom answered definitively. "I'm pretty sure our leadership would be mortified if we started commissioning statues of ourselves."

"All right then," the elf scratched at a spot under his chin, narrowing his eyes at his new friends. No doubt wondering which would give him the best response. "Hypothetical question time: you have to commission a statue of yourself. What do you ask the sculptor to do?"

Estella held her hand up at the level of her shoulder, sizing the space between her thumb and forefinger at about four inches. "Can I ask for a statuette instead? Maybe something no one has to see?" Her eyes brightened a bit, and she grinned. "Actually, make me a chess piece. The rest of us, too. It'd be kind of cute, I think. An Inquisition chess set."

"I'm a little disappointed you haven't done this already," Brand said, though the disappointment was obviously feigned. "What about you, Rom?"

He wasn't escaping this, he knew. Not without actually disappointing his friend. "Well... assuming I can't give you the same answer, I'd say if I'm getting a statue, everyone's getting a statue. You'd have to do all of us." So many people had contributed to what they had, that glorifying the efforts of any one of them over the others, even the Inquisitors, simply wouldn't feel right.

"Sure. One on every section of the wall then. You and Khari can share one." He looked to Zee last, grinning a little, perhaps expecting something a little more upbeat from the pirate captain. "And what would you do?"

This time, Zee released her grip on the railing and plunked down onto her back. The telltale grin spoke volumes. She held out her hand, palm turned upward, and squinted her eye, as if she were imagining the hypothetical statues erected all around Skyhold. She certainly didn’t let Brand down with her response, “Disrobed. Ungarbed. Detuniced. Skyclad, if you will. There’s no other way to go about it, then that. It’d really make a statement. Might attract attention, bolster our allies, or serve as a warning to our enemies. Frighten the lot of them.”

A uncontrolled, tittering snort bubbled out, though she tried to smother it with her forearm.

"It's true," Brand said, taking the idea with a straight face, "The Venatori are much more fond of sharp, pointy shapes than nice, rounded ones. I'm not sure they'd know what to do with a sight like that."

"These are the kinds of productive discussions I freed you for," Rom said with dry sarcasm. He looked to Estella. "Think you could introduce Brand here to Rilien when we get back? He has a talent for overhearing things. Might help us avoid any more unfortunate security issues." When they led to attempted assassinations, as they had in the past, it seemed especially prudent to have someone watching over them. As the Inquisition grew larger, these things became more likely. "Might also give him something to do besides bother me."

"So eager to be rid of me," Brand rolled his eyes. "Who's this Rilien, then?"

Estella smiled a bit at the question. "Our Spymaster. He's... quite good at what he does; I think he'll be glad to have someone with those talents among his agents." She paused, then: "Well, glad in his way, at least."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Zahra hadn’t meant to—not really.

How long had she paced the halls? She intended to leave and get something to eat. Maybe, catch a few winks of sleep. Enough time to chew on her thoughts a little more, before presenting herself at the captain’s quarters, like he was the captain, and she was not. She’d insisted he take it, adamantly. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. She stomped her foot like anchors, impossible to budge, no matter what tides or arguments slapped against her. If anyone needed a comfortable bed, it was Cyrus. Or maybe Ithilian, if she was being honest. Stubborn as they both were, she doubted she could’ve put up much of a fuss against that stone-faced elf. He might’ve been the only one aboard the vessel as bullheaded as she was. That was saying something.

Here she was, mulling over the words she wanted to say so they didn’t tumble out in an awkward, jumbled mess. She’d never been one for tiptoeing around heavy subjects. Better to let them pool out, unimpeded. But, this
 was different. This was something she’d never encountered before; not with her crew, and certainly not with any of her prior contracts. This wasn’t business. This was personal. It mattered. A heavy sigh escaped her, as she halted and rocked back on her heels. Pacing up and down like a hound slavering after a bone, or a heartsick dullard. How stupid. She had too much to say. And certainly not enough breath to sputter them out.

She smoothed her fingers over the front of her tunic, steeled herself in front of the door and knocked. Once, twice, before jiggling the handle and letting herself in. Knocking on her own door felt foolish enough. Introducing herself before entering
 no thanks. She cleared her throat, and glanced around the room, eyes finally settling on Cyrus. An unusual sight, bundled in sanguine sheets, with most of the gaudy, laced pillows pushed off to the floor. A stark contrast of pale skin surrounded by a swath of vivid color—hues that made him look all the more gaunt. No doubt he’d been told not to move around much. She bet he hated it.

Before Cyrus had a chance to break the silence, she held a finger up, kicking the door with her heel, in order to shut it softly behind her. She sucked in a breath, and forgot all of her words; her practiced monologue, thanking him for what he’d done, what he’d almost done. Sacrificing himself like that. Her tone was louder, shakier than she wanted it to be, “You. You—stupid, selfless idiot,” with every inflection she swiped at the air with her hand, eyebrows drawn together, “I don’t know if I should apologize, thank you, kiss you, or punch you.” She huffed and shook her head, “Or punch you.”

A hand raked her wild curls from her face, tossed about while she paced the length of the room, occasionally swinging a pointed look his way. She knew—she knew well enough that it wasn’t him she was angry at. She couldn’t wrap her head around it, and it only frustrated her further, not knowing, not understanding why he’d done it. He almost died. For a stranger. Her brother, yes. Still. Still.

“Do you know how worried everyone was? If you died down there, if we couldn’t get you out—” Her voice rose, breathless. Bordering on an anger she had no right to. What would they have done? How broken would Stel have been, if he’d never returned to them: alive, whole. Like he was supposed to. She crossed her arms and stomped her boot into the floor, halting in her mindless tracks. Lashing out like a child, in a feeble attempt to admit how she felt. Only then did her shoulders slump and her voice lower, tempering into a whisper, “You’re important to us. To me.”

He shifted slightly where he sat, lowering the book in his hands to his lap. He'd adjusted his position so that his back was up against the headboard, and throughout her speech, tracked her movements silently with unblinking eyes. A little smile flickered onto his face for but a moment, perhaps somewhere within her repetition of punch you, but it was gone a heartbeat later, as if it had never been there at all.

When Zahra fell silent, he did not immediately speak to fill it, instead letting it linger, either by choice or because he simply didn't know what to say otherwise. Cyrus's expression remained curiously smooth, like a book opened to the first blank page, with nothing yet to read. He pursed his lips, then blinked once, the tiny motion almost reminding him that the rest of him could move, too—could speak. His shoulders lifted; a diffident shrug.

“I'm quite certain this is the first time in my life anyone has ever accused me of being selfless." His hands smoothed over the pages of his book without the assistance of his eyes, for those remained fixed on her. She couldn't read the script—maybe Tevene. “I don't think that's quite the right diagnosis of my stupidity, for the record." That smile again—just a ghost of one, at the very edges of his mouth, then gone. Wry. Self-effacing, even.

“I said, stupid, selfless idiot,” Zahra corrected quietly, uncrossing her arms. A softer sigh escaped her, the edge of ire disappearing all at once, as she rounded up to plop down on the end of the bed Cyrus inhabited. The frustration she’d felt earlier seemed like a mewling kitten now—growing further and further away. Out of her grasp. Sifting away like sand between her fingers. It had come out all wrong
 even if it was how she really, truly felt. She wasn’t even sure what she’d even been expecting. A response? An answer? Maybe, nothing at all.

Certainly not this, whatever this was. She was tempted to reach over and close the book in his hands, even though he wasn’t looking at it. Fingers poised on the pages, filled with sloping words she couldn’t read. Of course, he wouldn’t have been trying to get some rest. To heal, to get better. A muscle jumped along her jawline, teeth grinding momentarily. “You’re more like your sister than you know,” she tsk’d and slumped back against his ankles, turning her gaze to the rafters, before meeting his gaze once more, “Saving someone you just met. I’m grateful, and pissed, and I don’t even know what else. What were you thinking?”

The outcome was clear. It wasn’t a wound inflicted just before trading blows; it was taking someone’s place. She’d seen it as it happened. The split second before the plunge; the shove, the blood, the end. It was the closest she could get to asking why. Because Cyrus, and her, they weren’t selfless people. Not really.

He tilted his head to the side a bit, humming slightly. Almost an agreement that yes, this was quite the interesting question, one worth asking. But that acknowledgment was detached, the same kind he showed when she'd put a riddle in front of him—less than that, even, for no feverish excitement accompanied it, no frenzied scratching of notes, no obvious frown as the gears whirled in his head with the breakneck speed of a man who made intuitive leaps like diving from a cliff.

“I wasn't." His eyes broke from hers for the first time flicking down to his hands, where he'd splayed long fingers across the parchment-pages, spread wide as if to engulf whatever was written there. There was a faint scar on his left perlicue; it probably extended onto his palm. Too old to have been caused by the recent fight. “I wasn't thinking. I just... acted." It seemed to be a vaguely troubling thought, if the crease between his brows was anything to go by, but the frankness with which he said it indicated that he'd probably thought long and hard about it already. Doubtless he'd lacked for much else to do, in the first few days he spent recovering. “I'm not Stellulam. I didn't choose to lay my life on the line. Not in that moment. My body moved, that's all."

Zahra shifted, leaning on her elbow instead, in order to face him properly. She studied him, quietly. His face, his expression. She’d never been that intuitive, nor any good at deciphering what someone truly meant. The implications that seemed apparent, baring themselves between unspoken lines; and how someone could just know what they meant. That ability had been lost on her, traded for a loud voice, and bullheaded grit. It was one of the many reasons she would’ve drowned in the Winter Palace if she’d been alone, surrounded by all of its games and intrigue. This wasn’t the same, but Cyrus had always been a hard person to read, especially in these moments, where she understood so little about him. The fact that it may have been intentional, however, was not lost on her.

Perhaps, he thought no one would understand. In certain respects, he was right. But that didn’t mean


She breathed out from her nose and tapped the back of her hand against his knee. A soft knock of her knuckles. “I don’t really believe that,” she turned to face him once more, an incredulous wisp of a smile finally snaking its way onto her face, “But you’re right. You’re not Stel.” A pause, as she arched her eyebrows, fixing her gaze on his hand. Scarred. Maybe, a reminder. Another thing she’d never thought to ask him about. “No. You’re someone who willingly let me drag you into who-bloody-knows what, with a creepy lord who spoke in riddles, and then, then you tossed yourself onto a blade to save my brother because your body moved.”

Another knock, “Sure sounds like a choice to me.”

Her words seemed to crack the neutrality of his expression a bit, but what seeped through the breaks was unease more than anything. He shifted, a slight frown marring his face. “I chose to follow you, I acknowledge that." A heavy breath escaped him, almost but not quite a sigh. “But that... that's the same sort of thing we do all the time. Anything we put our noses in could kill us, around here." Cyrus's gesture encompassed the room and no doubt those people aboard the ship beyond it as well.

“I'm not... I'm not willing to read too much into this, Zahra. It doesn't—I've still done more wrong than right. Still chosen selfishly more often than not. This doesn't mean I'm a better person now, or that I've reached a place where I don't have to keep—" He clicked his tongue against his teeth, searching for the right words with a look of consternation. “I still have to watch myself. I'm still a vindictive prat, honestly. I need to be better. The Inquisition needs better. Or at least deserves it."

There it was again—

The ocean of history strewn between them like a broken bridge, and Zahra, crass and dull as she could be, seemed at a loss for words for once. How couldn’t he see him how she did, how they all did? From whatever things he’d done, he’d improved himself.Become better, in every way that mattered. If they were alike, if their hands were just as dirty and he didn’t consider himself a better person
 what did that mean, for any of them? She knew that pull to his lips, however. He couldn’t be convinced, certainly wouldn’t be swayed by her words. No matter how much sense it made to her, this was a puzzle he couldn’t force together. An illogical moment. One that warranted no forgiveness for prior mistakes, for wrongdoings. Just another thing the Inquisition did.

She didn’t believe that. Not for a second.

It hadn’t been inconsequential. Not to her. Not just another thing they did as Irregulars. As big goddamn heroes. They didn’t need to do it at all. The Inquisition, and her problems, never aligned. She’d trusted him with her business, personal as it was. He almost died for it. If he didn’t think he was a good person, then how could she think that she was? The burden, the smear, the shame; heavier than all the good they’d done so far. That he’d done, and continued choosing to do. What of the prisoners? How angry he’d been then, wanting them free, no matter what. Her brows drew together, mouth falling into a sincere line. She wanted to say that he was mistaken, that she, and the others, thought he was a good person. How far, and how much, would it take?

She scooted closer on the bed, though she retracted her hand from his knee, “If that’s what you believe, Cy. But your friends, they think differently.” There was another pause, as she folded her hands in her lap, “You know, I’ll never understand if you don’t tell me. I
 I’m not saying you should, or you have to, but I’d like to, if you need someone...” Her words faltered, rather lamely. The way he felt was valid, as much as she wanted to disagree, throw her hands up, and make him see that he was every bit worthy. She’d felt it enough times herself. Still. She was here, if he needed someone to listen. If he needed someone to talk to, as if he ever did. Stoic, straight-faced Cyrus, who couldn’t see any goodness in himself even when he bled for them.

His expression softened, another sigh leaving him—though this one was a gentler thing. Less frustration, more resignation. Maybe even acceptance, though of what, it was hard to say. Certainly not of her insistence on the topic. He could be quite intractable when his mind was made up. “I know." He nodded slightly, closing the book over. “I'm... I'm grateful. Really." He paused, studying her thoughtfully.

“And I'm glad your brother is all right. I'm sorry, about your mother." He raised a hand, as if to forestall an objection. “Not—not because I blame myself for it. I'm just sorry it happened that way." The hand fell back to his lap. “Sorry you lost her."

It was strange now, looking back on it. How it still hadn’t quite hit Zahra yet. Her mother was gone, dead. Alone, in that place. She hadn’t even heard her voice after all those years, not even an uttered word. Only a breathless scream. She didn’t know her anymore, and for now, she felt
 nothing. Not really. She didn’t feel the same way Maleus felt, having been so close to her. There was a detachment there, a subtle, lesser ache, mirrored against her brother’s raw, obvious grief.

She didn’t know how to arrange herself. How she should feel. There was a wrongness that twisted her guts, as if she had no right cry and weep, nor reflect fondly, because her memories were reclusive, and cold. Her lips pursed as Cyrus waved his hand in the air, deflecting any reproach he might have felt otherwise, because it hadn’t been his fault. She wish she could say the same for herself. A small, guilty part of her still sat in her belly like a rock, reminding her how long she’d been there, and how she’d never tried to contact them before, “Yeah, I’m sorry too.”

She leaned forward and smoothed her hands over her face, taking another measured, even breath. Her voice wavered, but only slightly. “You never got to hear it, but my mother, she had a beautiful voice. Like those old tales, about sirens carrying men off to sea. She used to sing this song...” She would remember, fondly. As many times as she needed to.

“Oh?" From the way he tilted his head, the odd inflection to the syllable, she could tell he was asking more for her sake than anything. “How did it go?"

With a curt laugh that sounded weaker, and a little forced to her ears, Zahra dragged her knuckles across her eyes, tipped her head back and sang.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
The leaves were beginning to retreat in Skyhold's garden as autumn steadily fell away back into winter. The flowers and trees were starting to hide away from the harsh bite in the air. Even presently, there was a nip in the air, though Asala didn't mind it over much. She found it easier to think with a little chill in the air, and it helped to clear her mind. For what good it would do. She hadn't felt much like studying anything in her room recently, and it felt as if she could never get anything meaningful done when she tried. Her mind always wandered away from the task at hand and lingered on Cyrus's words. No matter how hard she tried to think about something else, she always went back to them and she could feel her slip deeper into her malaise. He was right, she should have visited instead of avoiding him, she knew that. But... She shook her head. There were no excuses.

She leaned back against the little bench she had put under the dogwood tree and sighed. She had left her room in order to avoid such thoughts, yet here she was slipping back into them. She let her head fall back to rest against the sturdy wood behind her and closed her eyes, hoping to catch a little rest that had not been easy to find at night.

Despite the crunchy leaves littering the ground and said person’s inability to do anything remotely subtle, calloused hands slipped over Asala’s already shuttered eyes. If only for a moment. More like than not, she’d been too focused on her thoughts to hear the approach, rather than any feeble effort on the person’s accord. Whose hands they belonged to was apparent as soon as their voice whispered at the side of her head, just behind the quaint, little bench, “Been looking for you for ages.” A snorting laugh, clipping into a cough, “Er, not forever. Just a little bit, actually.”

Zahra’s fingers fanned out a little, allowing the light to kiss her vision. She finally released her, sidestepping to lean her elbows over the top of the bench. A small smile played on her lips, though her eyebrows were drawn. Concerned, perhaps. It was always easy to tell, she’d never been very good at hiding her emotions. Probably never had much reason to. Either that, or Asala’s worries were drawn as clear as day. As of late, the captain had developed a habit of taking notes of these small signs, and tried to rectify them in any way she could. Even if words, or actions, alone couldn’t solve the problem, it didn’t stop her from trying.

The dogwood tree’s limbs creaked under the slight breeze, allowing more petals to fall overhead. “You look ravishing of course,” her smile tempered itself into a slight line, soft around the edges, as she leaned forward and studied her face, “but you've been looking a little
 lost lately.” It was an invitation to speak her mind, if she wished. The way she let the silence linger between them.

"Maybe I am always lost," Asala answered with a sigh, her head still tilted back. Maybe she just feigned she knew what she was doing, when in all actuality she did not. She let her head loll to the side so that she looked at Zee, before she shook her head slightly. "I... I made a mistake, Zee," she began. Maybe talking about it would help. Holding on to it silently and dwelling on it certainly was not helping. "I... I don't know. Seeing Cyrus injured again-- I should have seen him, before. Back when he... Well, back then." She didn't want to say the exact words, as if putting them in her mouth would make it all that much worse. She could not imagine how Cyrus must have felt after he had lost his magic-- How could she?

"I should have stayed with him. I should have done so many things that I did not. I was... afraid," she said, leaning forward and shaking her head. Every time she thought about it, another pang of regret racked her. If she could go back, she would do so many things differently. But she could not.

She leaned forward on her knees and shook her head before glancing back toward Zee. "All I have are petty excuses."

Zahra hm’d in response, before decidedly circling around the bench and plopping down beside her. There was no pull to her lips at the admission. Certainly, no judgments. She had probably made many of her own mistakes, especially in her line of work. Her latest had, perhaps, been the source of Cyrus’s injury. While she’d been rather tight-lipped about the occurrences of the night in Minrathous, from the bits and pieces Asala had heard, it had involved her family. A messy situation, with messy results. Not all bad, however.

For a moment they remained in companionable silence, shoulders pressed together. She’d never been one for space, though this time, her presence felt intentional. “Funny thing about mistakes,” she crossed her ankle over her knee, “they can’t be taken back, but they can be mended.” Her eyebrows creased. Sincere. Honest to a fault. Even when it hurt to hear. Especially so. “You know, it’s not all bleak. There’s still room for that. The fixing bit. Even if you feel lost. Even when he’s angry and you think he’ll never forgive you.” There was a tilt of her head, accompanied by a small, knowing smile. “Unfortunately, that’s always the hardest part.”

After all, it wasn’t the sort of thing one could heal with their hands.

She reached over and knocked her knuckles against Asala’s cheek. Softly. “So, how will you mend?”

Asala thought about it for a moment. Her avoiding the issue is what caused this in the first place, doing the same would only make things worse. She would have to do something to mend things, time alone wouldn't heal this wound. It would also cause it to fester even more. But neither was it a thing she could rush, and forcibly attempting to do it would only scar things further. She sighed softly and let her eyes drift to her hands, her palms outstretched for her to see. "Slowly, and gently. But steadily, hopefully," she answered, glancing back up into Zee's eyes. She managed a small smile and a nod of her head. "You are right," she agreed. It would be difficult, and she did not look forward to it, but she would have to try, for better or for worse. She... didn't want to not try again.

"Thanks Zee."

“Anytime,” Zahra’s mouth pulled into a wide, toothy grin. Assured, as always. As if it was an obvious fact that she would be here if she was needed, be it with a ready ear or shoulder, or at times, even sage advice. She seemed to believe Asala quite capable of mending her bridge, no matter how long it took her. It was clear that she certainly believed it possible. An inevitability. Not how, but when. Otherwise, she may have overreached, in an effort to help. Something she was also fond of doing. She uncrossed her leg and abruptly slipped off the wooden bench, turning on her heels to face her once more. Her wild curls fell in front of her face, brightening with anticipation.

“What say you about a change of scenery?” An eyebrow rose with the inflection, hands coming to plant on her hips. It looked like she might’ve started wringing them if she hadn’t, bristling with energy as she seemed to be. A secret place, perhaps, like the one she’d constructed in the empty tower. Now, full of baubles and foolish things, bright as the sun; another world of her own creation. Littered with a tangle of thingamajigs and gadgets that had no names, no stories but the ones she made up. This time, she didn’t ask for Asala to close her eyes, only held out her hand, palm turned up.

No hints, at all. Only an invitation accompanied by the coyest of smirks. A cat simpering over a secret. Worrisome, in most cases, though when she was involved, they tended to be on the more innocuous side of things.

The smile found her again, this time in earnest. She held the palm in her gaze for a moment, thinking about all of the adventures and places that it promised to take her. There was no hesitation, and Asala soon took it in her own. "Of course."

When she took her hand, Zahra helped her to her feet and kept hold of it only long enough to ensure that she’d follow along beside her. There was a moment where her fingers lingered there, wrapped around hers, before a bark of laughter rippled out. It sounded a little nervous, clipped around the edges. Bereft of her usual breezy confidence. She swung her attention elsewhere, expression unreadable. Unlike herself. At least not until the flow of conversation eased its was back into ambiguous hints, showered in a way only she seemed capable of.

Water. A secluded location. No further hints.

She led them away from Skyhold’s grounds, following the rough path that trailed down past the amber-leaved trees, shrubs that encroached on both sides, and large, flattened boulders. Perfect for stargazing. The trail itself didn’t appear very well maintained, though someone had recently trekked through on more than one occasion. She seemed content to let the anticipation hang in the air, feeling no need to fill the silence. A small cabin came into view as the pathway widened into a grassier area. Abandoned if the lack of activity was anything to go by.

A lake, outfitted with a small wooden pier. The water was still, reflecting like a glossy, undulating mirror. Lazy clouds were cast against the surface, sailing across the sky and water alike. As they drew nearer, a boat could be seen tied to the right side of the pier. Perfect for two people to comfortably sit in. It almost looked as if it were new, crafted from wood that bore no moss, grime, or indications of wear or time. Almost too conveniently placed. A small basket had been placed on one of the benches.

“Ta-da, a little piece of paradise, hidden in the unforgiving, blistering cold of this wee place we call home.” She held out her hands, fanning them out towards the boat and lake. Her expression turned slightly dubious as she halted at the beginning of the pier, dropping her hand atop one of the posts, “It’ll float. Probably.”

"Probably?" Asala asked with an arched brow, though a small smile still managed to work its way into her lips. "Zee... The water is cold," she stated before she gently shook her head. She found herself chuckling lightly and she shrugged, if Zee had enough faith in the little boat to sail on it, then she would as well. Asala wasn't the ship captain after all. Besides, it sounded like a magnificent idea to her, regardless of the weather.

She stood beside Zee, putting both hands on another post and lifted herself ever so slightly up so that see could peer down into the boat, not that she knew what to look for. She then turned back toward Zee and nodded her consent. "Captain?" she asked, offering her hand in order to be led into their tiny ship.

“I’m eighty-percent sure it won’t sink to the bottom. Don’t know about you, but I like those odds,” Zahra nearly vaulted from the pier, landing squarely in the boat. Her arms flailed, before she got her footing back and tossed her head in a laugh. Only she would laugh at the prospect of falling into the very, very cold water. The boat rocked and swayed under her weight, but held up. No holes. No dramatic creaks, indicating that it’d meet an unfortunate end at the bottom of the lake. It was safe. For now, anyway. She held out her hands and wriggled her fingers as if to say ah-ha, it’s fine, after all. A moment before, she hadn’t looked so sure.

She planted one of her feet against the pier, and leaned forward to reach Asala’s proffered hand. Once their hands were linked, she drew as close to the wooden posts as she could. Bracing the swaying boat, so she could board without fear of plunging into the water. “It’s time to tame the mighty waves, matey,” her eyebrows drew up, voice drawn into an eccentric drawl. What one might have imagined a pirate to sound like. The wide grin hadn’t left her face, at all. Surrounded by water, she seemed to come alive, and become larger than herself. At least, it looked that way. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. They say I’m the best navigator in these waters. Treacherous as they are.”

"Then I am very fortunate indeed," Asala said with a bow. When she rose however, there was a jovial smile on her lips. It wasn't that long ago that she was entirely literal minded, and might have taken the words at face value, but now she was able to see them for what they were. Maybe it was due to the proximity to people like Zee, and Khari, and even Cyrus whose humor might have seeped into her own. Though... the comment about being eighty-percent sure did give her some cause for concern, as she glanced at the water once more. But still. She'd take Zee's eighty-percent over her own hundred-percent when it came to boats.

She carefully used Zee's hand to lower herself into the boat, trying her best to not tip them both over into the undoubtedly cold water below. Once she had both feet below deck, as it were, she held both hands out in order to try and keep her balance before she slowly slid down to take a seat. She glanced around at the lake in front of them before she tossed her head back to Zee. "I get to be the, uh, first mate, right?" she asked with an expectant rise of a brow.

Zee’s grin widened as Asala settled into the boat. Only then did she release her grip, and turn towards the bow of the little boat. The oars hung out far, rigged into metal hoops. There were small etchings on the paddle. Something that looked like horns and hearts, carved in by an unsteady, unpracticed hand. She moved the basket out of their way and tucked it underneath her bench. From the smell of it, she’d managed to smuggle something sweet from Skyhold’s kitchen. Probably some sort of baked good. Fresh, too. The amount of work put into the entire thing was reminiscent of Stel’s party.

She reached over to the loop thrown over the nearest post and pulled them free of it. Deft hands, untangling the knots. Only then did she plop down at the front of the boat, snatching up the oars and beginning to paddle, without much difficulty, to the center of the lake. It spanned out a few yards in each direction, but looked as if they were gliding across azure skies, a mirror parting as soon as their movement caused ripples to shatter the image. “Of course. I would choose no other,” she smiled, as if it were obvious.

Their knees bumped together, seeing how small the boat was. Proximity had never bothered Zee before, nor did she seem to mind now. As soon as they reached the middle of the lake, she stopped rowing and turned to face her properly, hair wild in the breeze. “I wanted to show you, before the frost starts and robbed me of the chance.” A laugh brightened her dusky features. “Claimed by Captain Zahra, and First Mate Asala. What say you to that?”

Asala was still, her body almost stiff. The boat gently swayed in the water with each of Zee's paddle, and she was afraid that even the smallest shift of weight in the wrong direction would dump them out into the water below, and spoil Zee's whole idea. Likewise, the closeness between them in the small boat did not bother her in the slightest she found. Time had seen to it that she became more comfortable when near the others. She tilted her head slightly to watch the waves ripple out from beneath them as they skated across the glossy surface of the lake.

In spite of the beauty of their slice of the world, Asala still found herself stealing glances for Zee, smiling every time her eyes returned. Once they reached the heart of the lake, they finally returned to her for good. "I like the sound of that," she said, before she pursed her lips in a thoughtful manner. "We should name it then," she stated with a tilt to her head, part jokingly, part seriously. As far as she knew, nobody had given it a name yet and if they had, and the idea of the both of them finally giving it one, well. She would enjoy that thought very much.

“Kadan,” Zee said, easily. As if it were any other word. Perhaps, she didn’t truly understand its meaning. She stared at her and grinned wide, settling the oars back to the sides, secured by the iron hoop. For whatever reason, she seemed to be pleased at having come up with it in the first place, leaning forward with her elbows perched on her knees; a secretive expression plastered across her face. “Aslan used to say it meant something beautiful. Something close to the heart.”

Kadan. Asala had also leaned forward bringing them even closer and put her own elbows on her knees. It had been a while since she had heard the word, and hearing it again so suddenly made her inhale sharply and avert her gaze toward the glass-like surface of the lake. "He was correct," she said, almost wistfully, "It means... 'where the heart lies.'" With the words, Asala turned back toward her, returning Zee's smile with one of her own, though knowing how her emotions quite plainly had a tendency to run rampant across her face, undoubtedly it held little secrets. "I, uh... I like that."

She felt it tremble as a sudden heat welled up in her face. She closed her eyes again and let her head slump down. Do it, her heart said, but what if... her head responded. She... didn't want to wait. Not anymore. Putting it off until later would be a mistake, and she did not want to make another one like that. If she were to make one... Then this was the one she wanted to make. She glanced back up at Zee, as she felt the bloom of the blush already on her cheeks. "Ka-kadan," she trembled out. Her hand, however, was not so hesitant as she reached out and placed it upon Zee's collarbone, and she closed the short distance between them until her lips pressed against Zee's.

Zee’s reaction was slow, as if she couldn’t grasp what was happening. She blinked at her and tilted her head to the side when Asala’s hand drew up to her collarbone. For someone with so much swagger, and so many sweetly-whispered words loosed from her lips like arrows, she certainly hadn’t expected the kiss. One moment she was grinning at her, possibly expecting praise for her brilliance, and the next she was red-faced and floundering in the boat.

Enough for her hand to grab at the side of the boat and miss entirely. Her hand found air, and she leaned and did not stop. The entire vessel, if that’s what it could be called, rocked precariously to the side, upset by the improper weight distribution. Her attempt to right the boat before it leaned too far to the side failed miserably. The water, predictably cold, poured over the lip of the boat and spilled them into the lake.

Lake Kadan.

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: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
There was a reason Zahra picked this specific place. Wholly related to the topic at hand, and obvious enough to her because she’d been present when the particular event happened. A moment that still made her cheeks burn. Of course, she’d left a little note, roughly folded in at the corners; shoved underneath Cyrus’s door for later discovery. It was better than huffing up the stairs and demanding to be let into his little laboratory. Besides, she wanted the sun’s kiss on her back and the wind ruffling her wild hair. It felt
 far more comfortable than the stuffy insides of Skyhold.

At least sitting on the pier, sticking out like a knife into Skyhold’s resident lake, there was little chance of accidentally bumping into the subject at hand. How embarrassing would it be if she’d joined them? Querying what they were talking about with that innocent face of hers. She would die, she was sure of it. Perhaps, she’d even noted how she had been recently ducking away whenever she was near. Making herself scarce for reasons that made no sense to even her. It was childish, these tendencies of hers. Ones she had never thought herself capable.

It made her insides crawl. Furious at herself for not being the smooth-tongued freebooter she’d always presented herself as.

Certainly not when she was concerned.

A soft sigh pushed past her lips as she tucked her bangs behind her ears. She deflated down against the piers wooden planks; a little too harshly. It bit into her shoulder blades. Uncomfortable. Just like she felt. She hoped, if anything, that this conversation would be enlightening. Cyrus had the habit of putting things into perspective, even when he didn’t mean to. It’s why she’d been leaning on him so heavily as of late.

There were few and far in-between who she felt she ever could.

It took about another twenty minutes for Cyrus to show. As someone who rarely noticed things going on around him if he was really intent on something, that actually wasn't all that late. Perhaps he hadn't been too occupied when she delivered her note after all. His footsteps fell softly on the pier, the wood creaking only enough to alert her to his presence.

He was initially silent, coming to a stop beside her and pausing a moment, perhaps to look out at the lake. From where she was sitting, she'd have had to crane her neck to be sure. He was hardly a giant next to some of the other people in the Inquisition, but he was quite tall nonetheless. He crouched, though, coming to rest on the front half of his feet, the rest of his body folded over a few times in a way that didn't look comfortable but was not uncommon for him. He set his elbows on his knees and let his arms drape forward, the unobtrusive rustling of his deep blue tunic the only sound that came of any of it.

A breeze passed over the lake, rippling its still surface; a few waves lapped at the supports holding up the dock. “It's quiet here." His tone didn't so much to change the fact—while he had plenty of aggrandizement and bombast to spare when he wanted it, it certainly wasn't presently in evidence. “Some particular reason we're talking all the way down at the lake, instead of the tavern or something?"

Even though Zahra didn’t particularly like to be kept waiting
 she didn’t mind the momentary solitude. A chance to be alone with her thoughts, listening to the soft waves rocking up against the wooden pier. It swayed with the soft breeze, rocking where she’d chosen to perch herself: right on the lip. Her legs dangled over the edge, kicked into the empty air. She heard, rather than saw, Cyrus approaching. His steps were easy to identify. She’d come to know all of their steps; their approaching gaits. She felt like that was natural, given the time she spent with them.

It was a little comforting to know someone like that. Though it didn’t make it any easier trying to wrestle her thoughts in order, make them sound less pathetic than they did in her own head. Wasn’t that what she was being? Pathetic. At least, a little. As assured as she presented herself, there were things that even she didn’t know how to handle. Things that made her feel small. Inadequate. A pirate, lost in a sea she wasn’t sure how to navigate. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Particularly because she came off so smooth—tongue untethered, able to draw out the reddest of cheeks at the most inopportune moments.

The tables had turned, it seemed.

Propping herself up on her elbows, Zahra scooted slightly backwards, in order to see him properly. The way he was crouched like that certainly didn’t look comfortable, and almost child-like; though, she’d never say that aloud or else maybe he’d leave her here, grabbing at her hair until she drove herself insane. She, too, looked out across the lake until Cyrus broke the silence. In a sense, she was relieved he had, because she wasn’t sure where to start. “I
 figured there’d be no chance running into the person in question down here,” she cleared her throat and pursed her lips, “or anyone else for that matter.” How many times had she done just that to her companions? Her friends? Too many to count, to be sure. Teasing them was a hobby of hers; one that she was sorely good at.

“Contrary to popular belief, I think I’d die of embarrassment if anyone overheard.”

She swept a hand towards the lake and pointed towards an up-ended boat that had an oar missing. She’d managed to drag the thing to shore with Asala’s help but the second oar was nowhere to be found. Maybe it’d sunk to the bottom of the lake, or drifted to the opposite shore. She’d been too red-faced and mystified to look for it. She remembered walking back in stone-faced silence, body tense as a stone. It hadn’t been fair to her, at all.

“I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned before
 I mean, why would I?” A pause, grating against her molars. “I’m not as suave as people think I am and I think I have feelings. For someone. And this, it hasn’t happened before.” A puff of breath seemed to deflate her. “I think I fucked it up already.”

Cyrus turned his head at the last bit, one eyebrow threatening to arch upwards with all the skepticism he had at his disposal. Which part prompted the reaction was hard to say exactly; in any case it settled, leaving him still more neutral to the problem than anything. At least visually. “You must be really desperate. If I'm the one you're confiding in about this subject, I mean." He huffed a short breath out his nose. “You know I've never had those feelings either, much less a functional long-term relationship." A pause, and then more quietly: “wasn't sure I believed any of it was real, for most of my life. Those feelings. A few years ago, I would have said you were deceiving yourself. Shrouding something biological in something delusional to make yourself feel better about it."

He pursed his lips, then turned his eyes back out to the lake. The breeze ruffled his hair, pulling a few loose bits back from his face. “So... nonspecific problem-solving advice is all I've got. What did you fuck up, and how do you... ah... un-fuck it?"

The reaction made her laugh. It bubbled out from deep within her chest, uncontrolled. Of course, she was desperate. There was a reason she’d sought out Cyrus of all people, even if their experiences, or lack thereof, were similar. He wouldn’t try to tease out a response, or make her want to squirm out of existence
 much like she had the habit of doing to others. She could dish it, sure. But having the tables turned on her? She was less equipped to deal with that sort of thing. A soft grin wrested itself onto her face, “I think that’s why I chose you,” she drew herself up into a seated position and pulled her knees tight to her chest, “Besides, I knew you wouldn’t laugh about it.”

Maybe, she just needed to speak her thoughts aloud. Maybe, she just needed to puzzle things together with someone she knew would listen, and offer sound reflections. Cyrus, at least, had always been able to make things make sense, even if this was the least logical subject she could have brought up. She was in the mind to agree. She’d never truly believed in love; in romance, in any of that mushy crap. It was an impossibility to her. Something so far removed from someone in her position. In her youth, she’d nearly had a relationship forced down her throat, and afterwords, she’d only thought of intimacy as a distraction: a pleasure, as fleeting as the winds billowing through her sails.

This was different. It made her guts twist and turn and for once in her life, she had no answers. Only questions, and uncertainties. She didn’t want this to be a fleeting thing. She didn’t want Asala to go away afterwards, disappear like a pretty flower she’d picked from the garden. There was a sourness there, self-reflected. This was her problem, she knew that well enough. “I thought that too, you know? Maybe, that’s why I asked you, too.” But she’d been proven wrong more than once, since joining the Inquisition. She’d seen the impossible, render itself possible. She’d seen people like Khari and Rom drawn together, mending each other’s wounds; Stel and Ves, carrying each other through the storms they faced.

This
 was also different. Zahra was not, in any sense of the word, a good person. At least, not compared to Asala. Her past crimes, however far away they were now, stretched further than she could see. She’d raided for most of her career, killed thoughtlessly, stole, pillaged. It’d been a choice of hers, not something she’d been born to, but something she’d been all too willing to do. As generous, as selfless, as she’d been of late, that old Zahra still remained a large part of who she was, of who she’d become here and now. What right did she have to be anything at Asala’s side? It tormented her. She bit her lip and hugged her knees tighter, “I’ve been avoiding her lately. I
 brought her here, one day. On that wee boat just there.” She could already feel her ears growing hot. “Thought it’d cheer her up.”

A pause, before half-buried her face into her knees and scoffed. At herself, mostly. “She kissed me. I, I don’t know why,” it came out as a weak sputter, “I didn’t think—bloody hell, I couldn’t even look at her after!” How could she fix anything if she turned into a statue whenever she so much as bumped into her? Most likely, Asala now believed she’d done something wrong. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. She peeked up at him and shook her head, curls intruding in her vision. “I’m not an idiot. I know that I wouldn’t be any good for someone like her.”

Cyrus bore the explanation with the patience of a stone, which was itself quite unusual. Most of the time, he was a lightning bolt and problems were metal spires: he was drawn to them and struck fast, often before the explanation was entirely finished. His mind made all the intuitive leaps necessary to fill in the gaps and then bounded forward again, pausing only every now and then to drag whomever was following him forward. It had been like that with Corveus's riddle, to be sure.

But this time he just raised one of his hands, knuckling his jawline with a slow sort of methodical manner that seemed heavier than all that. Slower and more ponderous. a symptom of the problem itself, perhaps. He'd admitted to being the furthest thing from an expert in matters of the heart. When she fell silent, his shoulders rose, and then fell again as he exhaled.

“Isn't that for her to decide?" The question bore no hint of remonstrance or reproach. The tone in which he delivered it was almost tentative, as though it tasted strangely on his tongue. “Whether you're any good for her or not?" He grimaced, then shook his head. “Not that I think you shouldn't... express your reservations about that, since you have them. Your history is something I think the two of you probably ought to address, but it seems like you've already decided that it's too much for her without letting her have her say on the matter."

He glanced out at the boat for a moment before reverting his eyes. "If it's too much for you, that's one thing. But if you're just assuming it's too much for her, then..." He shrugged, the motion clipped, uncomfortable. “Stop assuming and ask."

Wasn’t it?

For her to decide, that is.

Zahra could’ve laughed at how simple it sounded. How simple it really was. Maybe, most of all, she’d chosen Cyrus to speak to over anyone else because he had the innate ability to piece things together in the most logical manner, but in moments like these, he did it with a softer hand. Sometimes, it was exactly what she needed. Besides, whether he understood it or not, she’d come to lean on him far more than she’d ever leaned on anyone before. Drew herself vulnerable, exposed her wounds. She wasn’t certain why, but they were similar enough that she felt she always could.

Her grip on her knees loosened as she scooted a little closer to him. The gentle breeze picked up, rippled across the lake and made the wooden pier sway. Not enough to question its integrity, but enough that it reminded her of being on the Riptide. It was comforting. Another reason she’d chosen this place. She breathed softly from her nose, and sniffed. “For someone who’s not seasoned in romance
 you sure do have good advice for it.” She wondered, frequently. What kind of person would be suitable for someone like Cyrus? It was a hobby of hers, trying to see who’d match best in the Inquisition. She wasn’t quite sure who could match his stride, not in the way he needed.

A shame, really.

“I’m afraid of her answer,” she admitted, shuffling closer until her shoulder brushed with his elbow, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something this much, but I think you’re right.” A small smile tipped the side of her lips up, ponderous and wistful. “Why aren’t solutions ever easy? I swear, that conversation will be the death of me.” She was never any good at solving anything that couldn't be pinioned with an arrow. Let alone her own issues.

Oddly enough, though, he smiled at that, the sly expression natural to his face, and narrowed his eyes at her. "Hm. Might not be the worst thing. What do the Orlesians call it? La petite mort?" He snorted, shaking his head. "On second thought, don't ever tell me. I don't want to know. There are some people I just can't make myself think about in that context." He shuddered, dramatically enough that she could tell it was mostly for show.

"You'll do fine, Zahra. Bluntness is a strength of yours. Use it. Probably the only way she'll catch on anyhow."

“Le petit morts” Zahra repeated, in an awful rendition of what she thought Orlesians sounded like. All posh and lifted pinky fingers. Masks, and secrets, and everything else she found stuffy and uncomfortable. Her snorting laugh sounded out across the expanse of the lake. She, at least, felt unburdened from all those thoughts troubling her mind. There was only so much room there, between what was happening in Thedas and her own responsibilities here, in the Inquisition. Entertaining softer things was unusual for her.

She tsk’d and blew errant curls from her face. Asala was rather naive, though she could’ve said the same for herself seeing how surprised she’d been when she was kissed. Did Qunari do that on principle? Just to be nice? She didn’t know. Either way, she’d never find out moping around Skyhold.

“Promise me you’ll be there if things go sour?”

Cyrus looked uneasy for half a second, but then the expression disappeared, and he nodded. "Of course."

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 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: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella funneled as much magic as she dared through her fingertips, pressing them into Ves's chainmail where her arm was slung around his waist. Cyrus had his shoulder on the other side, but she could tell that the fight so far had taken too much of a toll on him for him to be able to walk under his own power just now. Perhaps, with a little rest, he'd be able to do so again, but at the moment, they just had to help him and hope for the best, because the alternatives were unthinkable.

So she kept up the magic, and fixed her eyes on Harellan's back. He hadn't spoken of this temple and the Well like he'd laid eyes upon them personally, but he seemed to have a better idea than her of where they were going, and she trusted him to make sure they didn't get lost. At the moment the path was just straight ahead anyway, and she tried not to think about the friends they were leaving behind to traverse it, fighting against Corypheus and his most fearsome subordinates. They'd find away to survive—and anyway if the rest of them didn't push on to the Well and reach it before Corypheus did, everyone here was going to die.

She grunted softly when her foot caught on an uneven flagstone, catching herself before she inadvertently dragged Ves and Cy down with her. The mark on her free right hand hummed softly, something she felt almost more than she saw it, reminding her of its presence. She might well need it soon, but for now they were doing all right on their own, crossing the bridge at a hasty shuffle, Zee guarding the rear with her bow. Astraia was just ahead, between Harrellan and the three of them. Though Estella didn't doubt her capability, she figured it was probably better that she be here than in the thick of the battle proper. Acclimating to those conditions was something best done over time, not all at once and not like this.

Perhaps, if they were very lucky, there would be no more fighting this way at all.

Astraia turned as she ran, likely checking on Ves's condition, but her eyes were soon drawn to something behind and above Estella, and by the way they widened with immediate fear, it couldn't be anything good.

"Oh gods," she said, turning back around. "Faster! Go!"

A moment later Estella could hear the wings on the wind, and she didn't need to look to know that it was Corypheus's corrupted dragon bearing down on them. The door was just ahead, already slightly ajar for some reason. All they had to do was get inside.

She could hear Cyrus hiss under his breath, and he accelerated, nearly pulling both herself and Ves along for the ride. “Stellulam! Jump yourselves—I'll catch up!" He let go of the both of them, then, turning around and making sure Zahra got past him, too, fingers already billowing with frost. Zee whipped past him in a flurry of wild curls, a determined look on her face. She didn’t need to be told twice, not when something as large as Corypheus’ dragon was hot on their heels. Arrows would do little against the beast's thick hide.

There wasn't any time to protest or ask what he had on his mind. Cyrus would be able to run. Ves could not. "Hold on, Ves." Pushing out a breath, Estella tightened her grip on him, bearing more weight than was really comfortable, but not so much she couldn't deal with it. On her palm, the mark crackled to life, wreathing them both in green light. She felt it, the moment it settled into place just so. With her next step, she willed them inside the temple.

It was a longer jump than she usually made, and Estella tumbled more than stepped out of it, her ankle turning on a hard landing; she fell to a knee with a hard thump, wincing at the sudden pain that shot up and down her leg from the impact. The floor here was stone, too, but they were definitely on the right side of the door. She could see Harellan and Astraia, and a moment later, Zee appeared, sliding through the gap in the doors.

Estella held her breath, even as she pulled herself and Ves back to their feet.

Seconds ticked by; the dragon screeched again, and she could hear what seemed to be a hissing intake of breath in the space between wingbeats. But then there was a more solid sound, an impact, maybe, and then a crunch. A pause, and then Cyrus's rapid footsteps. He burst through the door just barely in front of a column of flames, which seemed to have caught one of his sleeves already.

Harellan spoke a word she didn't catch as soon as Cyrus was in; the doors slammed together, a golden light appearing in the seam and at the edges of them, before disappearing to leave a flawless wall where before there had been an entrance. Cyrus, meanwhile, dropped quite intentionally to the floor, rolling over and putting his sleeve out on the stone. He rolled back to his feet with enviable ease for someone breathing that hard, but doubled over immediately, hands on his knees.

“I would... prefer not... to do that again, if possible."

Zee grinned wide and patted the scorched fabric of his sleeve, resting her hand there, before drawing in a large breath of her own. Though she’d much improved her endurance since she’d first joined the Inquisition
 running was still not her forte, and not something she particularly enjoyed. The smile tempered itself as she retracted her hand and pushed her hair back behind her ears.

“Least we’re all in one piece,” she added with a soft cluck of her tongue. It could’ve ended with them not quite reaching the door in time, after all.

Ves's weight suddenly pulled hard on Estella's arm. He'd tried to get back to his feet, but it wasn't to last. "I... need to stop." He sank heavily to his knees, tipping over forward to plant a hand against the floor. His axe clattered there as well; somehow he'd managed to get it inside, though his ability to fight had diminished to the point of making it almost more trouble than it was worth. It was an old weapon, though, not something easily discarded.

"You're okay, Ves," Astraia assured him, lowering her staff to the ground and kneeling in front of him. She looked more than a little shaky, but considering her lack of experience both in battles and with dragons, she was holding together pretty well. "Were you hit by something?"

"Don't worry, Skygirl. Just... need to catch my breath." He glanced around behind him, pushing long silver-white hair away from his face. "We made it."

"We did." Astraia picked her staff back up and stood, taking a step back to take it in. "It's beautiful. I've never seen a ruin like this."

And it was. The interior of the temple was surprisingly intact, actually, hardly deserving of the name ruin at all. Estella let herself study it while Ves rested, taking in the pale grey stone, fashioned into pointed arches and vaulting columns, much of the interior open to the forest and sunlight, which bathed the vestibule in mellow gold, filtered through the interrupted emerald-green canopy. The plants were verdant, some sprays of flowers almost as lush and dripping with color as the ones she'd seen in Arlathan, though there was a sense of fading here, like the richest and most saturated of the colors had ebbed away, even if what was left was still vibrant compared to most places.

The air was very still, and despite the openness, she could not hear the sounds of the battle raging beyond. The dragon did not screech, did not try to fly over the gate they'd passed an into one of the courtyards ahead. She could only assume it was protected by magic. And she did feel magic—something tingling just beneath the surface of her skin, slow and alive and ancient like the most primordial of trees, maybe. The hush here made every sound seem almost too loud, as though they were intruding on the natural state of the temple simply by breathing its air or rustling as they moved. This, too, she'd felt in some parts of Arlathan, but it took a moment for the connection to really click into place.

More than anything, this felt like the caverns. The place where the sepulchers ended, and the underground lake with its beams of sunlight lay undisturbed. Like it was just infused with magic, in a way that maybe everything used to be, closer to what had once been than anywhere else.

And in some quiet, still way, dead. A monument, a tomb. It filled her with feelings she did not quite understand, pressing down like despair but a little gentler, older and more tempered. An old grief, faded like the color where it must have once been acute. And an old weariness, lassitude pulling at her limbs, bidding her move slower, think slower, exist in a stiller way. Estella wasn't sure what to make of that, but her eyes found Harellan, automatically seeking his explanation of the experience, for surely he would have one.

If anyone seemed to fit the atmosphere, to escape the charge of being too loud and vigorous for the setting, it was him. Cyrus standing next to him looked vaguely uneasy, eyes moving too quickly over the surroundings but always pulled back in the same direction. What was there was impossible to say—he didn't seem to be really looking at anything.

But Harellan was quiet a moment longer, head tilted almost as if listening for something. "You're sensing the magic." The words seemed meant for Estella, though perhaps they could have applied just as easily to Cy or even Astraia. "There's more of it left here than I expected. I'll need to make a closer examination of the source—it should be further in." He paused, apparently deliberating with himself for a moment. "...I think there's reason for hope. With that energy, I should be able to solve the problem." He looked almost relieved to be saying it.

He couldn't possibly be as relieved as she was to hear it. Estella expelled a soft breath, feeling a bit of the omnipresent tension—tension she'd been carrying without pause since the day Ves told her his symptoms had come back—loosen and ease away from her. It wasn't a guarantee, and she wasn't fool enough to treat it as one.

But it was hope. And Maker, gods—whatever was out there—she was grateful for it.

"Can you feel it, Ves?" Astraia started forward, unable to keep her eyes in front of her, her gaze wandering all around. "I can't even begin to describe it."

"I'm feeling a lot of things," he admitted, using Estella's help to get back to his feet. "None of them new, I don't think. Must be something for the mages. Slow down, Skygirl. Saraya's wary, I think there are traps in here. The Venatori were being slowed by them in the jungle, after all. Makes sense that there might be more inside."

She nodded, coming to a stop until the others could catch up with her. They moved down a long corridor, an entryway it would seem, one that widened beyond into a massive outer courtyard. The foliage had long since crept in here; chunks of the ceiling had collapsed, letting sun and rain through and over time helping the wild take hold once more. Statues lined the walls, most carved in the shapes of animals. Halla, dragons, wolves... there were more, but Ves signaled a halt.

"The pedestal, there. There's writing." A bowl of smooth stone sat atop it. Metalwork twisted like roots down the column of the pedestal, snaking into the floor before them. Ves translated the words written just below the bowl. "It... is very vague. But I think it's asking for an offering of blood. A... request to know who seeks entry into the Sanctum of Mythal." He shrugged. "Saraya's fixated on it, so it must be important."

Harellan hummed, but he didn't seem at all surprised. "I don't think the traps will be an issue after all." His eyes flickered over the group, pausing a moment where Estella stood close enough to Ves to steady him if necessary. But then they shifted away again and landed on Cyrus instead. He raised an eyebrow, clearly articulating his suggestion without any additional words.

Cy frowned, lips pulling down faintly, but then he expelled a breath from his nose. “Fine." He hadn't stopped carrying his remaining metal sword on his person, but made no effort to unsheathe it for the purpose, instead making a quick gesture and wrapping his fingers around the kingfisher-blue knife that materialized out of the fade. Sliding deftly around the others, he approached the bowl, removing the leather glove on his right hand with his teeth. “How much?" He asked the question around the obstruction, but it came through clear enough to understand.

"Just a little should do."

Rolling his eyes—most likely because of the vagueness of Harellan's measure—Cyrus held his hand over the metal and used the knife to prick his index finger, banishing the knife by letting go of it and using his left hand to squeeze below the small wound until a fat drop of red welled to the surface. He flicked it off into the bowl, where it landed with an audible patter against the polished stone, and abruptly disappeared, as though absorbed tracelessly into it.

The effect was immediate: the metalwork began to glow softly, casting off a greenish light that spread from up near the base of the bowl to where the 'roots' embedded into the ground. A distant rumble could be heard, and then a click, like a latch settling into place, but louder. The magic around them shifted somehow, something else filtering into it akin to a cool breeze on a summer day, lifting away some of the enforced languidness in the atmosphere. It felt like being... welcomed.

Estella had so little sense for all of... this, that she wasn't even sure if she was surprised or not. On one level, it sort of made sense that the temple would recognize Cy's blood—their blood. But at the same time, it all still felt much too big for her. Surreal, or impossible, or something. It felt like maybe it should all matter more than it did. A long time ago, she'd have thought it did. But now, as in Arlathan, there was no sudden and mysterious sense of belonging to anything. She was glad they were who they were, but for the simple, helpful fact that it was going to help them with their very immediate, very present goals.

She shot her brother a grateful smile, and then Harellan led all of them forward. She didn't know exactly what instinct he was moving by, but surely he and Cyrus both felt the magic more keenly than she did. Or could at least understand what the feelings meant better than she did. Whatever the case, she didn't hesitate to follow. They moved quietly through the temple, bypassing what looked like obstacles or features of the place that pilgrims were no doubt ordinarily expected to interact with. One of them looked like a puzzle, a large section of floor with softly glowing panels. But the door beyond it stood open, the building itself seeming to accept their presence as their right, one that need not be proven in any other way.

They passed open courtyards and more statues, places where the perfume of the plants was heavy and sweet on the air, stirred by a real breeze this time, cooling Estella's cheeks and just briefly lifting the hair off her sweat-slick nape. She almost sighed with relief, but kept moving instead, pausing only once. That was to look up at an alcove filled with magnificent mosaics, mostly made of what looked like jade and other green stones of varying shades. The figures were very abstract, but from the general shapes of them and the symbolism, she could pick them out as being of the Evanuris: Dirthamen's mouth was covered by his hands, holding back the secrets he kept; Mythal looked to have flowers held protectively in her grasp, and Elgar'nan gripped the sun, turned slightly aside from the viewer as he cast it down.

Shaking her head slightly, Estella moved on, tracing her fingers over the side of another of the many sitting wolf statues as they headed into what looked like the very central chambers of the temple.

The doors again they found opened for them already, but these led into a place that was very different from the outer reaches of the temple. The floors were tiled and quite intact, the repeating geometric patterns unbroken by any decay. More than that, this chamber was... clean. Very little dirt rested on the floor, apart from what they dragged in on their boots. Large braziers burned in the corners, providing necessary light, as there were no cracks in the ceiling above to let the sun in here. A pair of archer statues flanked them on their way in, bows pointing the way to the center of the room.

"I feel like I've walked into an empty city," Astraia remarked. It did almost look that way, like a great nexus of the temple's paths. There were no fewer than five massive double doors they could see, these ones the first they found closed since the blood offering. Two were on either side further in, and one at the back of a balcony that they approached, a platform where one could feasibly watch over all who entered.

And indeed, Estella could feel eyes on her, from somewhere in the shadows. The firelight wasn't quite adequate to illuminate the entire room, and it left plenty of places to hide. The others could feel it too, judging by the way Astraia finally lifted her bladed staff defensively again, and Ves warily glanced around.

A moment later, he gasped as if in shock, and his legs failed him, dropping him to his knees with a clatter of metal that echoed off the high walls. There was pain there, when Estella was able to catch his eyes, but it wasn't just that. Ves was experiencing something powerful, something fiercely emotional. It took several moments before he could choke out the words.

"They... are still here. After all this time."

A bowstring creaked, and then another. Lithe, armored figures stepped out of the shadows, arrows aimed for their hearts, keen eyes studying the intruders from under their hoods. To a one they wore the marks of Mythal upon their foreheads, upon their armor. And the armor... it was so very like Ves's, but it was lighter, sleeker, perhaps more suited to this thick forest.

The elves surrounded them at a distance, waiting in silence for something. They did not need to wait long, as a more heavily armored hooded figure appeared upon the balcony above, his arms crossed as he peered down at them.

"Venavis," he said. "You are unlike the other invaders."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by AugustArria
Vesryn could think of few times when his connection with Saraya had been more inconvenient than this.

There was the considerable pain to deal with first. Her mere existence in his mind was an agony at this point, and that pain was made all the more acute whenever she felt something strong enough for him to experience it as well. That was happening now, in a way that was unlike anything he'd felt before. The feeling itself was inconvenient, too. Panic, disbelief, guilt, shame, fear... all of those were present, but they were mixed in the strangest way with a sheer joy that floored Vesryn. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he reaches up to wipe them away. He needed to see for this, and the pain was already making things blurry enough.

"Who are you?" the elf atop the balcony asked them. "How is it that you are here?"

"We're the Inquisition," Stel supplied in answer from beside him. Probably not the most salient fact she could have used, but true nevertheless. "We are here because..." She pressed her lips together, hesitating probably more because of the length of the real explanation than because she was considering deception. "We're here for two reasons. The first of them is the Darkspawn magister and his army, who I'm sure you've noticed. He seeks the vir'abelasan. We seek to stop him. And we made it this far because the temple allowed it."

She stopped there, perhaps sensing that follow-up questions were likely.

It was hard to tell if her words meant much of anything to the man. He lifted one gauntleted hand to his face, concealing his features even more while he thought. Even still, Vesryn knew him. Saraya knew him, rather. He was the elf from her dreams, the one she'd spoken to in this temple, back when she'd still walked Thedas on her own two legs. The word Inquisition likely meant little to him. Unless he was somehow aware of the history of the world, he'd locked himself away in here long before even the first Inquisition, let alone their new one.

"I am called Abelas," he said at last, though his soldiers all around them did not lower their weapons yet. "We here are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion." He studied them longer, using the ample space atop the balcony to pace back and forth.

"You claim you wish to stop the magister from claiming the vir'abelasan. This I can believe. But how am I to accept that you do not seek the same? To drink from its waters?"

"And what if that was our intention?" The words were Harellan's, spoken in a tone less curious than melancholy. "You know the choice that lies here before you, I think. The power that darkspawn commands is of our people. Mythal's focus is in his possession, save for the fragment of its power etched into the hands of my lethallan and one other. Your numbers will not be able to stop his assault, and you will be devastated if you try. That means either you destroy the Well—" here he paused, lifting from beneath his shirt a symbol exactly like Stel had worn since Arlathan. The silverite teardrop glinted in the sparse light of the hall.

"Or you allow everything it contains to be delivered back into the hands it exists for." He dropped the necklace so that it sat over his armor instead of under, armor clearly not all that different from what the sentinels wore. "In doing so, I can promise that you will be giving your people—ours—a chance to do something other than diminish. Perhaps one of the last chances left to us."

That surprised him, or at least got his attention in a way that was sure to get them somewhere. He narrowed his brow as if in suspicion for a moment, but that moment soon passed, and then came the order for the archers to lower their bows, a mere flick of his hand. Abelas vaulted over the railing of the balcony, a swell of magic slowing his descent until his feet lightly touched down on the tiled floor. He approached slowly, and lowered his hood, revealing golden eyes and a clean shaven head, to display his vallaslin all the more proudly.

"You bear the crest, yet I do not know you." He studied Harellan, his eyes briefly passing over the others. Stel first, Abelas finding more interest in her marked hand than the rest of her, then Cyrus, the sibling relation plain to see. He spared a glance for Zahra before his eyes sweeped over Astraia and Vesryn, noting his obvious poor condition, and then his focus movedback to Harellan. "A descendant, then. I did not think it possible. Unless this is all some great deception."

Saraya yearned for Vesryn to say something, to reveal her, but he held his tongue. "The Well is not something I have the authority to grant to anyone, even one such as you. My duty is to defend this temple from trespassers, nothing more, nothing less."

"You're going to allow it to just... sit there?" The question came from Astraia, though even she looked surprised she'd asked. "Forever?"

Abelas scrutinized her. Vesryn wondered how familiar he was with the modern Dalish. She wore the vallaslin as they did, but next to them, she looked about as different as Stel and Cyrus did. A different people entirely. "The vir'abelasan is not meant to be claimed. It is a reminder of what was lost. What will never be again." It was impossibly bleak, but Vesryn could understand why. Abelas did not live in a community such as the one that produced Harellan. These elves had the shadow of what was lost hanging over them always, because they remembered, not just in texts but in their minds. Their existence was to defend a monument to what was lost. The very name he'd taken for himself... sorrow. Abelas was not his true name, Vesryn knew, though Saraya could never tell him what it was instead.

"We will fight alongside you to destroy the invaders," Abelas declared. "But after that, it would be best for all of you to leave. And never return."

"Not everything that is gone is gone forever." Harellan said the words as though they were more a recollection than his own thought, seemingly undaunted by Abelas's resistance to his intentions. It was hard to say what he was thinking—he'd never been one to share much of himself directly, but the lack of concern surely meant he hadn't actually given up on obtaining whatever lay in the Well. Still, he didn't fight it, nor attempt to press the point at the moment, instead moving his attention to Vesryn.

"While there is yet time—as lethallan said, there is another reason for our presence here."

When Abelas's attention shifted fully onto Vesryn, the feeling that overwhelmed him was one urging caution. To proceed, but to do so carefully. Vesryn could understand why. This was not likely to go over very well.

"Who are you?" Abelas asked him. "You wear a relic, but you are not one of us." He studied him, obviously seeing the pain in his eyes. "You have some ailment as well, I see."

"I'm not all that important really," Vesryn said, managing a smile. "But it was a friend of mine that guided us here. Her memory of this place helped us learn of the darkspawn magister's desire for the vir'abelasan."

"Her... memory? Explain yourself."

"She was a friend of yours, as well, at least it feels that way." He was never sure how to say this, but somehow this situation was the most difficult of all. Someone that already knew Saraya. "Tell me, do you... do you know what became of an elven general by the name of Marellanas Arayani?"

The name forced a look of complete shock on the otherwise stonefaced elf's features. It was enough to force him a step back, and several of the bow-wielding elves still around them shared uncertain looks with one another.

"I cannot say how it is you know that name. I... know it well, however. And I know what became of her. Imprisoned, for all eternity. Though surely she is dead by now."

"Not quite." He winced, evidence that eternity would find its end fairly soon here, if nothing could be done. "She endured the ages, until a fool boy stumbled into the ruin where she was kept, and now..." He touched a finger to the side of his head. "Now she is here. With me. And with us."

His look was disbelieving, but by the way he took another half-step back, by the way the elves visibly tensed around them, they had to believe at least some part of it. It was too outlandish a claim to be completely false, given the sheer amount of time that had passed since any of them had last seen her.

"That is... not possible," Abelas declared, looking to the others. "This cannot be."

"But it is," Stel said quietly. "I've..." she huffed softly, reaching for the words. "I've dreamed with her, I suppose you could say. She had a husband, and a son—I know their faces. I've seen the bloodshed from after the Fall. The war with Tevinter. The way the armies of Arlathan were pushed south—how many of them perished only to lose more ground, the desperation." Her eyes had unfocused a moment, but she blinked and they sharpened again, lifting to meet Abelas's own. "She's there. Here. Impossible as it might seem."

It took him a long moment to accept it. When he did... anger was the expression that crept over his features. "Why do you tell me this? I have nothing to say to her, and I would pass a thousand more years before hearing more of her lies. Marellanas betrayed us all."

"Not this place," Vesryn pointed out. "She made a mistake. She trapped herself in an impossible situation. And she paid the price for it a thousand times over. Ever since I found her, she has worked to make the world a better place through me. I... I can't even put to words what she's feeling right now. To see you again. She thought you were long dead as well."

"Not with a thousand of your lifetimes could she ever undo the damage she caused."

"I know. She knows. But she has done everything in her power, all the same. Even knowing that she can never make up for her crimes." Abelas met that with only silence, which Vesryn took as permission to continue. "But we're running out of time. This bond we have, it's... it wasn't meant to happen this way."

"It was never meant to happen at all," Abelas corrected. "It is killing you, I would imagine."

Vesryn nodded. "Rather quickly, unfortunately. We hoped that the magic of this place might... might be used to stabilize us. Save both of our lives, so that we can keep paying back some small piece of what is owed."

A huff left Abelas through his nostrils, something close to a dark laugh. "I am unsurprised that the traitor thought to defile this place, and harness its magic to prolong her unnatural long life. Disrupting the magic here would end us all, destroy the last faithful of Mythal that protect the vir'abelasan. We who have endured since the Fall. All for what? Fifty years?"

Vesryn was stopped cold, his thoughts halting. Saraya had known, as soon as she'd noticed the elves here. She'd known that to save themselves would mean all of their deaths. And she'd known instantly that she could not do it. Certainly not to save herself. And not even to save Vesryn. These elves... they represented the result of what she'd done in the past. A sorrowful vigil, watching over the dead. Her desire was only to help them, and right now that meant abandoning this idea of using the temple's magic to save themselves.

"No." Stel probably hadn't even meant to say the word aloud, so soft and broken was the whisper. She turned to him, and from the look on her face alone, Vesryn knew that she understood what their answer had to be. Understood how wrong it would be to even consider the alternative.

It still broke her heart—her shoulders slumped, like something heavy had finally settled over them. "Isn't there—isn't there anything else?" She asked the question of Harellan no doubt, but she didn't look away from Vesryn.

"I believe Abelas is right." Harellan sounded deeply weary, and the muted sound of a sigh had likely come from him. "I hadn't thought to encounter anyone living here, but there's no mistake that their lives are tied to the magic. It can only be used for one or the other, not both."

Cyrus's face twisted; he shot a dark look at the sentinels for a moment, something no doubt acidic at the tip of his tongue. But he glanced once at his sister and swallowed it, whatever it may have been.

It wasn't right. Leaving it like this wasn't right. Saraya wanted something from them, and Vesryn didn't have to guess much to know what it was. Not life... she'd experienced enough of that, and while she wanted it for Vesryn, he understood that she couldn't accept something this horrific in order to save him. He couldn't do it to save himself, or to save her. No, she wanted something far sweeter.

A loud, distant blast cut off any further discussion they might have. The elves shifted and raised their bows again, moving out without needing to be told. Abelas shook his head, and pulled the hood back up once more.

"We must attend to this together if we hope to be victorious," he said, meeting Vesryn's eyes. "If you can still fight, perhaps you can demonstrate Marellanas's desire to atone."

"Oh, I will." He hefted up his axe. He wasn't sure he'd survive the fight, but confidence was never something he'd had trouble exuding. "You can be sure of that."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Zahra couldn’t have been more of a stranger than when she inhabited this place—so unusual, so uncomfortable. She’d latched onto Abelas’s words as soon as they fled from his lips. Best for all of you to leave, and never return. That, she could get behind. Whatever was happening had gone over her head. Far beyond it. All she could do was stand behind them, ever present but far too focused on getting out of here to be of any use in the conversation. Not that she could’ve said much. It didn’t appear as if Abelas was much of a talker, beyond telling them that they were temporary allies, intruders in this place, their home.

Fair enough.

Though her heart tugged. Swelled in her chest and sunk just as quickly when the subject of Ves was brought up. It was a solid reminder that she was not a good person
 at least, not conventionally. Would she have sacrificed these people, these strangers, for someone she cared about? The answer came easily. Quick as a serpent, coiled in the darkest parts of her. She would. But this was not her choice, and hers would have been riddled with a poison not so easily forgotten or forgiven. All she could do was curl her hand into a fist and bite back whatever words she’d had perched on her tongue, because the Inquisition and all of its people represented a goodness she appreciated, but sometimes, couldn’t stomach.

It was harder to turn away from that than she’d thought. Easier to set it aside, however, now that they were in motion. Heading to the Well. Whatever that was. The importance of it was lost on her, as were many things here. Not that she particularly minded. All she knew, and all she needed to know, was that preventing the Venatori from reaching it was of the utmost importance. So, that was what she’d do. Would try to do, at least. She exhaled sharply and rounded another corner with the others; focusing on the slapping of feet on cobblestones.

The temple’s walls felt constrictive at her sides, pushing inwards, even if there was plenty of space. Not having the open sky looming overhead made her feel as if she’d suffocate, as if she were trapped. Surrounded by whispery old ruins and an ancient people who didn’t want them there. For once, no quips, and certainly no jokes came to her. She trotted alongside Cyrus and maintained her pace, bow at her side, arrow peeping out between her knuckles; at the ready for anyone they might encounter on the way. If that explosion was anything to go by, they’d have company soon enough.

They came across evidence of the fighting first, bodies left where they'd fallen on the temple floors, elves and Venatori alike. The casualties looked to be evenly spread, if a little weighted on the Venatori side. They were paying for the ground they were taking, but judging by the lack of elves holding their ground, they were taking it all the same. At least it didn't seem like Corypheus had come through this way. No doubt the situation would be much worse in that case.

"We must hurry," Abelas urged them. Needlessly, as it turned out. They could move no faster, especially not Ves, who was pushing himself beyond his limits already.

They rounded a corner, working their way away from the temple's center. Abelas knew the way, and judging by how Ves ran at his side, he somehow did too. Saraya's doing, no doubt. If she'd been here before and all. A staircase was ahead, and there they found a detachment of the elven sentinels holding their ground against superior numbers of Venatori soldiers and mages, using the high ground to make their advance difficult. There were other pathways, though, doors forced open by the enemy that the elves had failed to defend. These ones needed to be relieved quickly if they were to avoid being overrun.

Ves and Abelas were first into the fray. The leader of the sentinels dashed into melee range, falling upon the Venatori from behind with blades of magic not unlike what Cyrus used, though these were shaped as katars, darting in and out of enemies and leaving fatal wounds in the blink of an eye. There was magic in his every movement, carrying him out of range of attacks and into range to cut down another. Arrows flew into the Venatori's backs around him, Zahra's included.

Ves was not nearly so graceful, not even compared to his normal fighting self. His bardiche axe cut down a Venatori archer before she could turn to face him, and he cleaved into the next, splitting a shield. That enemy's mace found his side, a blow he normally would've avoided somehow. He went down, bringing the Venatori man with him, though Ves seemed to have fared the worse of the two.

Fortunately, Harellan was there, moving with uncanny grace and precision. Magic put him right behind the Venatori man in an eyeblink; crossed fade-swords parted his head from his shoulders in a smooth, almost elegant motion before the elf flickered away again to trouble a larger knot of them.

Cyrus elected to keep himself in a range close to Zahra, fending off anyone who tried to get into melee range of her while she was aiming steady fire at the Venatori. When a crackling ball of fire shot towards him, she could see his shoulders rise and fall in a steady breath before he swung his own arcane blade to meet it, cleaving through the spell with his own magic. It dissipated harmlessly to either side of him, guttering out as though it had never been there at all. Frowning, he flung a bolt of lightning from his fingertips, catching a small cluster of Marcus's troops with the chaining cascade of it, and leaving them prime targets for the others to finish off swiftly.

Stel swiftly took advantage, wading into the milieu and putting quick ends to the paralyzed Venatori with sharp flashes of her sword. She was hardly so striking in her approach as Abelas or Harellan or even Cyrus, but at the same time it was obvious just how tremendously-far she'd come since the Inquisition's early days. Her style had always been aggressive, but now it was fluid, too, precise and carefully-measured.

Utilizing Cyrus as a bulwark against approaching Venatori, Zahra was able to continue peppering them with noxious arrows. Precise, calculated and loosed intent. While she still lagged far behind those used to fighting at the forefront, she, too, had improved over the years. Her impatience had tempered itself. Her arrows were resolute, catastrophic; her aim true. Rom and Ril’s recent alchemic lessons had proved invaluable to her, not just in her endurance, but in the strength of her arms—arrows struck like a blade.

One managed to get close enough to swing wildly at her, slipping past Cy’s arcane blades as he faced another. She ducked beneath it and swung upwards with her bow, slamming the end of it into the bottom of his chin. Ironbark was hard as hell. No worries of breaking this particular bow. The man reeled backwards and his cries were cut off as Cyrus put an end to him. She turned back to the bulk of Venatori, tangled with Abelas and the others, and took aim once more.

She needed to keep them at bay as best she could. Keep them from crowding those stuck in the middle.

The Venatori here had not been prepared for the flanking attack, and they fell in droves against the superior skill of those on both sides of them. When the last fell, the elves that had been holding the line here regrouped, looking to Abelas for their orders. There was more fighting clearly going on down the hallway to their right, judging by the echoing clashes of steel and screams of pain. But Abelas led them left, away from the battle.

"We're going to leave them?" Vesryn asked, panting for breath. He was bleeding from some unseen wound, something that had slipped through his armor somewhere. Astraia hovered around him, barely paying attention to the slaughter as she applied healing spells. There wasn't a great deal she could do on the fly like this, but obviously that wouldn't stop her from trying.

"The quickest path to the vir'abelasan is this way," Abelas clarified, not slowing as he answered Vesryn's question. "The sentinels will delay them as long as they can. We must ensure the Well cannot fall into the enemy's hands." He had no further interest in explanation, picking up his pace to a run and forcing the others to hurry to keep up.

More battle-noise filtered in from ahead of them, but it wasn't until Abelas led them around a corner that Zahra realized the defenders were not more sentinels, but rather Amalia and Lia. No sooner had her eyes found them than Amalia dropped the last of their foes, grasping both sides of the Venatori soldier's head in her hands and wrenching until the bones in his neck snapped and he dropped. She blinked over at them, her face set into hard, strong lines. Not even a trace of relief flickered over her features at seeing them—she was much too intent for that, it seemed.

"Marcus is ahead," she warned, her tone low and dark. "If we are to give chase, we must do so quickly." She didn't wait for any kind of answer before turning her back to them and taking off down the corridor; though she'd never been in the temple, her path did not err. It probably wasn't even hard: the ongoing clashes marked his passage easily enough.

Lia didn't spare any breath to greet them, but that may have been more just to conserve energy. Her armor was spattered with blood, at least most of it appearing to belong to others, and her quiver was more than half-empty. They'd clearly fought their way through quite a bit to make it this far. She did offer Stel at least a nod before she took off after Amalia, slowing only to nock another arrow.

Abelas didn't seem to care who they were. They killed Venatori and were aligned with those he'd already met, and that seemed to be enough for him. They made their way through the temple corridors, passing several traps along the way. Pits of spikes half-filled with Venatori bodies. More of them filled with darts after someone set off a pressure plate releasing them from the walls. Either Abelas knew the way around any others, or they knew not to go off for the likes of Cyrus, Stel, and Harellan. Perhaps both.

"How much farther?" Astraia asked from the back of the group.

She'd aimed the question at Abelas, but it was Ves that answered, between ragged breaths. "Not... far."

A door lay before them, already hanging open; no doubt their quarry had already passed through. A shaft of deep golden sunlight spilled into the hallway from the other side of it, almost blindingly-bright compared to the dimness of this part of the temple. Amalia did not hesitate before sprinting through, the rest of the group in tow.

When Zahra's eyes adjusted, she found herself in another courtyard, this one with a very obvious feature apart from its lush garden: ahead lay what seemed to be a cliff face, leading up to some kind of elevated plateau. Already ascending was a figure in night-black robes, slabs of stone floating to create a stairway to the plateau, lit beneath in a vivid orange light.

"Marcus!" The snarling shout was about all Amalia left behind her, accelerating as if to catch him on the stairs themselves.

The figure paused, turning back over his shoulder. The afternoon sunshine caught the porcelain of his mask, flaring brightly. He raised one hand, beckoning them forward in a way that couldn't be anything but a taunt, but even as he did the bottom-most slabs started to detach themselves and fly over the courtyard towards the pursuers. Amalia jumped cleanly over the first, but the second caught her in the abdomen, knocking her hard to the ground, where her shoulder collided with more stone in a sickening crunch. There was little time to check on her, though—more slabs were still careening through the air towards the group.

Abruptly, Zahra felt a tingling in her fingers and toes. Her breath came easier, like every limb was alive. The brief sensation of being submerged in warm water was followed by a clarity she wasn't used to, like the very opposite of drunkenness: everything was sharper, her reactions faster, attuned more closely to her thought. It felt electric, like she herself was lightning. She might need to be.

Zahra was clean out of surprise at this point—a garden nestled inside an ancient temple was easy enough to absorb. However, she hadn’t expected that sonnuvabitch to start chucking slabs in their direction. She hardly had time to blink. Amalia sailed past them in a blur of limbs, flying through the air, until one of the slabs slammed into her and anchored her back to the ground. More loose stones were levitating and being flicked towards them with little more than a flick of his wrist. He intended to slow them down, that much was obvious.

Abelas had powerful magic of his own, and the slabs that came his way he deflected up and over their heads with impressive arcane force, sending them crashing harmlessly into the wall behind. Astraia managed to get a piece of one that flew at her with a stonefist spell, but a second was coming in too fast. Ves was quick enough to react, shouldering the much smaller elf out of the way, but not in time to avoid it himself. It smashed into his shoulder, flipping him end over end until he clattered to the ground in his armor, unmoving.

"Ves!" Astraia screamed, crawling on hands and knees over to him, trying to keep her head down and away from the incoming projectiles.

How powerful was he? She knew next to nothing about him, other than the fact that he was a massive thorn in their sides
 and something of a personal grievance to Amalia, Lia and Ithilian. They would be the hammer slamming down. The blade at his throat. An end to his beginning. Had to be. That much she understood. A chunk of stone hurtled down. Her gaze flicked to the side, quick as a hawk. She grit her teeth and threw herself to bodily, crossing the distance quicker than she thought possible, pushing into one of the elven lasses trying to usher to Abelas’s side. They looked frantic, eager to toss themselves up the stairs, voices raised in a language she couldn’t understand.

Too damn close. One misstep, and the stone would’ve taken their heads off. She managed to keep her footing and haul the woman back up, clapping her on the back once, before turning back towards the disappearing staircase. She felt refreshed, ready to tear into whoever faced them, but not being able to reach anyone was frustrating. She couldn’t stop Marcus’s ascent or magic away any of those cobblestones, let alone try to pave the way. There was a sound that made her cock her head to the side, familiar. Coming from behind them.

There, her answer. She paused and strained her ears, swinging back towards the long hallway they’d been running down. The sound of footfalls, armor chuffing together, and Tevinter cries rallying them together. If she could do anything here, it’d be holding them off. A hand drew back into her quiver. Her fingers groped in the air, once, twice, and fell back to her sides. None left. She supposed she couldn’t be that lucky. She huffed out a breath and rolled her shoulders. She shouldered her bow, and pulled her rapier free from its scabbard before stepping back up the slope, eyes trained on the approaching figures.

Lia had only just freed Amalia from where she'd fallen, the elf's bow slung over her shoulders so she could help her mentor with both hands. "Astraia!" she called desperately. "A healing spell, anything! Now!"

The elven healer had been trying to ascertain Ves's state, but she looked up in time to grab her staff, conjuring a hasty healing spell for Amalia. She couldn't even know what the damage was, but it would have to do. The elves were caught between defending themselves from Marcus and engaging the Venatori that had begun attacking their rear. It was chaos.

The slabs were still coming in much too close for comfort. Together, Cyrus and Harellan blasted one of them out of the air, chunks of stone and debris raining down on all of them. Cyrus used the opportunity to get to Amalia's side with a streak of blue light, assisting the others in picking her up off the ground by the collar of her black armor and pressing a blue-lit hand to the back of her shoulder. Zahra knew he was no healer, not really, but at this point no doubt whatever help he could give Astraia would be better than nothing.

“Can you still fight?" He asked Amalia loudly enough for Zahra to hear. Whatever the response was, it wasn't nearly as audible, but it must have satisfied him, because he nodded and stepped away from her, gesturing quickly to Lia as well. The three of them sprinted for the ridge where Marcus had disappeared; Cyrus waved both hands as he ran, picking up several of the slabs that had fallen and reassembling them into a hasty, thinner replica of the staircase the magister had taken.

Neither Amalia nor Lia wasted the opportunity, flying up the staircase as fast as their feet could carry them, then disappearing over the lip of the ridge to whatever lay above.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
In the wake of Amalia and Lia's passage, Cyrus was forced to drop the stairs again and help out with the encroaching Venatori. That there were still so many spoke badly for the sentinels; he wasn't sure how many of them were still alive, but he knew he'd done the right thing in helping those two pull away from the main fight and run after Marcus. He wasn't sure what the history was there, but he did know the Venatori's leader would be reaching the Well over two dead bodies or not at all, and that was more of a chance than they'd have had otherwise.

He tried not to think about the 'two dead bodies' part overmuch.

Fortunately, the force of sentinels here combined with what the Inquisition had sent was more than enough to dispatch the soldiers, especially after the stones had ceased flying around. Once the last one had fallen, Cyrus turned to his comrades; he'd seen Vesryn take a nasty hit earlier, and he wasn't sure how the rest had fared in the meantime.

Stellulam appeared to have come out of things mostly intact. There was a new gash across her forehead, and a heavy smear where she'd clearly had to wipe blood out of her eyes, but other than that and obvious fatigue, she didn't seem to be sporting any particular injuries. She met his eyes briefly, but it took little time for her attention to revert to her beloved.

Zahra kept vigil near the mouth of the hallway and seemed to be absently wiping at her brow. A pool of red stained the front of her tunic and had spread down her collarbone, though no wound was readily evident until she turned to look over her shoulder. Someone had managed to get close enough to slash a nasty cut below her cheekbone, deep enough to weep down her chin and drip off. A weary smile pulled on her lips as she saw Cyrus lower the stairs, but faltered as soon as her gaze dropped onto Vesryn and the others, milling at his side.

"He's not waking up." The words came from Astraia, laced with panic. She still knelt at Vesryn's side, her staff laid to the ground there, tears already streaking down her face. "He should be awake, I healed him and he's not dead. He's not waking—" She gasped as Vesryn did quite suddenly wake up, clearly in a great deal of distress. Once he was able to ascertain that none of the others were dead, it became clear that it was just a tremendous amount of physical pain he was dealing with. Even without the agony Saraya was causing him, he'd just been smashed by a large chunk of flying stone, after all.

"We need... to move," he managed, trying to force himself to his feet. Astraia wiped at her eyes, picking up her staff and helping him. "The army didn't hold them outside, so more must be coming. Corypheus must be..." He winced, unable to finish the sentence, but he didn't need to.

"The Well of Sorrows is not far," Abelas assured them, regarding Vesryn with an expression that was plainly conflicted. "We must proceed. Even if your allies survived against their foe, we do not have long."

Cyrus grimaced; Abelas was right, and so was Vesryn. Jogging back over to the stones, he reached once more into the fade—easy here, so easy—and lofted them to form a pathway up. “Hurry, then." He waited for the others to precede him up the stairs, Harellan and Abelas in the lead, then took up the rear behind them.

The staircase crumbled behind him as he released the magic, spitting them out onto what looked to be a paved trail forward. Not too far ahead, he could see a stone wall, covered in climbing ivy and flowering plants, a gap in it corresponding exactly with the path. More disturbingly, perhaps, he could hear... whispers. They tickled his ears, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. In the archaic elven tongue to a one, but for him that was no obstacle. Rather it was the softness of them, and the multitudes, that prevented him from picking out what many of them were saying.

He could almost feel something brushing against him, stirring his sleeves just faintly, another ghosting over the skin of his cheek where his helm had come away earlier in the fight. He swallowed, a weight he could not quite describe settling over his shoulders. The whispers mourned, but they also beckoned, and that was the far more dangerous thing.

Cyrus snapped out of it only when they came upon Lia and Amalia, alive but only barely so from the looks of it, particularly in the latter case. The corpse next to her could only have been Marcus, though, his mask ripped away and charcoaled face exposed to the sun. The handle of a white dagger protruded still from his flesh, more scorch marks around the entry wound, but whatever enchantment had made them now cool.

"She needs healing," Lia said quietly, her voice little more than a whisper. She was holding Amalia around the shoulders, seemingly unsure what to do with her, as the other woman had passed out from her injuries. Lia herself looked to be in a significant amount of pain, but nothing at least that appeared immediately life-threatening.

Astraia was quite obviously exhausted emotionally, and likely pushing the limits of her magical reserves, but she blinked a few times and stepped to it, pausing a moment to examine the extent of the damage. She glanced up at the entrance ahead, at how Abelas was not pausing for the wounded. "We have to get her inside, we can't stay here long. Help me move her."

Lia nodded, turning first to the corpse of the Venatori leader on the ground. She regarded him for a moment, nothing but disgust on her face. She spat down on him, and pulled the knife free from his chest, wiping it off and sheathing it before she helped Astraia lift.

Despite Amalia's relatively modest weight, the two of them had difficulty carrying her in, between Lia's injuries and Astraia's diminutive size and exhaustion. As soon as they were in, however, they carefully lowered Amalia down, and Astraia focused on keeping her stable.

Though Cyrus felt a flare of concern, strange as that still was, it was quickly... overwhelmed. The whispers were louder here, so loud he almost couldn't hear himself think. He wondered how it was that no one else seemed to be hearing them, but the answer was obvious enough once he gave it a moment of thought. It would certainly not be the first time he'd felt too keenly the spirits of the dead.

The Well itself was less a well and more a pool, by Cyrus's reckoning, and most definitely the source of the whispers. Harellan stopped a respectful distance from the edge, eyes fixed for a moment on the depths before they lifted to the eluvian on the other side of the pool from where they now stood. "Ah. I see now. The vir'abelasan is the key to that eluvian as well." The inference he intended for them to draw was obvious: the mirror would be an effective way back to Skyhold, if and when they wished to take it.

But that assumed a particular answer to a very important question. “And what, exactly, do we do with it?"

Harellan hummed, shifting to face Abelas. "What think you, sentinel? There is no stopping the tide. Corypheus's soldiers will make it here, at the cost of many more lives. There is no keeping it safe and intact."

He regarded the Well from its edge for a long moment, drawing back his hood once more. There was clearly conflict in him; despite how steadfast he'd been in his desire to keep the Well out of any hands earlier, he now wavered. Something he'd seen in them, perhaps, or in the cruelty of the battle itself.

Finally, he looked back to Harellan. "Our people yet linger, then? Somewhere beyond these walls?"

"In Arlathan." Harellan's voice softened, until it was weighed down by a hint of sorrow. "Much is lost, but more is remembered than you might think. We keep the old ways, relearn the old knowledge. If there is anyone who can use what is here, bring it back into the world where it belongs, it is we." He tilted his head. "And you deserve to be relieved of your burdens, sentinel. After all this time, all this faithful service—the People will know, now, and never again forget."

A heavy breath left him, and with it a sort of weight, something he'd been carrying around with him for a very long time indeed. "Then it is finished. And perhaps hope yet remains after all." He regarded the group as a whole, eyes passing over all those present, before they returned to Harellan. "You would claim the Well for yourself, then? It can only pass to one. After that, it will be gone, rendered unusable by this Corypheus and any who might come after."

Harellan shook his head slowly. "No, not I, I think." He half-turned, to regard the others steadily. "We are here at the intersection of two causes. It should go to someone with a stake in both, a stake greater than mine in the Inquisition." His eyes flickered back and forth between Cyrus and Estella. "Both of my brother's children are mages, both trained in the ancestral arts. And both, I daresay, are bound far more tightly in the fabric of the fight against Corypheus than I could ever be. It ought fall to one of them."

Stellulam's eyes immediately went wide; it was clear enough to Cyrus that the prospect of shouldering this responsibility did not sit easily with her. "I don't think—" she paused, clearly more than a little discombobulated. "If it's the magic that matters, the knowledge... I don't think I'm the most qualified to understand it. Maybe it—it shouldn't be me."

Frankly, Cyrus didn't think it should be him, either. It seemed like the sort of thing that—well, the sort of thing he would have sought without a moment's hesitation or care in the past. Power. Knowledge. The answers to so many questions, some that he probably didn't even know enough to ask. And there was no mistaking that on some level, he would be well-suited to the task. His background knowledge was extensive, his magic more than a mere echo of what elves had once had at their fingertips. All of this, Harellan had made abundantly clear, when he wasn't driving him to improve it further still.

And yet.

He knew so well the feeling of temptation by power that now he feared seeking it at all. “I... don't know if I ought." The murmur was soft. “I have not been the most judicious in the past, and it seems... even if it's possible to be worthy of such a thing, I do not think I of all people am."

"You are." Stellulam said it quick on the heels of his expression of doubt, like she'd known it was coming and barely managed to hold her tongue. "That fact that you aren't sure makes me even more certain, Cy. If I know anyone who can handle whatever's in this Well, it's you." She offered a smile, a bit thin considering the strain of the circumstances, but wholly genuine all the same.

Doubt still wound around his chest like a vine, threatening to strangle something new and tender in him. His comfort with who he was, perhaps—that was certainly fresh enough to qualify. Cyrus exhaled a shaky breath. His brows furrowed; he looked momentarily to Abelas. “...I'll do it. Provided you've no objections." He wasn't sure if he wanted there to be one or not. Wasn't sure if he desired, in this moment, to be looked upon as he had been among the elves remaining in Arlathan. Lesser, for the human cast of him. The human upbringing. The obvious way in which he did not, could not, fit among an entire half of his ancestry.

It might have been convenient, though he'd little idea where it would leave them. He certainly did not desire to burden any of the other elves in the company with this. There was no telling what it would do to Vesryn in his weakened state, Lia lacked magic, and talented as Astraia was... if the myriad whispers were anything to go by, this was going to constitute an unpleasantness he would not wish upon her.

He deliberated on it for a moment. It was possible he wasn't entirely fond of the idea given that Cyrus wasn't exactly elvhen like he and Harellan were, but his blood relation still had to count for something. He didn't seem settled either way, though.

Surprisingly, his eyes went to Vesryn next. "Does Marellanas vouch for him?"

That shocked Vesryn, to say the least. He'd been hovering close to Stellulam, and at the mention of the name it looked like he had trouble standing for a moment. No doubt another foreign reaction from inside his own head. "You... want her opinion on this?"

Abelas's look was a difficult one to read. "She knows him well, does she not? If she has been with you for a long period of time?" Vesryn nodded to that, prompting Abelas to continue. "Then... her opinion is the one I need. Foolish as it may sound... she is the one I will trust."

There were tears springing to Vesryn's eyes, enough that he actually broke half a smile, and struggled to form the words he wanted. "She... she vouches for him, yes. I can't relay exact words, but... few people in all of her years have surprised her more. She trusts him. And I trust him."

"Then it is decided." Abelas nodded, appearing to be holding back several emotions. "As this is the last time we will see one another, and I did not get a chance to say this before... before everything. I am sorry for what became of Marellanas. We were a people in great pain, but no one could ever deserve what she has endured. She has paid for her crimes, as you said."

Vesryn's face was stained with tears now, as was Astraia's in the back of the group, where she still worked to heal Amalia. "Thank you," Vesryn said, swallowing. "She... she missed you. I know that if she could speak, she would let you hear the sound of your true name again."

At that, Abelas smiled, if only slightly. "Perhaps that day will still come." He paused, struggling with something. "I hope... that with whatever time you have left, you are able to find peace." Drawing himself up again, he nodded to Harellan and Cyrus.

"I must take my leave, and ensure my sentinels are able to withdraw. I leave the vir'abelasan to you. I would advise haste. This Corypheus cannot be far now."

"Ma serannas, Abelas. Malas amelin ne halam." Harellan inclined his head.

Cyrus might have shared the sentiment, but he was too busy being rather surprised—and surprisingly moved—by Vesryn's words. And Saraya's through him. He swallowed thickly, managing only a jerky nod by way of thanks. Far less than he wanted, but about all he could handle, at just this moment.

And it was an urgent one. His eyes fell once more to the Well; the whispers accelerated, and over them he could hear the distant sound of more fighting. Corypheus would not be along now. Cyrus could almost feel the way he warped the Veil around him, or the way the focus did. It hardly mattered which. Closing his eyes, he pulled in a deep breath, letting the sensation of being near to it guide his steps instead of relying on his eyes. He sensed it when the toes of his boots hit the water, but he was still being bid forward, and so he went: ankle deep, then knee deep, and then to the very center, where the water lapped against his waist. How strange it was—he could detect it both in the physical world and the fade, as though he stood now in both at once.

Blinking his eyes back open, he stared down into the water in front of him, temporarily entranced by the strange double-color of it: here it was clear, showing through to the deep grey-blue of the slate tiles beneath it. But there it was deep, emerald green, shifting with lights in peridot, sage, and gold, and he felt it almost hum where it touched him, the low notes of some song too quiet to properly hear reverberating through his skin. Though intellectually he understood that he was in a hurry, he just couldn't make himself rush the process.

Bringing his hands in front of him, he cupped them together and dipped them into the water, bringing it up to his face and drinking deeply. It didn't taste like water at all, not really. Instead it burst over his tongue like honey-flavored liquor, with an aftertaste like the memory of pipe-smoke.

No sooner had he swallowed than pain lanced through his head, as though someone had struck him with lightning square in the brow. His vision whited out entirely, the voices speeding up until it was incomprehensible garbling, the song growing louder until his hearing went, too, his body numb and deprived of all sense for some amount of time he could not measure.

But then it was as though something snapped into place, with the same sense of rightness as a puzzle slotted together or an old glove fitted over the hand that had molded it or the final move in the first chess match he'd ever won against Khari. An epiphany, a sudden realization that everything was exactly as it was meant to be, and everything would be in its time. Cyrus snapped back into his own body, anchored once more in the physical sensations of the temple, and swallowed hard.

“He's coming. Everyone, through the Eluvian—quickly." He would have to be last.

The sounds of fighting did indeed draw nearer—and then a rumble that could have only been the staircase reassembling again. If that was Corypheus, they had seconds. Stellulam stepped back into Vesryn's side, spell-lit hands a sure sign that she was pouring just about all the magic she had left into helping him move. They stumbled into the eluvian first, turning sideways so they could fit through still attached to each other.

Harellan helped the other two with Amalia, still unconscious, and Zahra filed in after them. No sooner had Cyrus moved than the water moved of its own accord, gathering at the center of the Well where he'd been standing. He had time only to spare one glance over his shoulder—it seemed to have formed into a lithe, feminine figure even as Corypheus entered the sanctum. He glimpsed only the figure shooting forward, heard only the darkspawn's cry of rage, before the Between swallowed him, and they were gone from his senses.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Stepping through a magical mirror, bound to another mirror back home, was a far more effective way to travel. That much was obvious. They had a moment of reprieve, uneventful but still strained. A chance to breathe, without anyone breathing down their necks. For once in her life, Zahra was relieved. Their forces had suffered great losses
 and she wasn’t exactly sure if they were done yet, considering some of her friends' conditions. But they’d won. For once, it felt like they were getting to the end of saving the goddamn world—Thedas was in good hands, and everything was looking a little less bleak. They’d kept Corypheus from the Well and killed Marcus, striking off one of the serpent’s heads. Maybe, more than one.

There was still one other thing on her mind—something she was worrying about. Someone, rather. Days. It’d taken days to see the main troupe cresting over the hill. If she had any of her nails left to chew, she would’ve been surprised. They were just as worse for wear as their little band had been when they first stepped through the mirror. Perhaps, even moreso, from traveling so far. She’d spotted Asala in the distance, tending to the wounded. Hurrying among them, hands glowing. It was enough for the tension to ease from her shoulders. She was alive, dammit.

The work wasn’t done. Almost always felt like there was something else to do. They’d need to mend each other’s wounds, work together to recover from what they’d just faced. She helped the wounded to Asala’s infirmary. Those too weak or too injured to carry themselves; and there were many. Some with wounds she knew were far too grievous to recover from—she could recognize the dying immediately. Could tell from the pallor of their skins and glassy-eyed stare, curling into themselves, moaning. All they could offer was a comfortable place, soft words and friendly faces before they passed. Sometimes, that was enough.

War wasn’t pretty.

Zahra lingered outside the infirmary and picked at the dried blood on the collar of her shirt. A mixture of dirt, sweat and the muck of battle. A few tears, here and there. Various cuts that would become new scars. Her fingers retracted and traced the wound on her face, wincing when her fingertips lingered too close. It’d have to be tended to eventually. Fortunately, it was no longer weeping down her face. A set of bandages and she’d be as right as rain. After that, a bath would’ve been nice. It’d been a few hours already and the sun was beginning to dip on the horizon, casting the skies a pastel orange, and pink. Maybe, it’d been long enough to go see her, busy as she probably was. Her heart tugged uncomfortably.

She needed to see her, after all this. Besides, she had an excuse.

The infirmary was large enough that she didn’t need to knock on the door. People were coming in and out of it at a slower rate now, and by the looks of it, most of the inhabitants had already been situated in their beds; snoring softly. A moment of reprieve. She spotted Asala almost immediately. Horns jutting out behind a thick curtain of white cloth. She could almost feel the swell wash over her. A lightness. The tide, ebbing in. She was happy to see her. There was an impulsive urge to stride up to her and make herself known but she remained close to the door, shutting it softly behind her.

She had her back turned to her for a moment, speaking with a patient just above a whisper. While it was hard to pick out the words her tone was the same as it always had been when tending to the injured. Kind, soft, and encouraging. She was knelt as she spoke, a steady hand on the his shoulder. Whatever she was saying to the man seemed to have had a positive effect, as he smiled wearily, and nodded, slowly slinking down the rest of the way into his cot. Asala pulled the sterile white blanket over his shoulders and stood, finally turning around to face Zahra.

Dark circles had formed around her eyes, as they usually did when there was work to be done. Never one to rest when there was someone that needed her help, she probably didn't sleep any on the return trip. She inhaled, letting her shoulders droop for a moment and rubbed at her tired eyes. When she finally opened them, they fell upon her and the relief was outright tangible in her body language. She seemed to sink in on herself as a long drawn out breath escaped her lips. "Zee," she said quietly.

She didn't wait for Zahra to cross the distance between them and instead deftly maneuvered the cots set up on the infirmary's floor herself. She stopped herself short in front of her, the relief causing Asala's eyes to mist slightly. She looked Zahra up and down for a moment before she shook her head and quickly enveloped her in a hug. "I was... I was so worried," she murmured.

Zahra watched from the doorway. Admired, more like. She’d witnessed different flavours of kindness over the years, particularly since joining the Inquisition—each one was enviable, appreciated, if not a little uncomfortable. But hers was pure in a way she couldn’t bear, sometimes. She leaned her shoulder into the doors frame and strained her ears for her voice; soft as silk and sweet as honey. No wonder she was so revered in Skyhold. There was a saying about bedside manners and ability in spades; some people were lacking in either department
 but she, she resonated with people in ways she could never dream to. Made them feel safe, secured. Like they’d be just fine, in her capable hands.

A small smile pulled on her lips as she watched her pull the blanket up to his shoulders. Tucking him like a mum might’ve. Though it shouldn’t have, it surprised her when she finally straightened her shoulders and turned towards the door, finally seeing her standing there, smiling at her like an idiot. Caught in the act. Lingering in the doorway like some weirdo. Seeing her face, however, was worth looking a little strange. Tired as she looked, always tending to others before tending to herself. It felt like coming home, seeing her, here. Alive and well.

If you love the girl, then just love her. Maker damn the rest.

Not exactly what Cyrus had told her, but it rang just as true. In her head, in her heart. She pushed away from the door and scratched at the back of her neck, “Hey there.” Her voice felt quiet to her ears; without it’s usual edge. She felt softer, these days. Around here, especially. It was Asala who quickly closed the distance between them, navigating between cots as if it were a sea and she, a ship. She only had enough time to drop her hand back to her side, suddenly embarrassed. By her relief. By the tears welling in her eyes, so sincere that it made her ache. A moment later, and she was swooped up into a tight hug.

She fell in love with her like a natural disaster. In that moment. In many moments, she supposed. Furious, helpless, in her arms. So much smaller, it almost made her laugh. But, she’d never felt small with her. Ever. Like lightning striking the ground; a fiery spark, a crash, a sudden flood of knowing and wanting and needing. A laugh bubbled out of her mouth and into Asala’s shoulder; weak and wobbly and probably a little strained. Not quite a sob, because it was wrestled past a smile that made her eyes water. “You were worried,” she breathed out and broke free from her arms. Only far enough so that her hands could find her cheeks, keeping her in place. Anchored. “I didn’t see you for days. I didn’t know if—... I was waiting and waiting.”

With reddening cheeks and internal curse, Zahra surged forward and sealed her lips against hers; soft and sweet, just like her. A kiss that left her knees wobbly and her heart hammering in her ears. Asala was clever and bright and beautiful. Far more. She deserved a lot of things. Good things. And even if she didn’t fit beside her, she wanted to.

The suddenness of it caught Asala by surprise, and the tiny jerk and widening of eyes were anything to go by. The expression did not last long, and soon the resistance in Asala's frame simply melted away, hers eyes closing and the hug tightening Zee's waist as she leaned into the kiss. The moment stretched on for what felt like eternity and at the end of it, Asala pulled back just enough for Zee to see that elated smile on her lips and the joy dancing in her eyes.

It almost appeared like Asala would go in for another one, but a coughing off to their side interrupted the thought.

"Ahem," the voice said, revealing an Inquisition soldier sitting upright in his cot. He wore a grin and though a bandage covered his head and one eye, the other that remained wrinkled in humor. He hadn't been the only one to notice them either, as a good dozen or so pair of eyes watched them with various smiles.

"Oh." Asala delivered, a cherry blush rapidly encapsulated her face.

That was enough to melt away all of Zahra’s doubts. The look on her face; genuine, happy. Too much for her. Too good for her. She was overwhelming in ways she couldn’t quite wrap her head around but in this moment it didn’t really matter, nothing did. The tightness in her chest squeezed and loosened and she swore, she swore all she felt was warmth. How come she’d never been lucky enough to meet someone like her before? It was just something else she was thankful for. She couldn’t temper her smile this time, couldn’t keep the grin off.

Expectant, eager. When no lips graced her mouth once more, and a light cough came from one of the cots, she cracked her eyes open. Half-leaned in and still holding onto Asala’s face. She blinked. Once. Twice. Her hand finally slipped back from the nape of her neck and rested over her collarbone. A laugh bubbled out because of course she’d find this hilarious; how she’d pick the worst place to do this, of all things. In a public place, a place where she was working on patients. Obviously
 they hadn’t been all asleep, as she’d assumed.

“Mind if I steal her away for a moment?” There was a lightness to her voice, assured. Thick eyebrows rose with the inquiry. She stepped slightly away from her, breaking the embrace. Though, her hand soon found Asala’s and she gave it a squeeze, warm and soft. Not even she was bold enough to confess in front of a crowd. She still felt the redness burning at her ears, even as she tried dutifully to ignore it. She glanced at Asala sidelong and awaited her answer.

The man voiced no answer, but a wave of his hand and the way he began to make himself comfortable in his cot was one enough. The other patients who'd been watching began to follow suit, turning their attentions elsewhere, all but the most curious.

"Hmm," Asala hummed. The grip she had on Zahra's hand did not relent, even as she used it to gently pull her toward the door. She worked through the initial embarrassment and though a blush still took up the lion's share of her face, there was still enough room for a playful smile to take residence. There was a sureness there, and a confidence in the way she led Zahra away. Without a doubt, she wanted this, and no amount of watching eyes would dissuade her. "You already have," she answered for them as they passed through the exit.

A respectful audience, indeed. At least savvy enough not to force Zahra to sweep down on one knee and profess her undying love while they cackled in the background. It’d be a sight to see. Sounded almost like a troupe drama. One she’d seen in large cities, showcasing actors with painted faces and eccentricities she could never top. Fortunately enough for her, the Inquisition soldier leaned back against his pillow and looked as if he was trying unsuccessfully to smother the smile on his face.

Busy as she was, tired as she was, Asala chose to spare time for her. She didn’t bother trying to fight the grin wobbling across her dusky features, or the fact that she felt like her hand was clammy. So unlike her. When she swiveled her head to look at her properly, her doubts seemed to gutter out. A candle, blown. Or ignited. Who could bloody tell anymore—but she was pulling them towards the doorway and she was only too happy to oblige, twining her fingers through hers. A tangle. A pleased hum sounded as they crossed through the threshold and cut abruptly off.

This woman would be the death of her.

“Who knew you had such a sly tongue.” As soon as the warm breeze graced their cheeks, Zahra took the lead and pulled them towards the back of the infirmary. At least then, they’d have some semblance of privacy. She didn’t let go of her hand. Didn’t want to, really. Though, she turned to face her and steeled herself. She’d imagined this moment before, obsessed over it after she’d spoken to Cyrus. How would she do it properly? What would she say? She knew every lady-tested technique, and time-honored trick in the book for things that didn’t truly matter. About making people see stars, of nights spent with mouths tracing collarbones, until they became only a tale told in a tavern: a good time. But words like this? The kind that made her insides twist into knots, because they were alien and new
 she didn’t know how to wrestle those things from her mouth.

This mattered. This was important. She wanted to do this properly. Wanted together and us to mean something. “I s’pose I should apologize about the whole
 boat thing,” she began, tangling her free hand into her curly hair. “When you
” there was a pause, before she tried again. This time, her grin drew into a smile. Embarrassed, but determined. “I always thought that you were like an island, y’know? One that I had no business going to, even though I wanted nothing more. I thought you were something I’d ruin. Because of who I was, because of the things I’d done.” Another breath came from her nose, before she hook her head. “A wise man told me that the decision wasn’t mine to make, and I think he had a point.”

“I was happy when you kissed me on the lake. It mattered.” She gave her hand another squeeze, and looked up into her face. Gentle, kind. Home. “I like who I am with you. I like who I am when we’re together.” A breath, because her head felt like it was spinning like a top. “I, uh, I’ve never done something like this before. Not really. But with you, I do. Want this, whatever this is."

"So do I," Asala answered, taking both of Zahra's hands into both of hers, and drawing them up to her chest. The blush still graced her features, and had to began to bleed into her tapered ears, but now that they were out of sight of prying eyes she seemed more comfortable, and certainly less nervous. "You are... You are so bright Zee," she said, a smile blossoming on her lips. "You are so brave and adventurous-- everything that I am not, but you... You make me want to be these things."

She laughed after that, light and airy, and a little embarrassed as well. "I am sorry if that makes no sense, but... I don't care," she said, bringing Zahra's hands up to her cheeks. "I've never had someone make me feel like this before, that makes me want to be the kind of bold I've never been before," she said with another laugh. "You make me feel..."

She let her hands fall back down away from her face, as she thought about it, about the word she wanted to use. It didn't take her long to find it, and her eyes sparkled once she did.

"You make me feel free, kadan."

If Zahra could feel anymore, she was sure she’d burst. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Maybe, a small part of her thought that this, here, was an impossibility for her. That Asala would remain far, far out of her reach, and she’d be doomed to look from afar. She’d never been so happy to be wrong. She wanted to be proved wrong again and again until she felt deserving of someone like her. The kindest person she knew. Blindingly so.

This woman was better than any treasure she’d ever find.

“Then I am yours,” she announced into the night with a grin that crinkled her eyes, laughter pitching into a softer cadence. Loud, intentionally so. If she could've screamed it from the ramparts, she would have. Down to her very core, she meant it. Never had she anchored herself to another. Never had she found someone worth doing so. But this felt like coming home. Not an end, but a beginning. She was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. She brought her hands back up to her face, and tugged her down to kiss her properly.

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
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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
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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: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
This was going to be an exercise in pain if there ever was one. Thankfully, Vesryn was pretty experienced with pain at this point.

The Champion of the Inquisition stood at the front of the army once more, fully clad in polished armor, tower shield reflecting the afternoon light, spear ready to meet the enemy. The weight of it didn't feel right in his hand, nor did the shield. No amount of training had prepared him for this, to fight the most important battle of all without his guiding light watching over his every move. The timing could hardly have been worse. He wondered if the others would despair if he were to be cut down in the early waves. For the Champion to have recovered seemingly so well, only to be slain the moment the ultimate battle began.

At least he would make for a fashionable corpse.

He pushed the thought elsewhere in his head. Plenty of room for that now. Better to focus on the situation and reduce the likelihood of getting killed. The Commander had already detached from the army, to lead the others in killing that dragon. That left Khari in charge here. Normally the Inquisitors would lead them, but today they had one responsibility only: to kill Corypheus. As many times as it took. They'd yet to have the chance to fight him together. The ugly bastard was in for a surprise, Vesryn figured.

First they had to hold the line, until the dragon was dealt with. Vesryn stood at Khari's side on the front line, where they'd gathered on the far end of the bridge. The position gave them plenty of ground to give if they needed, and an excellent bottleneck to reduce any numbers advantage, and delay the real fighting between armies as long as they could. Vesryn didn't doubt Corypheus had other plans in mind, other ways of attacking the fortress and getting around the defenses, but they had forces ready in reserve for that. The bulk of the Venatori would have to get right through them if they wanted in.

"Nothing like the wait before the battle. In our tower, awaiting the storm. I'm looking forward to it, little bear." He was glad Leon had left her here. She'd already earned the dragonslayer title, after all. And there was no company like hers in a fight.

Though it wasn't her usual one, she'd managed to find a helmet somewhere, an open-faced one with a nose guard that descended a little too far. She cracked a grin at him beneath it, flashing teeth for a split second before she spoke. “After all this, it better be one hell of a storm, or I'd almost be disappointed." Rolling her shoulders, she reached back to touch the hilt of the sword over her shoulder, needlessly confirming that it was there. Her itch to draw it was almost palpable, but for Khari this was rather a lot of restraint. No doubt the weight of command settled on her shoulders at Leon's absence was more ponderous than she'd ever let on. But she'd been preparing for it, in a way. Learning from the Commander himself for years now. It was a far cry from her first uncertain moment in charge—that had been more his than hers, really, as he'd naturally fallen into the role she wasn't sure she was suited for.

Her attention diverted briefly to Romulus and Stel, right at the front with them. “You guys ready for this?"

Romulus wasn't feigning excitement, that much was obvious. Never the most charismatic of leaders, that one. "Pace yourself," he said. "We've got a long fight ahead of us, and there's no way of knowing what Corypheus has kept in reserve."

"We'll take this in shifts as much as we can," Vesryn agreed. "I know plenty of you have been hoping to get a stab at the last of the Venatori, no?" An aggressive cheer went up from the soldiers all around them. "You'll all get your chance." He looked to his Lady Inquisitor, lowering his voice. "Ready for yours?"

Stel flexed her marked hand, green light spilling from between her fingers, and nodded slightly, breaking from her forward stare to meet his eyes. She hadn't faced Corypheus in battle since the day she stumbled out of that rift, not the way some of the others had. No doubt this fact wasn't very reassuring. But her eyes were clear, her face set; if she felt doubts, and surely she did, she was pushing them down and locking them away. "I'm ready," she confirmed, offering a little smile. "It's long past time for this."

Shouts of warning echoed down from the remaining Skyhold towers behind them and on the bridge. Imminent attack, enemy approaching. That was easy enough to see from the dust cloud they were kicking up on the road ahead. The ground shook, in that way it did when massed armies moved at speed. Vesryn closed his mind to all other concerns, focusing on only what he could see through the narrowed slit of his visor.

He saw fire. "Incoming, shields up!" Venatori mages thew it over the top of the rise to rain down on their tight formation. Arrows came along with it, claiming the first casualties of the battle on the Inquisition side. The wounded had to be pulled back out of the ranks quickly, else they'd be suffocated in the crush of infantry soon to come. Their own archers and mages returned the hail of fire, sending precisely aimed arrows and powerful spells back down at the enemy, still out of sight. They hadn't even met and already the air was filled with periodic screams.

A bruiser of a red templar was the first over the rise, carrying a warhammer and already shrugging off a pair of arrows. His eyes were mad with pain and fury, no doubt the song Corypheus had him hear ringing in his ears. A lightning spell bounced right off him, the magic ineffective against his power. He charged right for the center of the line where Vesryn was, and swung.

The warhammer slammed against his shield, and instantly Vesryn knew he'd blocked it poorly. He stumbled backwards into Stel and a cluster of other soldiers, the knight's charge disrupting their line, and the Venatori poured onto them immediately after, trying to capitalize on the temporary disorder. Inquisition regulars were quick to fill the gaps, throwing themselves at the Venatori behind their shields to keep them back. Another swing of the knight's warhammer crushed a soldier's chest in. She dropped like a stone.

Grimacing, Vesryn got his feet under him and speared the knight, driving him back a step as the weapon slid through his midsection. The knight growled and smashed the shaft of the weapon, splitting it in two and leaving Vesryn with nothing but a splintered stick to wield. The warhammer's pommel came up next, right for Vesryn's helm, and he barely got his shield in the way, saving himself a concussion at the least.

A fierce shout cut over the din; even though his view was partly blocked by his shield, Vesryn didn't need to see to identify Khari, nor the heavy clang of a sword slamming into red lyrium. He was given a reprieve from the assault when the knight turned to face his new attacker. Khari's teeth were bared, and she swung again before her foe had fully adjusted to the strange new reality that was such a tiny woman striking at him with the kind of strength usually reserved for much larger people. Her thrust forced him back on the diagonal, two large steps away from the line.

She swung again, this time just barely fended off by the hammer itself. Her sword flared bright green, tendrils of emerald light snaking from the blade to wreath the haft of the hammer and the red templar's arm. It didn't seem to do anything immediately, but then several of the small spikes poking through his gauntlets shattered too, and he took another step backwards.

The hammer came down faster in retaliation this time, but not fast enough to have a shot at hitting her. Quickly, it became obvious to Vesryn what she was doing—each maneuver forced the templar closer to the side of the bridge, where only a lip of thigh-height blocked him from a deadly fall. He seemed to be conscious of this also, taking up a much more defensive posture towards Khari when he ran out of room to swing as hard as he'd obviously like.

But that—the closing in of his body—seemed to be exactly what she wanted. “Stel!"

With a crack and a flash of darker green, Stel appeared on the far side of the knight, her saber stabbing into the back of their foe's knee. She wrenched quickly, getting herself clear, then checked his body with her shoulder.

It wasn't enough force to do too much, but it wasn't the force that mattered. The slight tilt forced too much pressure onto the knight's bad knee, and he staggered to keep his balance, bringing his good leg hard into contact with the edge of the bridge. That did it, and he toppled over the side, snatching for Stel on the way down. But she was already gone with another crack, reappearing just in front of the main line.

Just in time, honestly; there were many more now appearing just within the Inquisition's line of sight. Arrows continued to rain from above in both directions, though Corypheus's army would soon have to stop firing, lest they risk hitting their own. The archers on Skyhold's walls had a bit more leeway, since they could aim for the back of the oncoming force.

Now came a solid line of Venatori, wielding long pikes and spiked shields. Their pace was slower, but they marched in lockstep—even in his madness it would seem their leader has instilled some vaguely-Qunari sense of discipline into them. A round of magical fire came in from overhead, only for every second person in the line to lift their shields, shifting half a step forward and bearing the brunt of the assault while their counterparts leveled the pikes over their shoulders.

The front ranks of Inquisition soldiers backed off a few paces, catching their breath. Vesryn had to discard his destroyed spear and scavenge up a sword from one of the dead. Romulus discarded a dead body over the side of the bridge, one of the last Venatori of the first wave. He fell back in line with the others.

The row of advancing spears and heavy armor presented a serious problem. They would be hell to attack and break through, and if they did they'd just get further from Skyhold, and into a more vulnerable position. Of course, they only had so much ground they could give. Vesryn waited until the spears were just about in range to stab at his shield before he voiced his concern. "What's the plan here, Khari?"

“Back it up! Slowly!" Khari fended off another stabbing spear before taking a measured, careful step back, then another. The control in the motion, and the way she kept herself faced out to defend in the process, gave those closest to her an idea of what she meant, and the Inquisition's front line formed back up, solid but in motion, keeping the advancing pikes from finding the less-protected fighters behind.

“Gotta get 'em under those magic ballistae." That was less loud, but certainly clear enough to Vesryn and the others around her. The siege weapons Cyrus's former teacher had designed no doubt packed a much stronger punch than any ordinary single spell; maybe they could break this line in a way that the ordinary projectiles weren't quite managing.

The first bolt released almost a little too early, streaking down into the Venatori line with a high-pitched whine, and then a heavy crash. It just looked like light at first, several colors swirling around inside indicative of the unformed magic poured into the lyrium molds by the mages on the wall. It crashed into the ground just barely behind the second row of Venatori, into the heart of their formation, splitting one man's shield outright and impaling him without losing much speed, staking his drooping body to the ground almost as he'd been standing.

It didn't last long though, just barely registering in their sight before it erupted, a massive swath of ice splitting out from all directions and bursting upwards into further sharp spikes from the ground, spearing more of the Venatori and encasing others in ice up to their knees, waists, or near the blast zone, up and over the whole of their bodies.

Whoever had launched it had clearly not expected its power, however; several of the Inquisition fighters at the front were pelted with heavy debris or found the ice snatching at their feet. Stel had to actually physically pull one of her legs free—it had been slathered in quickly-freezing magic about halfway up her calf. A few of those even less lucky were sporting new wounds from sharp shards not quite blocked by the front two rows of Venatori bodies.

The victory, important though it was, proved rather pyrrhic in the long run. Though the ice meant it would take Corypheus's forces more time to break through, there was one member of his army that suffered no such limitations.

A dark shadow passed overhead, blotting out the light of the sun for a few seconds. A shriek, grating and almost metallic, rang out over the battlefield, and almost as a single unit, the Inquisition's army looked up. The dull pink belly of the red lyrium dragon bore what looked to be several scratches, not to mention the large scrape from the catapult shot earlier, but it didn't look anywhere near to being downed yet, and it swept down over the wall, releasing a torrent of fire. The red-orange conflagration engulfed the entire left side, reducing two of the magic siege weapons and several of the mundane ones to useless piles of blackened wood.

The screams from the mages and soldiers who'd been operating them were almost as loud, but they did not last long before dying out, and the dragon ascended with a hard pair of wingbeats, opening its maw to exhale more fire on the troops in front of the gate. But even as the embers at the back of its throat flared brightly, it rolled, sensing an incoming attack that materialized only a moment later: a cloud like a smoky thunderhead, streaks of lightning lancing through its depths, just barely clipped the corrupted beast's outside wing. The source passed overhead at much greater height, identifiable only as blue and also dragon-shaped, before both turned and wheeled away from the gate, climbing back into the sky.

Vesryn looked up to see a person clinging to the blue dragon's back, someone very small that the distance did no favors for in that regard. As much as he didn't believe it, that seemed to be Skygirl. It was all a little too much to take in with a single moment.

That was all he was given, too, before a pain erupted in his side. He turned to see the end of one of the pikes protruding from a gap in the plate. The Venatori were embolded by the dragon's attack, and pushed forward much more aggressively, sacrificing some of the cohesion in their line for speed. It was only a moment before Romulus grabbed the pike with his marked hand, obliterating it with a burst of magic and freeing Vesryn to move again. He fell back a few steps, wrenching it out of his side. Blood ran freely over his plate armor.

Saraya wouldn't have been so stunned by the sight. Wouldn't have been taken off guard. But Saraya wasn't with him anymore.

They had no choice but to give more ground, but they had to do so now in a full melee, as the pike wall broke down and Venatori elites charged through instead, skilled and well trained battle mages that were more than a match for Inquisition soldiers. Their line looked near to breaking before a loud crackle erupted from the Lord Inquisitor's palm, and a rift exploded into existence over the front lines of the Venatori forces. At least a dozen of them were pulled into the void and vanished into nothingness, but more importantly it gave them time to back up and reform their line.

"That won't keep them for long," Romulus warned them. He turned, looking back up towards the wall, which was within shouting distance now. "What's the situation up there?"

It was Zahra who’d leaned over the wall, catching Rom’s eye from above. She was crooked between broken bits of stone and fragments of splintered wood. A hole that had been most likely torn open by the dragon who’d just flown overhead. One of many. Grime and dust streaked her dusky features—Vesryn didn’t need to see her to know that they weren’t doing very well up there. The screams, the fire. The general chaos pressing in on their sides. Her voice cut through the clamor of swords slamming against the icy wall. “Things are tight here, Rom,” a pause, as she reached over her shoulder and grabbed another arrow, “fucking dragon poked a hole in the wall, and now the bastards are climbing up.”

There was no time to respond. Several shouts echoed from above, signaling that perhaps, they had less time than they’d thought. Her face disappeared back behind the wall.

The bad news wasn't limited to the walls, however. The main body of the army had finally cut or burned their way through the rest of the ice, and these were some of the Venatori's shock troops: the mages strong enough to stand at or near the front lines, interspersed with more lightly-armed skirmishers and a few out-and-out warriors. They advanced much more quickly than those before, almost reckless in their haste to engage the Inquisition, who were forced to adjust accordingly.

Stel caught a stonefist to the abdomen, powerful enough to double her over, breathless; she only just avoided the axe that flashed for her afterwards. It cut into her shoulder instead of her head, the man behind it bearing down with his weight on the wound and shifting his grip, clearly intending to wrench it out at an angle for maximum damage.

But she set her jaw and shoved, the faint purple glint to the air around her suggesting an application of her magic, one that sent her foe backwards several meters, until he stumbled into one of the mages, taking them both temporarily to the ground. With a grimace and a pained grunt, Stel pulled the axe out of where it had lodged in her leathers, red flowing visibly from the wound and down her chestplate. Clenching her teeth, she changed stances and threw the bloody weapon with a shout, embedding it in a mage halfway through casting some spell. It fizzled away when the woman dropped, not dead but probably not far from it.

On the opposite side of him, Khari was fending off a few of the overeager warriors. Other than a split lip, she looked mostly fine so far, but with magic in the mix now, it was hard to tell how long that would last. With the damage to their defenders on the wall and the heavy loss to the Inquisition mages in particular, the Venatori ones were emboldened, and they didn't care quite so much about friendly fire as Skyhold's troops did.

And there, in the distance, was Corypheus. His soldiers flowed aside for him like water, none of them eager to impede his progress. They weren't going to be able to hold him here, not in their current shape. Vesryn put an arm in front of Stel, keeping her from getting back into the fight for a moment. "Estella," he said, urgently. "Get back inside the gates, try to find a healer for that." Fighting Corypheus would be a great challenge even at full strength. Attempting it after taking an axe to the shoulder was just foolish. "We'll buy a few moments and then retreat back inside. They won't hold long, but it'll be something." This wasn't going to be like Haven, with people throwing their lives away to give her time to escape. Vesryn had no plans to die here, only to help buy her enough precious seconds to be ready for the fight to come. "I will be there."

He could hear her intake of breath, read the expression on her face, even if it was too subtle for anyone who knew her less well. Concern. Reluctance.

But she nodded tightly after a moment, reaching out to squeeze his elbow with enough pressure that he could feel it through the mail there. "You'd better be," she replied, softly, just for him. But then her grip on him was gone, and she'd disappeared into the ranks, hastening back through the gate in search of treatment.

Taking a moment to make sure the wound in his side wasn't also going to need immediate healing, Vesryn adjusted his grip on the sword in his hand. It wasn't his preferred weapon, but then none of this was to his preference anymore. It didn't change the fact that people were still counting on him.

Vesryn took a breath, and advanced back to Khari's side. There was work to be done yet.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
The gates weren't going to hold for long.

Rom was busy just trying to catch his breath. Their forces were holding on the walls now that the dragon wasn't actively harassing them. He didn't know what had become of it, only that it was no longer in the sky raining hell upon them. Those they'd sent out after it, Asala, Leon, Captain Pavell, Rilien, Cyrus, Astraia... if they were successful, they'd have an army to cut through if they wanted to get back inside. They couldn't expect their help here, too.

Bang, bang. Corypheus had something big bashing on their door. Inquisition regulars were bracing it, but it wouldn't be long until it gave way, and the enemy poured inside. Their only choice was to meet them in battle, and hope that killing Corypheus caused him to stay dead, and broke the spirit of his army.

"So called Heralds of Andraste! Emissaries of a false god! Your deaths are at hand."

Corypheus could project his voice with remarkable effectiveness, booming over the battlements and washing over the beleaguered defenders. He was just outside, Rom knew. Probably pacing back and forth, waiting to march inside with his corrupted and brainwashed legion.

"The time for surrender has long passed. I will spill your blood, break your bones, rend your flesh, and over your corpses I will cut another hole in the sky, to claim the godhood that you are unworthy of."

"Good for morale, this guy," Vesryn remarked with a wince, as he passed Rom. He went to help brace the door. Rom didn't stop, moving further into the fortress grounds, searching for Estella. He'd overheard she was seeking out healing. Rom had only a few nicks and scratches so far himself, but that was likely to change once Corypheus was inside.

He found her grimacing her way through a red potion on the infirmary stairs, an empty vial with a few drops of pearlescent blue inside signaling that she'd started with a mana restorative. Rom knew better than most just how hard alchemy could be on the body, especially when the body in question wasn't really accustomed to its effects. The wound she'd taken earlier, the one on her shoulder, looked better, though not like it had seen the attentions of a proper healer.

"I tried to find Donovan," she explained, pausing to take another swallow and making a face. "It's only Milly in there right now, though. He... might have been on the wall." She didn't specify beyond that. Throwing back the last of the potion, she set the bottle down on the stairs next to the other and pushed herself into a standing position, dusting off her trousers. "Doesn't sound like we have much longer. To the front?"

"To the front," he echoed. Her condition wasn't ideal, but none of this was. They'd have to make do. He led the way back towards the gate, passing through massing Inquisition troops and their allies, all gathering their strength before the final storm. "We have to attack him together," he said, glancing back. "Corypheus will want to fixate on one of us, but if we keep his attention pulled multiple directions, we can kill him. We've done it before."

He heard murmured wishes of good luck as they passed. Soldiers that he didn't know the names of, people that had devoted their lives to the cause. To the two of them, and what they'd come to stand for, by their choice or otherwise. Perhaps they'd been just the Heralds of Andraste in the beginning, but by now the Inquisition had seen both of them for the very human people they were. Flawed, in need of help at times, of guidance, but ultimately always willing to bear the responsibility that came with the marks upon their palms. Whether it was his destiny or not, Rom wanted to be here at this moment. He was no blood of Andraste.

He was the son of smugglers and thieves, and he aimed to kill a god.

He stopped, perhaps thirty yards from the gate. Bang, bang. The doors groaned with the effort of staying closed and intact. "If his eyes are on you and the elven orb is in his hand," he added, "don't try to use your mark. He has a power over them, somehow, and he'll leave you immobile with pain." He knew that one well enough from experience.

"Your tricks cease here, Inquisition! Your futile resistance meets its bloody end! Tremble before Corypheus!"

Rom's upper lip curled up halfway to a snarl. He'd never been much of a leader in battle, he thought, but he couldn't help but lift his voice to a shout. "Are we trembling, Inquisition?"

“Fuck, no!" not surprisingly, Khari was the first to reply, taking the spot she'd claimed for herself on the opposite side of him from Estella. Grinning at him, she cupped one of her hands at the side of her mouth and shouted the next part through the gate. “Ugly son of a bitch has nothing on the likes of us!"

From behind Khari's shoulder, wild curls flew as Zahra drew herself up on the balls of her feet. "We'll show you where to shove your bloody end!" She screamed it at the door, eyes wide and mouth set into a determined grin. She looked exhausted. Her little tussel on the Skyhold's wall had rendered most of her quiver empty, save for a handful of arrows. Even so, she seemed to swell with all of the energy at her sides, as they yelled and beat their chests.

At the line just behind them, Harellan chuckled softly, placing a hand on Estella's uninjured shoulder and squeezing. When he drew away, it was with the soft hum of a conjured weapon, flourishing both and pointing the blades at the ground. The two other Lions in the group, Donnelly and Hissrad, weren't far from their friend, either, the characteristic bravery of their ilk probably not allowing them to take safer spots at the back.

Lord D'Artignon and his detachment of household troops, certainly not expecting to fight so soon, had nevertheless prepared quickly once the attack started, and now made up the left flank of the formation, ready to fall on Corypheus's forces in the event they pushed too far into Skyhold.

Even some of those who did not typically fight had taken the field to defend their hope. Further back, their mechanist was loading a crossbow almost as big as she was. Lia's scouts had remained afield, arranged behind the main body, bows at the ready. Signy's entire clan of Avvar, few as they were, threaded themselves among the regulars as well, their black-and-white warpaint a sharp contrast to the silver and russet of most of the regulars' uniforms. Reed stood among those, having survived the collapse of Leon's tower, now commanding Captain Pavell's usual detachment in his absence.

Aurora and what mages survived the dragon's attack on the wall appeared, looking worse for the wear. The woman herself had her clothes singed with ash dusting the armor on her arms, and blood leaked from cuts she'd sustained but otherwise looked to be relatively intact. The same could not be said about her unit. The grim look on her face, edged with a calm fury told them all that they needed to know. Wordlessly, they filtered throughout the main body of the regulars, while Aurora herself chose a spot near the front. It appeared as if Sparrow had made it alive. Her ridiculously large mace bobbed between the remnants of soot-faced mages as they made their way to the door. The front of her dragonhide leathers was smeared with blood and where she walked, a spackled mess of red dropped in her wake, though it wasn't readily apparent where her wound was, if it was hers at all. She grit her teeth, which appeared stained, as well. Her eyebrows were drawn together, murky eyes hard as stone. She glanced over at Aurora once, and took her place at her side.

Bang, bang. The doors wouldn't hold much longer. Already the regulars holding them were showing clear signs of losing the struggle, their feet sliding back against the flagstones. Estella pulled in a deep breath, glancing once at Rom and offering a subtle nod. Gripping her saber, she pulled it from the sheath and turned to face the assembled.

"Years ago," she said, her voice clear even over the collisions. "I made you a promise. Today—today that promise is fulfilled. Today, we will fell this false god, and we will be victorious." She set her jaw, swallowed, and continued. "I don't know if Corypheus is trembling... but he damn well ought to be. Let's show him why."

"Death's all that waits for him here!" Vesryn shouted, straining with the effort of holding the gate. "Let him come and get it!" As one they pulled away, giving up their attempts brace the gate and sprinting back to rejoin the formation. It lasted only a few more seconds after that before they burst open, and a pride demon charged through.

A quickly charged ball of lightning flew from its hands, burning shocks lashing over a swath of the Inquisition soldiers. Corypheus lifted his elven orb and a rift opened at the gate. Screeching horrors spewed forth, falling upon them and hacking into their lines. The sheer force of the attack took them a moment to recover from, but they did recover, and before long they were pushing back.

Corypheus was among the first through the gates after the wave of demons, friend and foe falling away from him where he walked. All save for Rom and Estella, the two he wanted to see dead most. It wasn't that simple on their end, though; that rift needed to be closed, or else the army would have endless demons to deal with in addition to Corypheus's forces.

But even that would be no simple matter: demons on top of Venatori and red templars were a tall order, even for a force as practiced as the Inquisition. Estella sprang forward, clearly intent on at least getting closer to the darkspawn, but her path was swiftly blocked by a despair demon, shooting a beam of ice into the thick of the Inquisition forces. Estella rolled, coming up on its side and slashing, nearly parting its head from its shoulders and winning herself a few more steps forward. The rift still roiled, crystals shifting and rearranging themselves—not weak enough yet, even though the demons it spawned were falling around it, the Inquisition's press forward dropping them one by one. The Pride demon still fought at the right side of the line, but the smaller ones were spawning more slowly now.

By the time she was close enough to hit it with her Anchor, it had collapsed in on itself, dormant for the moment. But they recovered if left too long, and she chose to try and close it now rather than wait for another chance, lifting her right arm towards it. With a crackle and a low hum, the familiar green light streaked towards the rift like it was magnetized; Estella grimaced and strafed sideways to avoid an incoming spear, the connection faltering for a moment.

Vesryn covered her, shield-smashing the Venatori aside and dealing with him with little of the grace all of them had come to expect from the elf. Corypheus turned to attack Estella from behind, intent on stopping her from sealing the rift, but Rom had made a beeline for him, ignoring any other enemies that sought to strike him, trusting that his friends would keep them off his back. He did that now for Estella by stabbing his blade into Corypheus, finding a place to bury it in his lower back and stopping the magister in his tracks. He growled, spinning and swinging, but Rom was already gone, ducking and rolling away.

A loud crack rent the air as the rift shattered into nothingness, Estella's mark having closed it for good. Corypheus bellowed wordless frustration at them, unleashing a blast of raw magic from the elven orb he carried. It threw everyone to the ground around him, both his allies and enemies, and in the space that provided Corypheus used a spell to hurl himself into the air, flying deeper into Skyhold, and higher still, striving for the main keep.

Rom got back to his feet, remaining low in a wary crouch. The others were making good on their progress, and had fiercely fought the remaining demons, Venatori, and other enemies to a standstill, giving their Inquisitors the opportunity to engage Corypheus on their own. He saw the magister blast aside the doors to the keep, and disappear inside.

"Estella! Get us up there." He was already making his way to her. Whatever Corypheus planned to do up there, they needed to stop it.

"Got it." She was already concentrating on the mark again, this time to wash them both in green light. She stepped in close, as the transport necessitated, gripping his armor by the far shoulder, near the neck. There was a feeling like being dipped in water, but it faded quickly. "Step with me."

He did, and all of a sudden the keep stairs loomed in front of them. Estella released him, already taking the first two at once.

Rom moved to follow her, but they both had to stop when the ground suddenly shook with unexpected force, as though a powerful earthquake had just hit Skyhold. He could hear stonework collapsing, distant sections of the fortress falling apart under the strain.

A blast of magic energy erupted out of the keep's roof and streaked into the sky, colored the same green as the marks on their hands. It reached cloud level, and there began another rift, well out of their reach. Rom could see it growing, though, threatening to expand. He knew that sight well enough, from the first time he'd stepped out of the Haven chantry and looked into the sky. Corypheus was trying to remake the Breach.

They didn't delay any longer, sprinting up the stairs when they got their feet under them again and passing through the open doors. Corypheus had forcefully blasted aside the tables and benches, clearing an empty space before the pair of thrones at the end of the hall. The orb crackled with magic in his hand, the energy drifting away and floating up into the sky.

"The blood shed here will pave my way into the Fade," he said, stalking towards them. "I will take great pleasure extracting the life from both of you."

He went for Estella first, firing a heavy blast of force magic that she just barely managed to spin away from. But she hadn't taken more than two steps towards him before she faltered, picked up by the second spell and hurled back into one of the heavy wooden tables. It shuddered under the impact, one of the legs snapping off with the angle at which she struck it.

Rom pulled up instead of charging, waiting for Estella to recover so they could attack together. Corypheus wasn't content to wait, launching a wave of ice magic at him, stabbing spikes that erupted out of the floor in his direction. He timed their approach and leaped over them, nearrowly avoiding being skewered and rolling back to his feet. Corypheus had fade-stepped closer to him in the time that took, blasting Rom's shield away with spirit magic, then hitting him fully with the followup attack, an unnaturally strong swipe of his hand to Rom's upper body. He was tossed away and landed flat on his back, and Corypheus advanced again, charging up some kind of spell with the orb.

A crack followed, one that might have been the release of the spell, except that Estella appeared right beside him in the heartbeat after, resolutely not looking at Corypheus as she'd been warned. She paused only long enough to grab his arm, and then there was another splitting sound, and they were looking at Corypheus's back. Where Estella still held him, he felt more magic, different from the kind in the Anchors. This must be the kind that had kept Vesryn barely on the right side of functioning for a few months—it wasn't completely unlike what the tonics had used to feel like, before he stopped taking them.

"Quick," she urged, "there's not much time." Before Corypheus turned to face them and aimed the spell, or before whatever it was took effect, maybe. Which one she meant hardly mattered.

The magic flowing the from the orb had turned a bright red, not unlike the hazy glow given off by red lyrium. Instantly traveling around the room like this was disorienting, but Rom got his bearings quickly enough to charge Corypheus from behind, throwing himself into a leap that would leave him near the magister's head. Unfortunately the spell did not need to be aimed, as Corypheus lifted it and out pulsed a powerful wave of magic in all direction with speed he could not react to. It washed over him with a heat like fire that did not burn, and left his chest feeling like it was on fire, his organs all suddenly screaming for relief.

He crashed to the ground at Corypheus's feet instead of grappling onto his head, and when the darkspawn turned he brought down a heavy claw like hand with brutal speed. It carved gashes into Rom's shield first, before carrying on to his torso and his legs, leaving bloody rends down the length of him. A blast of force magic tossed him aside, and Corypheus advanced on Estella next.

Alarm was scrawled across her features; frantically she cast about for something to use, something to do to stave off the approaching darkspawn. Her free hand closed over her throne; with surprising strength, she lifted the ornate chair from the ground and hurled it.

Corypheus broke it apart in midair, but Rom's matching seat followed quickly, and that one broke apart over Corypheus's body, clattering to the floor. When he hurled a fireball in retaliation, Estella just barely got clear, ducking behind the stone dais.

"Pathetic. Your desperation is amusing. Flee and hide, it will not save you."

As the fire from his spell cleared, Corypheus followed it with a swift blast a pure arcane force, shattering the dais that was Estella's cover. Momentarily she was gone in a cloud of dust and falling rubble, but then Corypheus had stepped with startling speed to her and snatched her up by a forearm, holding her several feet off the ground and pausing to examine her marked hand. She kicked and twisted, the mark on her hand pulsing wildly, but there was no getting leverage over him, and she was left to hang uncomfortably.

"You are as unworthy as the other. Join him."

He hurled her through the air towards where Rom still lay, trying to rise and battling his wounds. She came down hard on her injured shoulder with a cry, not loud enough to mask the crunch of it breaking, and rolled onto her back, wheezing thinly.

Finally, Corypheus seemed to have no more words, nothing more to spew at them. Rom took this as a sign that he was intent on killing them here and now. He'd stalked halfway down the hall, orb pulsating angrily, when suddenly he gasped as if in shock. Rom looked to find him on one knee, clutching his chest and in obviously pain. A wave of something, like a cool wind, washed over the hall and settled upon Corypheus, and he seemed well and truly stunned by it.

"It cannot be," he said. "I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages... Dumat! Ancient ones, I beseech you. If you exist—if you truly ever existed—aid me now!"

Rom had managed to get to his knees, grabbing his blade where it had fallen on the floor. He looked to where Estella was at his side. "The dragon, it has to be... he must be vulnerable." They had to get up, they had to end him now.

Estella rolled to her hands and knees, wheezes becoming gasps. Something was wrong with her mark—it was still pulsing fast, probably in time with her heartbeat, but from the twist of her mouth and the tears at the corner of her eyes, it was also causing her tremendous pain. She bent forward over her unbroken arm, cradling the hand close to her chest, groaning through gritted teeth.

This seemed to produce some kind of reaction. The orb itself changed, light flickering from red to green, brightening and fading in time with her half of the Anchor. "Go," she choked. "I can stun him, I can—you have to kill him."

With a raw shout, she thrust her hand towards Corypheus, almost as if she were trying to close a rift. But the orb in his hand shook, shuddered, and then tore free, flying over the space between them until her fingers closed over it, digging into the whorls and ridges on its surface. A spear of green light shot from the device, streaking across the room and slamming into Corypheus's chest, throwing him all the way back into the crumbled remains of the dais.

Rom had gotten to his feet, and then he was moving, the weight of every moment he'd lived through carrying him towards Corypheus. First a walk, then a stumbling jog, and then a full sprint, snarling and dropping his blade as he ran. Corypheus was trying to rise when he reached him, but Rom put an end to that with a blast from his mark, delivered with a punch that when combined sent Corypheus flat on his back. He had no power over their marks, not when he was without the orb.

Rom descended on him, planting his hand atop his corrupted, darkspawn forehead, and he let the mark do the rest. The same way it had done for Adan Borja, who had tried to kill someone he loved. Corypheus would kill everything he loved, if given the chance.

"You'll never walk the Fade again," he growled down at him. Corypheus was already groaning in pain. "You'll never be a god. You're nothing at all." His mark placed a larger rift than he meant inside the darkspawn magister. Half of him was already gone, torn away into nothingness, when he forced it to collapse on itself. It exploded outwards, throwing him off of where Corypheus had been, while bits and pieces of their enemy were scattered all over the hall. Rom landed with a thud, and lay still on his back. Above him, through the blasted hole in the ceiling, he could still see the Breach hovering in the clouds, a growing maelstrom.

The irregular sound of footsteps heralded Estella's approach, though they were more a shuffle than anything. The both of them weren't in good shape, but they were alive, and Corypheus was not. "I think..." she said, voice almost swallowed by the open air and strange, eerie stillness. "I think we can use this to close it, if we work together." Her eyes were fixed on the focus itself, head cocked like she was hearing something that wasn't actually audible, but she shook it off and looked down at him instead.

"I'd offer you a hand, but my other one's broken. Let's be done with it, shall we?"

"Gladly." Groaning, he rolled over first and pushed off the ground, getting back to his feet that way. He could tell right away that she was on to something about the orb. He touched his marked hand to it, as she was already doing. Something not unlike the way they'd both been marked to begin with, the way they survived the blast that destroyed the Conclave.

Lifting to orb towards the heavens, it suddenly erupted with a pillar green light, one that reached up into the sky with a thunderous roar. His legs shook; he didn't doubt Estella was having trouble staying upright too, but they fought through it, held it there until it was done. When at last the energy was expended, the elven orb shattered in their hands, the pieces raining down around them as charred hunks of metallic stone.

But the Breach was gone once more, the clouds in the sky already stilling and calming. Outside, Rom could hear the cheers of victory rising from the Inquisition forces.

It was over. It was done. And the Inquisitors were still standing, triumphant together.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The day after Corypheus's death, Estella still wasn't sure it had sunk in.

The Anchors remained on hers and Rom's hands, much as they'd ever been, even though the artifact that had created them had been shattered when they'd used it to close the reopened Breach in the sky above the keep. The hole in the ceiling and the rest of the structural damage remained, of course; for the moment Leon was working out of Cyrus's atelier, perhaps because Cyrus himself was still here, in the infirmary.

There were enough casualties to overflow into the mages' tower, beds and cots pressed close enough that the healers could only just barely fit between them, never mind chairs for visitors. So she'd sat herself at the end of Cy's mattress, pulling her legs up underneath her and setting his feet on her lap rather than taking up any extra space. Harellan was nearby, she knew; he assisted with some of the healing, but his main concern seemed to be watching over Cyrus, and Astraia who was in the next bed over, though still unconscious.

"You still could have told me what the plan was," she said to her brother, reaching forward a bit to bring her fist down on his knee. There was no force to the 'blow;' it wasn't like she was actually upset with him, though admittedly his risk-taking scared her more than a little. Maybe that was why he'd kept it from her. Much as she didn't like to admit it, that might have been for the best. And they succeeded and survived in the end, so she just didn't have it in her to be mad. "My crazy, reckless brother the hero, huh?"

Cyrus had borne her teasing and gentle assault with the smallest of smiles, until she got to the hero part, where he shook his head immediately. “Crazy and reckless I can agree with, but don't go making me a hero." He glanced over at the sleeping elf across the narrow aisle, then down at his hands. “Astraia saved me, you know. At least twice, by my accounting. I want her to know that." There was something strange in the way he said it, like he was asking Estella to tell her, almost. But of course that didn't make any sense.

Harellan cleared his throat. "Many heroes were made yesterday. Yourself included, lethallan. I can say with great confidence that your parents would be incredibly proud to have the two of you as children. I am certainly proud to be your kin."

She might have asked Cy what he meant with a statement like that, but it just about slipped her mind with what her uncle said after. Coming from someone like Harellan, who knew what he knew and was who he was, having pride to be related to them, to her, was far from a platitude. Not when she considered just who else he could count among his kin.

The familiar urge to downplay things as Cyrus seemed to be doing rose in Estella like old instinct, but for once she pushed it down. Conquered it, and let herself feel just a little pride in herself as well. "Thank you." She hadn't done it alone, of course, but neither she nor he was claiming that, and so she let the words sit without the caveats and qualifications. "I'm proud of all of us."

Turning her eyes back to her brother for a moment, she tilted her head and rested a hand on his leg under the blanket. "Will you keep for a bit? There's a party—I thought I should probably put in an appearance. I'll bring you back some baklava?"

Cyrus was quiet a beat too long for the question, but smiled thinly. “I've survived worse, I think. Though your absence will wound me dearly. I expect dessert when next we meet." His tone was light, and he waved her off with a gesture.

Estella laughed, mindful enough of his condition not to shove him as she might normally have done. "I think that can be arranged. Until then, get some rest. I hear heroics are tiring." She'd argue with him over semantics until he accepted it, but perhaps that would be a discussion for later.

Shifting out from beneath his feet, she set them back down carefully and leaned down to give him a hug. He readily wrapped his arms around her, turning his face in towards her neck and curling his fingers into her shirt. “I love you, Stellulam." His words were just a whisper, a harsh one; his fingers trembled where they clenched.

"Love you, too, Cy." She rubbed his back gently, unable to keep things completely light. The victorious mood was infectious, but at the same time... she hadn't known until late yesterday evening that he'd even survived. The relief was overwhelming in its own way, something she was sure was getting to him as well. Once she'd hugged Harellan, she stepped back. "Let me know if Astraia wakes up, okay? I can bring her something, too." With a little wave, she made her way out of the infirmary and across the bailey, still churned up and darkly-stained from the battle the day before. The Venatori bodies had been burned that morning; she could still smell the last of the ashes.

Mounting the stairs to the keep, she pushed open the door and made her way into the main hall, noise and music already filtering out. She was just entering the long hallway in front of what had once been the dais when she bumped into someone. Instinctively reaching out, Estella steadied the person, only to find herself looking down at Zahra.

"Hello, you," she said, unable to keep herself from grinning. Clearly, the captain had already been at the business of having fun for a while. "Enjoying our victory, I take it?"

Zahra leaned against Stel for a moment before properly righting herself. She took a step backwards and swept her hands out wide, encompassing the hallway. Her eyes were lidded at half-mast but feverishly bright. She’d obviously pulled out all the stops for this particular occasion. Her dusky skin was already splotched with rouge, most noticeably along her exposed collarbone; where her shirt crept dangerously low, though she didn’t seem to notice. Or mind, given her proclivities.

“Hello to you too, lady-of-the-hour.” Her voice lowered into a taciturn whisper. As if she were telling a joke with no punchline. She set her mouth into a wide, toothy grin and straightened her shoulders, planting one of her hands on her hips. It seemed to anchor her in place, or else keep her from falling over. A thick eyebrow rose into her hairline. “Of course, this is the perfect time to empty the stores—the stores of booze. The special stuff. Y’know, the world-saving stuff.” She took a swaggering step to Stel’s side, and slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a rougher hug than the one she’d given Cyrus.

“I’m gonna miss you guys
 you know that?”

Estella laughed, happy to be pulled into the captain's strong grip. "Well, you won't have to miss all of us, right?" Spotting Asala a little ways away, Estella gestured her over. "Word in the infirmary is the two of you will be sailing off into the sunset. Where do you think you'll be headed first?"

A blush was already seeping into her cheeks while she spoke, but Asala didn't seem affected by her own embarrassment. She probably learned how to deal with it by now. "I was hoping we could visit home again, for a little while at least," she said. "After that?" she said, pulling the inebriated Zahra off of Stel and closer to herself, dropping her arms over her shoulders and locking them above her chest in an embrace. "It's up to the Captain," she said with a beaming smile.

Estella huffed softly, tilting her head. That was a bit of a new development, as far as she knew, but apparently it had been a rather long time coming. Or so said the people who knew them especially well. It was certainly nice to see the confidence in Asala and the tenderness in the often-rougher Zee. Probably best not to encroach on their time, though. "No need to be strangers," she said. "You're always welcome to visit us anytime you like." With a small dip of her head, she took her leave, passing further into the hall.

Here the tables had been righted and repaired to the extent possible, several of them sporting rough blocks of wood for replacement legs. If she looked, she'd probably be able to spot the one she'd broken a rib on, when Corypheus had thrown her into it. But she wasn't particularly keen to know, and much preferred the use to which they were currently being put—holding food and drinks for the people who had worked hard and deserved them.

It was bittersweet, to think of how many would eventually be leaving. The advisors, who'd worked perhaps longest and hardest of all, each intended to leave: Marceline to retire to her lakefront property, Rilien to resume his work with Lucien, and Leon to take his place once more among the Seekers of Truth, though those goodbyes would be months out in Marcy's case and possibly as long as years for the other two. Less far away were Aurora and Sparrow's pending departures, to Val Royeaux and Kirkwall respectively, and she knew many of the other mages would scatter without their Captain to promise them safety and with the end of the Breach, which had once been blamed on them. Aurora and Sparrow were at one of the tables, but Aurora looked despondently into her cup, and Estella wasn't sure company would be welcome.

Sparrow seemed a little more sober; Estella waved to her a little when her feet carried her past.

"Stel!" A familiar voice drew her attention to the right. Cor raised a hand to wave at her, inviting her over to another table section, where he sat with Lia, Hissrad, and Donnelly. They seemed to have been there for a while as well, though none of them was in the habit of drinking quite as much as Zahra or Aurora seemed to have already.

Estella readily joined them, sighing a bit as she slid into an empty part of the bench. "Hey guys." She grabbed the freestanding bottle of something at the middle of the table, though there was a lack of empty cups. Hissrad noticed her dilemma and slid his over the table to her, untouched side forward. "Thanks." She poured herself a bit of the wine and took a swallow before turning her attention to the table itself. It looked like there'd been a card game in progress, one that had finished recently.

"Guess this'll be the last time we're all together for a while, won't it?"

Donnelly reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "Yeah. It's been great here, but... we're Lions, you know? I just feel like that's what I'm always gonna be, and right now, Val Royeaux's where I have to go."

She smiled a little sadly, and nodded once. Once, they'd all been the same in that: Argent Lions before anything else, bound by that bond of camaraderie and shared purpose. Part of her always would be—it was only because she'd been a Lion first that she was ever able to rise to the challenge of being an Inquisitor. But she'd taken so many steps toward that new thing that she couldn't retrace them anymore. The Inquisition was her home, in the way that the barracks had been before it.

"I'm gonna stay a little while longer." Lia set down her cup. Her cheeks were a little red, a sure indication that she'd be stopping soon. Estella was already with the Lions when she'd had her first drink, and in all that time she'd never gone overboard with it. "Much as I'd like to go back, I might still be needed here. With Leta escaping..." It was an unfortunate side effect of the damage done to the fortress during the battle. They'd simply found her gone when someone finally thought to look.

"I just want to make sure there's no trouble on your hands before I abandon you, you know?" She grinned.

Estella smiled. "I appreciate that, really." Leta's escape was a little more personal for Lia than the others, probably, given the woman's connection to Marcus and Marcus's to Amalia and Ithilian in turn. No doubt Lia understood better than most just how important it was that someone so closely associated with a man like that not be allowed to go wherever she wanted.

"I'm sticking around for a bit, too," Cor said. "I think I've still got more use here than I do in Val Royeaux, so..." He shrugged, one hand coming up to almost-absently rub at his chest, or rather the maroon tunic over it.

She wondered if that was really all there was to it, but Estella chose not to press. Wiser not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, and it was reassuring to know that at least the two of them would be sticking around. So much was sure to change, and with the group feeling like its bonds were starting to loosen and let some of them free, well. She'd hold onto whoever let her.

"Speaking of Orlesians, though, I think Julien was looking for you earlier. Not to chase you away, but you can see us anytime." He smiled faintly and nodded to where the man in question was standing against the wall just under the hole in the ceiling, speaking quite seriously about something to Rilien, it seemed.

"Guess I'd best see what that's about." Draining the last of her wine, she handed the cup back to Hissrad with her thanks and stood.

Rilien noticed her approach first; not unusual of him. He gave a small nod, the direction of his attention no doubt informing Julien of her presence as well. “You have recovered satisfactorily?" His own arm was still bandaged where it had been burned by the lyrium dragon's fire; she could see the edges of the gauze just peeking out from beneath the hem of his belled sleeve.

"I'm fine," she said honestly. She'd broken her shoulder and cracked three ribs, but of all that only a little tenderness remained. The Lord and Lady Inquisitors didn't really have to worry about lacking for care in terms of healing, and though the mages and alchemists had done their best to prioritize the severe wounds, she had Harellan, who wasn't exactly concerned with the same rules.

Julien gave her a warm smile, then looked pointedly up at the gap in the ceiling. "You know, I saw a Breach form here, and then close. With my own eyes. But it still seems like some dream I had, and not anything real." He took a quick swallow from the tankard in his hand. "Give me an incorrigible idiot or a diplomatic mess to handle or some assassin in need of skewering and I'm right as rain. This, though... this is very much your sort of thing." He tilted the mug in a gesture of toast. "In case you don't hear it often enough—and I daresay you won't—thank you for making everyone else's petty problems possible by saving us all."

Estella couldn't hold back the half-laugh that followed, shaking her head. "You're welcome. I think. Cor said you wanted to see me about something, though?"

He nodded slightly. "I heard about your escaped prisoner. Rilien supposes, and I agree, that she's more likely to flee west than east, which would put her in Orlais. The Crown would appreciate it if you could pass along any worthwhile information you have about her, in case she ends up our problem."

That made complete sense, of course. "Absolutely." A pause, and then: "Speak for The Crown now, do you? I always thought you were a bit too radical for that."

He bit back a grin and shrugged. "I'm not much for crowns in general, but I've a brain in my head. I can do a lot more good standing next to a man like him than I could ever accomplish trying to stand against him. We'll see how much of my agenda I can push, hm?"

"Best of luck, then." Estella had always found it to be a compelling agenda, after all.

"Thank you. If you happen to catch the Lord Inquisitor before I do, please extend Orlais's gratitude to him as well."

“I will see you tomorrow morning for training." Rilien, of course, could hardly be prevailed upon to give her two days off in a row, when she was in perfectly good shape to practice.

She was going to miss it when he wasn't there to keep her in line that way anymore, but by this point, daily work was a habit she'd have trouble breaking. No one could ever accuse him of being an ineffective teacher.

"I look forward to it."

Her tour of the room took her to the very front next, near where the thrones had once sat. There was another table there now, one that must have been moved from somewhere else. The Heralds' Rest, probably. Khari and Rom looked to be sharing the same spot on the bench, the former sitting in front of the Lord Inquisitor, back against his chest, gesturing expansively, probably in the middle of some story about either the last battle or some of those immediately before it. They both looked to be enjoying themselves, Rom possibly moreso than she'd ever seen him enjoy anything.

Estella took an empty stool near them, curious as to what Khari was talking about.

“—and of course you remember this next part. We're all standing there behind the gates, and Corypheus is all 'tremble before me' blah blah blah, and then this one—" She knocked her elbow back into Rom's arm with no force at all. “This one decides he's feeling like a smart-mouth heroic leader, and so he goes 'are we trembling, Inquisition?'"

She laughed. “And of course the answer is no, because who're we, right? Not afraid of any smelly son of a broodmother, obviously!" There was a chorus of agreement from the others at the table, and most everyone followed her example when she paused to quaff a bit more alcohol, already red in the face and grinning, the expression a tad less edged than her usual bloodthirsty one.

Thrusting one hand out at Estella, Khari lifted an eyebrow as if in challenge. “And then this one gives the Stel-est speech there ever was. Stellar? Has anyone ever made that pun in front of you?"

Estella rolled her eyes. "Maybe once or twice, but it's been a while, so thanks for that." Crossing one leg over the other, she waved a hand. "Anyway, don't mind me. What happened next?"

“Eh... the gates opened and there were a buncha demons and shit. Same as it always goes, on our end." She shrugged. “What everyone really wants to know is what happened after you guys disappeared." She widened her eyes dramatically at Estella, but then tilted her head back to look at Rom. “You gonna take over the story? I did a damn good found—foundy—start. I started it well. So you can finish it."

Rom chuckled at her drunkenness. He'd obviously had quite a bit himself, but drink didn't seem to make him much more talkative than usual. He was at least willing to finish her story, though. "We had a good fight, like we always did, me and Corypheus. Only this time I had Estella with me. She'd never had the pleasure of putting up with the ugly bastard's nonsense blabbering while he's trying to kill you." It was a disturbing habit, to be sure, a sign that he took far too much pleasure in the violence he caused, in the superiority it made him feel.

"He got us pretty good at first. At one point I was down and Estella," he shifted his eyes to her. "You broke our chairs. I was just starting to get used to that one, too."

"Technically Corypheus broke them," she replied with a broad smile. "With his face." Slightly inaccurate, but in the right spirit, at least.

He waved a hand dismissively. "It was a big target. We'd have ended up broken too, I'm sure, but then his dragon died, thanks to our friends down at the lake, and that stopped him cold. And then." He laughed a bit at himself, maybe for the attempt at being dramatic. "Estella reaches out with her mark, and rips that damn orb out of his hands, and blasts him with magic from it. Sent him clear across the room." He gestured with his hand to indicate the travel distance, start point to finish, and then his tone became more subdued.

"After that I just ran across the room, jumped on him, and..." He reached out with his marked hand, grasping at empty air, and made a soft noise imitating the explosion. A very clean way to describe something that had been extremely gruesome. He withdrew his hand, wrapping it around Khari's midsection instead while he took another drink from his cup.

"And then we picked ourselves up off the ground and closed the Breach," she finished with a short nod. "Destroyed the orb in the process, so that green scar in the sky's all that's left of it for good, now." She pointed upwards, drawing most of the eyes to the skyscar in question. It was right over their heads at this angle, after all.

She wondered how Harellan felt about the focus being lost. They weren't exactly common objects, after all. Perhaps something she'd have to ask him when they trained next.

“The Lord and Lady Inquisitor, everyone. How does Zee say it? Big damn heroes." Khari slid her arm over Rom's where he held her, humming in a way that sounded both contented and slightly sleepy. Given how late it was getting, that was hardly surprising.

Estella tapped the table and stood. "I'll see you all later. Maybe tell them the Tourney story again. I know I never get tired of that one." But Rom and Khari's obvious enjoyment of each other's company had reminded her of someone she had not yet seen tonight, and very much wanted to, so she spent the next few minutes searching for Ves.

It was a bit of a slow process; several people stopped her to offer thanks or congratulations, which she returned with as much warmth and appreciation as she could, even as she felt fatigue beginning to wear her down as well. Only after some number of these encounters that she honestly lost track of did she find him, standing rather quietly on the edges of the celebration, his back to one of the hall walls. If she had to take a guess, she'd say he was observing more than participating, something which was hardly like him.

When Estella reached his side, she tilted her head, letting a little of her confusion show through. "Hey," she said gently, "I kind of expected to find you holding court over half the room by now. Is everything all right?" She knew it wasn't, of course, not with recent events so fresh. But she meant to ask whether it was something other than the obvious, and she figured he'd understand.

"I thought I wouldn't hover over you for the night," he said, wrapping an arm around her as she drew close. "I just can't seem to make myself enjoy this. I know I should, but... I wish I could've held on to her a little longer. I wish she could've seen this." In terms of the timing, it was entirely possible Ves wouldn't have been able to make it through the battle, with Saraya causing him as much pain as she had. But the point still stood, and Saraya had passed on without being able to see them defeat Corypheus once and for all.

"Better not to linger on that, I suppose." He cleared his throat, possibly fighting the feeling of it choking up on him. "I've been thinking. You know I'm not leaving you, or the Inquisition, but I really ought to return home sometime. To Denerim. Thought I'd deliver my next update on my deeds to my parents in person." And they were remarkable deeds, for a city elf from the Alienage. "Think you can spare a few days, once everything is cleaned up here?"

Estella leaned easily into him, looping her near arm around his waist in turn. "Of course I can. Anytime you want, you know that." She turned her head to rest her brow at his shoulder. "There's a lot of stories to tell them, I expect." She looked forward to meeting them, too—getting to know the people who'd brought him into the world, even if just for a short visit. Part of her ached to know she'd never be able to do the same in reverse; never know what either of her parents would have made of what she'd become. But she'd take Harellan's word for it, and Ves already knew her family anyway.

"For what it's worth... I think she can see this. I really do." Estella couldn't claim to know what happened to people after they died, but... she believed she'd really talked to her father once. Surely it wasn't so outlandish to suppose that even now, their missing friend was watching over them, and knew what they'd just achieved.

"I think so too. I'm sure she's proud of the fact that, one more time, the Inquisition did the impossible."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
The Exalted Council, it was called.

The atmosphere in Halamshiral was less festive than when they'd arrived to stop the assassination attempts at the start of 9:43, but Orlesians treated most things with similar flair, and the Winter Palace was immaculately prepared to receive the guests arriving from all over Thedas. Naturally the Emperor and Empress made the biggest splash and drew the most attention, and the arrival of the Fereldan delegation drew up the most ire, but the Inquisition's arrival had no small amount of fanfare of its own. They were quite popular among the people right now, considering their recent victory over Corypheus, the fulfilling of what had become their purpose.

Rom had heard that even Tevinter sent a group to attend, something of a surprise arrival, and a promising sign of cooperation. The Inquisition did have dealings in their territory after all, and no doubt the Imperium wanted to ensure their interests were not threatened here by whatever the southern nations agreed to.

The main street leading up to the Winter Palace was kept open for their mounted procession by Orlesian soldiers in blindingly polished armor and masks, holding spears aloft bearing banners and flags of the Empire's blue. Rom couldn't recognize any of the Orlesians watching them ride through, given their love of masks, but it made identifying the Fereldans and other outsiders among them painfully easy. He resisted the urge to ride faster. He still felt like a fool in the attire he'd settled on, despite it not being quite as fancy as what he'd adorned his last time at the Winter Palace. Brand had insisted he looked dashing, but he hadn't been able to tell if the elf was being facetious or not.

Halamshiral was in large part an elven city, and there were many of these represented in the crowd as well. Some of them seemed to have come for the express purpose of catching a glimpse of Khari, who, in quite the reversal from the last time she rode this route, was now among the most recognizable and infamous members of the Inquisition. She seemed to have none of his reservations, not about the crowds and not about the somewhat more formal style of dress. Probably because it wasn't actually a dress this time.

She paused in the middle of basking in her newfound attention to catch his eye and grin, then leaned over to tug the edge of his embroidered collar into place. “You look good, Rom. Soak it in while you get the chance. I don't think too many people on the other side of the High Quarter gates are gonna be this excited to see us."

Though even as she said it, the gates drew near, and standing off to one side of them, apparently arguing with the guards, were two very familiar faces.

One of the faces belonged to Zahra—it was easy enough recognizing her even though it’d been a few months. She wore a heavy buccaneer’s coat in regal-red, though she kept it draped over her shoulder. Leathers in dark tones, and a billowy shirt with sleeves cuffed at her elbows completed her ensemble. Khari’s gifted ironbark bow was strapped to her back and her rapier swung at her hip with every irritated inflection. She was mere inches away from the guard, mouth pulled into a scowl. Although hilariously shorter than the person she was speaking to, she didn’t seem to have any problem invading his space, thick eyebrows drawn down.

“We’re Rom and Stel’s friends, dammit. What’s the bloody problem?” she poked a finger into his chest and only seemed to retreat when another familiar figure took a step forward. The guard seemed taken aback, but remained vigilant in front of the gate. If anything he didn’t seem as if he knew what to say. Though, he was determined not to let them through. The tension in her shoulders seemed to ease a little, but she did not completely relent. “We’re not leaving until you let us through.”

The other face was, of course, Asala's. It was easy to pick her out, as she towered over both Zahra and the guard. She noticably stood straight, without the timid hunch that usually accompanied her publicly. Also noteworthy, perhaps even more so, she wore the garb of a privateer, much in the style of Zahra. A white wide necked shirt with poofy long sleeves rolled up to the elbow and leather trousers. An assemblage of tasteful jewelry rested around her neck, while her broken horn sported a copper cap shaped in such a way that it extended the horn to its original length.

She watched Zahra speak to the guard from a step back, arms crossed and a frown on her lips. Obviously she wasn't any more happy to be denied entrance as Zahra, though she probably wasn't as comfortable arguing the point. Asala was more than happy to let Zee do it though. Asala was the first to notice th Inquisition's party, immediately lighting up and waving toward them with a wide smile.

With a slight grimace, Estella, already riding near the front of the group, maneuvered her horse around a few others and approached the guard. "Your pardon, ser," she said, the title probably a bit more lofty than the guardsman had actually earned. Probably didn't hurt her chances. "I apologize for the misunderstanding; these two are indeed friends of ours. They'll join up with our party; we'll of course assume all responsibility for their presence." She offered a mild smile.

It took the man a few seconds, but by now their faces were fairly widely-known. The Inquisition was of enough interest that portraits had circulated over time, no doubt smoothing interactions like this one, especially since neither Romulus nor Estella gave off quite the air of automatic authority that most nobles did. When recognition did click into place, he gave one last skeptical glance at the two obvious privateers, but then dipped his head. "As you say, Lady Inquisitor."

And just like that, the way was open. Stel paused just long enough to pull both Zahra and Asala in for quick hugs before remounting and sliding back into the file.

Zahra puffed one final, “Finally,” before stepping around him and to Estella’s side. Her hug was always a rougher affair, bringing her slightly off the ground, before she settled back. She tossed the guard one last cheeky smile, before joining the rear, just behind the horses rump. She held out her elbow for Asala and tipped her chin up, grin wide of which Asala accepted with her own smile. If anyone fit in less than a Qunari in these parts, it was certainly her. “Still a fancy place, sers and ladies—how do you do it all day?" She paused, and scratched at the back of her neck. "Thanks for saving us. Would've been stuck there all day.”

"Glad we could help," Rom answered, though of course Estella had done all the work, sparing anyone else the need to do it more bluntly and less efficiently. "I didn't think we'd see you again so soon. Figured you'd be off sailing along Rivaini coastlines."

Zahra lifted her shoulders in a shrug and pulled Asala closer still. "Maybe we just missed you more than you thought." A toothy grin wasn't far behind. Perhaps, it wasn't too far from the truth. They had spent quite a bit of time together, saving the world and opening wounds, ebbing and flowing like the sea. She laughed softly and pushed errant curls behind her ears. "Maybe that's truer than I'd like to admit."

"This seemed too important to miss," Asala added. "And we did miss you," she continued with a smile. Asala wasn't afraid to show it.

"Well we're glad you're here, at any rate. I hope you won't get too bored, though, we've got nothing but meetings ahead of us." Important meetings, sure, but still... not Zahra's usual idea of a good time. She most definitely wouldn't be taking part, either. Too likely to cause a scene.

"We will be fine," Asala insisted, drawing Zee a little closer. At least there was someone to keep an eye on her.

It wasn't long before they had entered the palace grounds and dismounted, finally free of the need to have crowds kept back by rows of armed guards. Inside it was as Khari predicted: the excitement of the eyes on them was replaced by a variety of things, and few of them felt pleasant. Animosity from some, perhaps with a bit of jealousy mixed in. Others had more of a hunger, Orlesian nobles that wanted to use the Inquisition for their own ends, no doubt wanting to play on the connections the organization already had in the Empire. Of course, most of them could hide their intentions well enough behind their masks, something that irked Romulus to no end about this country.

There was one group that wasn't wearing masks, all save for the woman leading them, and Rom quickly identified them as a Tevinter escort, high-ranking guardsmen escorting... of course. The narrow silver mask gave him a second's pause, but he did soon recognize the woman striding towards them as his former domina, Chryseis Viridius. She'd put a great deal of effort into her appearance for the occasion, strings of small jewels woven into her blonde hair. Her attire was still more mages robes than Orlesian-style dress, easy to move in if she had need to, but the tailoring was impeccable, even if the color was a near-black grey that did nothing to help her stand out.

"Imagine my surprise when the Archon named me the Tevinter Ambassador to the Inquisition. I'm not sure the Magisterium fully understood the irony of the situation, though the old man certainly did." When last Rom had seen her Chryseis had been devoid of must of her sharpness, her energy, but she seemed to have regained it now. She looked... healthier, perhaps was an appropriate way to describe it. "In any case, it's good to see you all alive and well. You have my thanks for dealing with the deranged monsters at the head of the Venatori. Corypheus should've accepted death when it came for him the first time, and as for Marcus, well... I'd rather not hear his name ever again."

"A thought we share," Estella agreed, though only with a slight pull of her mouth to the side. It was sort of hard not to discuss him at least by proxy, not when his apprentice was still the third-most glaring name on their list of missing persons that really ought to be found. And perhaps the most dangerous to leave to her own devices. "It's nice to see you looking well, Lady Chryseis—I admit we weren't expecting Tevinter to send anyone at all." So polite were the words, and so suffused with Estella's usual mild warmth, that it was honestly impossible to tell if she meant them truly or not. Perhaps she did, to a point.

"Though... I suppose we did make a few waves in Minrathous, so perhaps it's not wholly unexpected."

Khari snorted. “We killed a Magister, broke into another one's house, and destroyed a bunch of stuff." She ticked the items off on her fingers, probably referring to Contee rather than Alesius when it came to the killing. “Personally I'm wondering if they sent you with an invoice."

Chryseis hmmed thoughtfully. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. All I recall is taking action against the Venatori, who are far less welcome in Minrathous now that their leaders met their ends." It was true that she'd taken no involvement in the Contee business, and if her home and power had been restored to her, it had to be true that the Venatori were falling out of favor in Tevinter. "Where is Cyrus?" she asked, sharp green eyes searching for him behind her mask. "I can't imagine he would miss this."

It wasn't the first time Estella had needed to answer the question, and she was getting better at it, in terms of showing less distress each time it was asked. It was doubtful she felt any less, though—on the contrary, her concern only seemed to grow as more time passed without contact of any kind. "He left," she replied, perhaps a touch too quietly. "For parts unknown, after we killed Corypheus. It's been a while since we heard from him."

Chryseis frowned openly at that, but Rom could tell that she'd picked up on the sensitivity of the topic, and despite narrowing her eyes slightly at them, she chose not to press the issue. "That's unfortunate, I'd hoped to speak with him. Interesting developments in Minrathous I thought he might take an interest in. No matter." She glanced over her shoulder to the Winter Palace itself, where a large formation of guards flanked either side of the main entrance. "I shouldn't keep you any longer; you have an Emperor and Empress to meet, after all. Best of luck with the Council. I imagine I'm mostly here to listen and report back on the proceedings. If you want something done right, yes?" Her eyes landed on Rom when she said it, restraining mirth.

It might've made him wilt to hear such a thing from her once, obviously referring to his bungling of his duties at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Instead he was able to take it as the humor that it was, and forced a small smile back. "Lady Chryseis," he acknowledged, nodding. He didn't feel any more was necessary. Talking to her was never going to get much easier.

The Inquisition's party bypassed the guards without being stopped, a large-enough number of famous faces among them to mark them out without the need for formal identification. They'd all been here personally before, after all—and there was little mistaking how close some of their number were to the palace's current residents.

"Ah, there you are. Please, come save me from politics for five minutes." Strange as it was to think, the rather jovial remark could only have come from the Emperor himself, with that particular accent and pitch. Less strange was the fact that rather than occupying the throne room, he and the Empress were mingling freely among the guests in the entrance hall, flanked only by one slightly exasperated-looking chevalier. Ser Violette—Vi, as Khari preferred.

Lucien wore a broad smile, one that only grew as the group approached. Estella didn't even hesitate before stepping into his personal space for a hug instead of bowing, though even that was a touch more dignified than the running tackle from their first time in Halamshiral. "Lucien!" She drew back, tilting her head up and grinning. "It's still strange to see a crown on your head, I have to admit."

"Still strange to wear one," he replied, stepping back a bit while Estella shifted her affection momentarily to Sophia instead.

Where a greeting of some sort to the Empress would have been, though, Estella found herself abruptly silent, realization dawning quickly over her face. The reason, quite obviously, was the telling shape of her gown. "You're—" The Lady Inquisitor fumbled with her words for a moment, a soft noise of possibly delight escaping her. "You could have said so in your last letters, you know—either of you! Congratulations!" She hovered a bit uncertainly in front of Sophia, as though with the intent to embrace her too but an uncertainty as to whether she ought.

The Empress removed all doubt when she went to hug Estella herself, embracing her warmly. "I thought you could use a pleasant surprise. And thank you." Breaking the hug, she still held Estella's shoulders for a moment. "It's... a lot of things. Mostly just exciting." Rom thought he also detected some relief there. As he understood it this was something the Empress had been pressured towards for quite some time, and finally she could actually do it in the way that she'd always hoped for.

"Congratulations, Your Radiance," he echoed, with a small bow. She looked for a brief moment as though she wanted to correct him on his formality, but no doubt both of them were tired of that by now. And Rom didn't know either of them the way Estella did.

"Thank you. And congratulations are in order for all of you as well. I wish the circumstances were less stressful, but... we'll do our best to ensure you can keep doing the work you've been doing. It's still very much needed."

"We think so, too," Estella replied, "but we understand that it might not be something we can do in the same way. Your support means a great deal to us."

The Emperor offered the group a smile at that. "With a group like this, the how doesn't really matter so much. You'll figure things out and chart yourselves a worthy course forward, of that much I'm quite confident." Something drew his attention towards the inner part of the castle, smile fading and a sigh passing through his nose.

"I fear, however, that our break from politics is coming to an end. The Fereldan delegation will want to begin talks as soon as possible. They're a bit further from home than we are. And a bit more, how should I put this...?" He glanced around, then lowered his voice. "You'd think someone spat in the Arl's ale, to see him glower." He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, we'll give you a few moments to collect yourselves before things get underway."

"Do brace yourselves," Sophia warned. "Fereldans can be worse even than Marchers. But unlike their favored pets, they often lack the bite to match their bark."

"We'll do our best not to let either get to us." Rom bowed briefly again. "Thank you for the warm welcome."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Politics had never been Zahra's forte, and she hadn't particularly gotten better over the years—not even having spent so much time in its midst's, not so long ago when she served the Inquisition. It made her head swim and her skin itch. She felt bad for anyone who had to be subjected to it all the time. Namely: Rom, Khari and Stel. Neither of them seemed to like it but it was a part of the job description. An unfortunate one, though with the support system they'd acquired over the years, it never looked like they struggled to maintain their foothold.

She was proud to call them friends. Though in times like these, she wasn't sure how to make herself useful. Beyond trying to make this thing go as smoothly as possible, which never seemed to happen... all she could do was make it known that she was there, if she was needed. Glancing around the room at the others, it was clear that the negotiations weren't going as well as they hoped they would. Tension hung like a heavy blanket over their hearts. Lips tugged into firm lines. She could feel it. She'd heard how things had been going. It was the waiting that made her squirm. Always had. Sitting in one place, not knowing what was going on was torturous.

She'd perched herself on the corner of a nearby desk. Parchments and books pushed off to the side a little to allow her enough room. Her left leg was crossed over her knee, and her elbow was propped over it, chin resting into an upturned palm. She stared at the opposing wall and narrowed her eyes. Her thoughts whirred with the most recent information—though she couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. The eluvian. The dead Qunari. Cy... she hated mysteries. There was a pit in her stomach. A curious emptiness. Whatever this was, it was important.

The room itself looked like an office, decorated with chairs, books and the large desk. Large enough to accommodate them all, though it still seemed to feel stuffy. Rilien seemed quiet as ever, possibly plucking up the likeliest scenario in that nogging of his. He'd always reminded her a little of Cyrus. Quick as a crow, with eyes just as sharp. Brand was at his elbow, looking a little grimmer than usual. Marcy and Khari were not far away. While she'd missed them sorely and had been happy to see them, now wasn't the time for reunions.

Rilien's eyes had remained fixed on the door for most of the time they'd been here. Ostensibly, there was a break in the negotiations, but from the hushed tones in which he'd spoken with the Emperor just a few minutes earlier, things were a tad more complicated than that alone.

Khari was a little less quiet, sprawled in a chair with her legs propped up on what was almost certainly an antique coffee table. She looked a little sour; no doubt she'd have preferred to go through the mirror with the others, but it had been important to keep people behind in case of any further developments here. She was the keeper of some little bit of green crystal—apparently it allowed for conversation over long distances. Some sort of magic. Stel had the other, but thus far the connection remained unused.

She sighed deeply for the third time in as many minutes, only to be cut off by a soft knock on the door. Khari straightened in her chair, shooting Rilien a glance.

He, of course, betrayed nothing of any feelings he might have about all this. “Enter."

The door opened to admit a guardsman of stout stature; he glanced once at the assembled and addressed himself to the Tranquil. "Bit of a row going on outside, serah. One of your lot insisting on seeing you. There was a fight with a servant, you see, and—"

Rilien was moving before the man had a chance to finish, gesturing for the rest to follow him. Lady Marceline would surely be able to handle anything that came up while they dealt with whatever this was. A chance to do something, at the very least.

The guard hustled to catch up with the elf's pace, pointing out the exit they wanted. Khari jogged slightly in their wake, lips curled in a way that suggested she was looking forward to whatever this was about to be. Perhaps the word fight had provoked it.

Their exit put them out in a small courtyard, where another guard, this one in much fancier armor, scowled at two elves. The woman was vaguely recognizable to Zahra—one of those faces you see and don't quite register, but nonetheless feel an indistinct familiarity with later on. From the russet-red and brown she was wearing, she was the Inquisition member. The other one—the man—wore the colors of the Winter Palace staff: blue and gold.

No sooner had the group made their entrance than the guard turned his attention to them. "Inquisition? This servant claims your soldier attacked him."

"Bloody hell—I just asked him what he was taking from our supplies. He fell down on his own damn time."

"Slow down, please." Brand's eyes narrowed, moving rapidly for a moment, darting here and there. Taking in details of the scene they'd stumbled on perhaps. He had a quick mind, Zahra knew, quicker than his tongue even, though he seemed to know when to hold that, too. He looked to the servant. "You first. What's your name, what were you doing, and what happened to you?"

The man looked a bit surprised to be addressed by another elf instead of one of the humans now on the scene, but he cleared his throat, tugging self-consciously on his tunic sleeves. "I'm Orrin. I was moving the barrels of the supply wagon like the manifest said, when this woman comes out of nowhere and gets up on my face. Says I'm stealing Inquisition property and tries to take it off me." His mouth dropped into a frown, as though he were affronted by the very notion. Zahra had seen enough of servants to know that some of them took a great deal of pride in and responsibility for their work.

Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves, addressing the Inquisition soldier. “And you?"

"Ilya, serah. I dunno the first thing about any shipping manifests, but I doubt any of them call for stashing these things in random storage rooms. Looked bloody suspicious to me, but then he got all defensive about it not being my business. Seemed like my business what some Orlesian was doing with anything off the Inquisition carts."

The barrel at issue still sat between them, more properly an earthenware vessel, sealed at the top with cork and wax. Rope had been tied around the middle to make it easier to lift; it almost looked too heavy for the likes of Orrin to be lifting.

Zahra idly scratched at her jawline as she inspected the earthenware vase settled between the two in question—didn't look like anything out of the ordinary, though she wasn't exactly sure what the Inquisition had brought here, either. She squinted her eyes at Orrin and took a step to his side, rounding until she stood in front of the vase. She'd never been a very good judge of character, if the people she usually dealt with were anything to go by... but the lad had an honest look about him. Shoulders squared off. Offended.

Of course, it could've been a ploy. Or maybe, he'd been doing something he wasn't even aware of. Orders were orders, and servants were meant to follow them without question. Maybe Ilya's gut-feeling to check out what was being moved hadn't been completey unfounded. "We best take a look at the manifest then." She arched a thick eyebrow at them and turned her attention back to the vase, digging her fingers under the lip of wax until she could properly wiggle the cork off.

The smell greeted her first, assailing her nostrils. Pungent. She wrinkled her nose, and felt her eyes starting to water. Unexpectedly strong. Zahra slid the cork over a few inches so that she could see what was inside. No doubt everyone else could smell whatever it was by this point, too. She glanced up at Ril, still keeping hold of the cork so that it covered half of the opening. "Powder? I don’t know."

Maybe he'd have a better idea.

Rilien stepped forward, showing no sign of being bothered by the odor. It was mostly strong charcoal, and maybe a few notes of rotten eggs. Sharp, though. He ran two fingers along the inside lip of the vessel, smearing the dark grey substance over his fingertips with his thumb when he drew them out again. A tiny line appeared between his brow, and he gripped the vessel by the neck, tilting it sideways so a small amount of the powder spilled out into the grass.

“Move the pot away." He pointed at a spot a considerable distance from them, and Khari obliged, helping Zahra lift the clay vessel well clear of the area. Rilien motioned for everyone else to back away from the area, though the guard and both elves angled themselves to see what he was doing anyway. Withdrawing one of the knives from their sheaths at his waist, Rilien took a piece of flint from... somewhere else and struck the two against one another, throwing several sparks down onto the powder and taking a step back.

The result was instantaneous. Bright fire, in a plume about half a foot high, flashed, eating through the powder on the ground and leaving a heavy scorch mark in the grass. “This is gaatlok. Qunari explosives."

There was a brief moment of surprise at the flash of light caused by the explosive powder, but when it passed, Brand was the first to notice that the servant elf, Orrin, was no longer with them. "Hey, wait!" He took off at a run after him before the elf could slip out of sight entirely. Brand was short and not especially athletic, though, making his chances of catching the suspect middling at best.

While the explosion hadn’t been expected, it was Brand’s exclamation that forced Zahra into motion before she even had a chance to question what was happening. That wee bastard was running away. So much for an honest face. She huffed a breath and pumped her legs harder, breaking into a sprint, curls flying. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She passed Brand and felt herself gaining on the elf.

The distance shortened between them until she could reach out a hand and try to grab onto the back of his shirt. Close. So close. Her fingers clawed at the air, and then she felt her foot drop. Momentary panic filled her. Then, confusion. She’d been so focused on his retreating back and the zigzagging of ridiculous courtyard statues and shrubs, that she hadn’t noticed that the path she was running down dropped into a rectangular pool. A fountain. With lily-pads, flowers.

He’d obviously known it was there, because he was in the process of jumping while she staggered and fell. Her hand dropped lower, and she tried to grab at his wrist instead. Her fingers didn’t close around him at all, though she felt something entirely different in her hand. Felt something rip, rather than heard it. The water splashed around her as she lost her momentum and sailed clear out of the pond, catching herself on a nearby pillar.

She spotted Orrin disappearing through a door. Fuck. She huffed and leaned bodily into the pillar, trying to catch her breath. Trying to find him in a place like this would be a pain. She scrunched her eyebrows together, and turned over the thing crumpled in her hand. A piece of paper. Torn in half. Pushing herself away from the pillar, she began her trek back to the others. Her mouth twisted into a small smile, half embarrassed. Her sopping boots squished as she walked. “Couldn’t catch him either,” she breathed out through her nose, and lifted the piece of paper, flapping it in the air, “looks like one half of the manifest.”

Rilien, as unruffled as ever, took it from her and smoothed it out with his hands, eyes scanning quickly down the list she'd retrieved. “It would appear that at least six barrels of this type came in with the Inquisition's supplies." He paused a moment, letting that sink in, then immediately turned to Brand. “Get as many agents together as you can. Search for these barrels. Remain beneath notice."

Shifting his attention to Khari, he continued. “Contact Estella. If the Qunari have access to eluvians, there could be more of these anywhere. We need to know where, before they are used." When she'd nodded and turned away, Rilien's attention landed last of all on Zahra. “We need to find Orrin."

Qunari explosives, eluvian mirrors, and one dead Qunari. How many people were involved? How had the vases even been smuggled into the Inquisition's supplies? The implications made her head spin. But they didn't have time to speculate, not if whatever plan had already been set into motion.

Zahra nodded and inclined her head towards the small pond she'd been unfortunate enough to step in. "He went this way."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
When Khari had heard that someone in the Inquisition got in a fight with someone else, she'd been pretty excited. It was the promise of something to do, outside of sitting around and waiting for the field team to come back with Cy's sorry ass in tow. Unfortunately, it hadn't quite panned out like she wanted. Sure, exploding powder sneaked in by Qunari spies was plenty interesting, but she was still just about as useless as a fireplace in midsummer. All this creeping around trying to find the spy before someone else found out there was a spy was definitely more of the kind of thing Ril and Brandywine did than her.

So here she was again, feet kicked up on some of Lucien's furniture, basically waiting for marching orders or something to swing a sword at, which at the moment amounted to fiddling with Stel's fancy Tevinter crystal and trying not to fidget too much.

When the crystal flashed and warmed in her hand, she nearly fell out of her chair. Shit—how did this work again? Right.

Clearing her throat, she tapped it twice with her index finger, grinning almost despite herself when her friend's face resolved on the screen. “I hope this is good news, because we don't have any for you yet."

Stel looked rather grim in the crystal, dirt smudged across part of her face and her mouth pulled down into not-quite-a-scowl, though she made an effort to return Khari's smile. "The opposite, I'm afraid." She shook her head. "There are more Qunari here, and more barrels of that gaatlok. We just fought some of them, but the leader left the way we'd come. The eluvians here... Khari, we need to warn everyone. I think they were planning to get most of the centers of government in Thedas, nevermind us."

She paused, as though about to say more, but her face contorted, pain scrawled across her features for a moment before she suppressed it. "Also the Anchors are still getting worse. It's... a lot. Nothing new from you?"

Well, damn. That really was the opposite of good news. Khari swallowed, something in her guts going tight and uncomfortable, more for the part about the Anchors than anything. Threats to the world were sort of their business. Something that was hurting Rom and Stel this much, this close—that was rarer and honestly a lot scarier.

“Not yet. Ril, Zee, and Brandywine are still looking for that Orrin guy. Me and Marcy are basically just sitting on our hands. We're pretty sure we found all the barrels, though. There were six of 'em, all set around the palace. Some of them even had blast charges already set. Getting those disabled was a pain in the ass, but Widget's here, so we managed okay." Grimacing, she squinted at the crystal, as if that would make Stel's image any clearer.

“Anything else we can do to help you? You said the leader came back the way you went in, right? Should we be expecting a drop-in?"

Stel shook her head. "I don't think so. There was another mirror back that way—a locked one. If we plan to stop this at the source, we need the password to it. Something that spy probably has, if you can find him. We'll take care of getting warnings to the people on the other side of these mirrors in the meantime, but the faster you can get us the password, the better. The Anchors are... not stable. We think if we can get through that mirror, we can solve both problems at once."

Fuck, Khari wished she were with them. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to plaster that feeling all over her face. It wasn't the fact that they were probably going to end up charging into some huge group of Qunari by themselves, either—though that did sound pretty great. Less great was the fact that her best friend and the person she loved were suffering that much and she was sitting here completely useless to do anything about it, or even just be there for them.

Khari forced her jaw to relax so she could talk. “They're looking as fast as they can, Stel. Once they find him, I'll beat the password out of him myself if I have to." She knew that wasn't exactly the kind of thing Stel would be happy to hear, but Khari needed to say it. Needed to resolve it. Because damn if the thing that killed them was her hesitation to inflict a little well-deserved pain.

She licked her lips, voice dropping so that it was quiet, probably not quite quiet enough that Marcy couldn't hear, but as close to private as she was gonna get in here. “Rom's, uh—he's okay? For now?"

Stel's expression softened; she smiled a little and gave a small nod. "He's no worse off than me. And as you can see, I'm still okay. We've got to get going now, but I'll keep you updated if anything changes. Promise."

The door swung open rather abruptly. It struck the opposing wall and nearly bounced back into Zahra’s rouge-splotched face. She caught it with the flat of her boot and made a noise in the back of her throat. Her thick eyebrows were drawn together and her mouth was twisted into a scowl. Seemed as if her boots were dry at least. Whatever good spirit she’d been in hours before had all been smothered away. She didn’t seem to notice Khari talking to Stel at all, as she stomped into the middle of the room and tossed her hands into the air, gesturing in angry swipes.

“Those sonnuva
 mongrel fuckers, the lot of ‘em!” she took a seething breath through her teeth and shook her head, curls swinging, “they found the bloody whelp before us, and they refuse to let us speak to him. None of our fucking business, they said.” She finally managed to calm herself down, letting out a heavier breath. She crossed her arms over her chest and swung her gaze to the ground, seeming to look somewhat apologetic. “Sorry. Ril’s trying to see what he can do, but right now, they’re not letting us get close to him.”

Oh hell no. “Not while our friends' lives depend on it, they aren't." Khari stood, pocketing the crystal and curling her hands into fists. Only a few of those calming breaths Leon had been trying to get her to use kept a lid on her temper, and she swung around to face Marcy.

“This is kinda your cue, right? Because I'll punch an Arl in the face if I have to, and I don't think we want that."

"I do believe that would cause... somewhat of a stir and officially, I cannot condone it," she said with a tight frown. In spite of the dry attempt at humor, she still looked serious, and even a little bit frustrated with the situation. It took only a moment for Marcy to push herself off of the desk she was sitting on and flatten out the wrinkles in her dress before making her way toward the door. "Not our business?" she repeated Zee's words with a glance at the woman. "We'll see about that," she added evenly, though a furrow was beginning to form in her brow.

The scene Zee led them to was hardly the brawl it probably would have been if less-cool heads had prevailed, but tension was obvious in the air nonetheless. Rilien's status was apparently enough to warrant the Arl's presence, and combined with five of his closest guard friends, he looked like nothing so much as the forbidding iron gate in a stone wall of resistance.

Rilien, of course, was as unfazed by this as he was by everything else, maintaining a polite but not excessively deferential distance from where Teagan and his men stood, no doubt blocking direct access to wherever they were holding Orrin. "As the elf was found in my guest quarters, I am sure the Inquisition will recognize my right to question him first. I should like to know what, if any, sensitive information he might have uncovered in the course of his unpermitted entry. Surely whatever you have to ask him can wait, can it not?" The suspicious tone of his voice suggested that he wasn't entirely sure that was true, and wanted to know what made their need to speak with the servant so great.

"I am afraid it cannot, at least, not for long," Marcy stated apologetically as she pulled up to the scene at hand. She stopped to stand beside Rilien, an arm crossed over her chest, resting the other which currently cupped her chin. She held the gaze with the Arl for a time, looking like she was thinking about something, and then glanced toward Rilien for an affirmation. "I believe we may already know the answer to the question you wish to ask him my lord," she said, turning her attention back onto the Arl.

She seemed to have steeled herself, like she decided on something internally. "We have already discovered that the rogue you have in your custody has smuggled in several barrels of Qunari explosive into the palace under the guise of our supplies. There is a chance that he was scouting for opportune locations to place more, to cause the most amount of damage as possible."

Even Khari could see the risk of Marcy being so forward with the information, but undoubtedly it would come to light sooner of later. Someone just doesn't sweep barrels of gaatlok under the rug and pretend like it didn't happen. Marcy must have figured it would have been better to hear it from their mouths rather than from someone unaffiliated with them. "We also have reason to suspect that the attack isn't solely localized here, but other places of import as well. I believe there are more pressing questions that need to be asked than what he was doing in your quarters my lord."

"If that is what he was doing, then my questions are all the more pressing," Teagan countered, managing to look and sound both alarmed and irritated at the same time. "And if these explosives truly came in with your supplies, you can grasp I hope why I do not trust much to your competence."

Khari crossed her arms, mostly so she could occupy her hands squeezing her biceps instead of something more productive but less nice. Brand was having difficulty holding still, but doing so on the edges of the group rather than in the thick of it. Rilien, on the other hand, just spoke as placidly as ever. “Your objections are noted, my lord. However, this spy claims to be Orlesian—a member of the Emperor's household. You can no doubt see why his remaining in your custody would be irregular at best."

"Not as irregular as remanding him to you."

"This affects more than Ferelden alone my lord, and the Inquisition already has proven experience in dealing with threats to Thedas as a whole," Marcy continued. She paused for a moment, letting her head subtly tilt toward one side. "I fear that this may be more of an Inquisition issue at the moment than a Ferelden one, unless you wish to take responsibility for your nation for something that could have been prevented," she asked with a single arched brow. The implication in Marcy's words were clear. Let us take the blame if something were to go wrong instead of Ferelden.

"I do not doubt you have your own questions, and you will have a chance you get your answers. All that we ask is that you allow us to get ours first," she continued, but softer this time.

"My agents will remain in the room." It was the Arl's turn to cross his arms. "If you ask a single question that they interpret as probing after information about Ferelden, you will be ushered out immediately." Scowling openly, he gestured to the men behind him, who parted to allow access to the door.

"Fix your mess, Inquisition. If you can."

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: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
This is how Zahra had always imagined it, way back when she was just a wee lass sticking her hands in the mud, scooping up clams along Rivain’s plentiful shorelines. Having someone she loved—a woman—at her side, while she set sail, bobbing along the ocean with no clear destination in mind. A pirate, a sailor, an adventurer who, for once, could be true to herself.

Still.

It felt bittersweet, this particular ending and beginning. There was a heaviness in leaving the Inquisition and all of her friends behind. She’d never liked goodbyes. They always felt too final. Too emotional. But, this was just another chapter, another page flapping in the wind. She had no doubt that she’d see them again somewhere along the line, somewhere down those pages. Trouble had a knack for nipping at their heels, and they knew that she, and Asala, had both promised that they’d always be there to swoop in if they were needed.

Because they were family. They’d become more, far more.

While her heart still ached at the news that Cyrus hadn’t returned, she couldn’t help but smile at Stel’s words. He hadn’t wanted to leave. Of course, he hadn’t. Seemed like, as of late, he always had to try and save the world. Fill in the spaces, push himself further than anyone else, because it was the right thing to do. Even though she understood better than anyone that people like them, the ones who sat somewhere between gray, muddied morals, struggled with those concepts most of all. She’d miss him. More than anything, she wished him the best. Hoped he succeeded in whatever he needed to do.

Perhaps she was a little more wishy-washy than she’d thought she was, Zahra had left one of her own beady-eyed ravens in Ril’s old rookery. Used for when she was opening trade-lines of lyrium for the Inquisition’s personal stores; and now, it was just a means of keeping in touch. She’d left notes in her friends studies, dog-eared in the corner. They didn’t say much, just a couple of sentences. An inflection, a jibe, thank you's, and incoherent swear words; affectionate, in nature.

She leaned her elbows across the polished railing and watched as the pier and buildings grew further and further away. The salty spray of the tide lapping up onto the bow felt nice on her skin. Comfortable. This is where she always belonged, but she would never forget what other place had become her home. A small smile tipped up the corner’s of her lips as she crooked her head to the side, curls blowing in the soft wind. “I’m really gonna miss them, you know?”

"Yes," Asala said in agreement. Asala was knelt down beside her, arms resting on the railing, and her chin resting on them. She was close enough that Zahra could feel her warmth, and she could see her eyes locked intently on the familiar land quickly fading away from them. "I will too," she added, with perhaps a bit of worry in her voice. Over the years, Asala had tended to their wounds, worked to see them alive the following day. Day in and day out, she worked tirelessly to heal the Inquisition's injuries. To leave all of that behind for the open seas, it made sense that Asala was worried. It would no longer be her hand to stitch their cuts or mend their bones.

She let the moment hang in the air for a moment or two, until the pier became only a blur. She then turned and sat, her back comfortably pressed up against the railing. "I trust them," she said, confidently, "They will be fine." They've all been through so much, it was hard to think otherwise. Of course they would be fine, after all that they went through, and they were stronger for it. "And if not?" Asala added, with a glance upward toward Zahra, a smile forming on her lips. "We'll just have to go back and make sure."

How would they ever survive without Asala to patch them up? Mending their bones and spirits, whenever they were too weary-worn to keep moving forward. How would they fare without Zahra always pulling them aside, hauling them onto Skyhold’s ramparts to think of anything but saving Thedas? She’d miss it all. Staring at the stars and knocking elbows at the Herald’s Rest. Of course, Asala was right—they’d be just fine, the way they were. They were some of the strongest people she knew, in ways she wasn’t even sure how to describe.

They’d do just fine without them there, she was sure. It didn’t mean she would miss them any less.

The wistful smile broke into a toothy grin as she turned to face away from the place she’d come to love; its shoreline a blurry line, its buildings specks on the horizon and growing further still, until only the sea would remain. It swallowed everything. Eventually. Being back on the water would take some time to get used to, seeing how long she’d kept her feet anchored on land. Only they seemed to make staying away that long that bearable. She hm’d softly and slid down to sit beside Asala, leaning her head into her shoulder. “I like the sounds of that.”

A laugh bubbled from her lips as she gave her head a shake. “I’m sure they can go a little while without us having to save their arses from another big baddie bent on taking over the world,” she lamented with eccentric flair. She trusted them, too. Trusted them to be there, whole and alive, whenever they came back again. She reached down for Asala’s hand and took it in hers. She gave it a squeeze, and released a heavy breath. She brought her free hand up to her face, knuckling at her eye; wiping the wetness away. Just a little moisture. The salt-spray of the sea. Nothing more.

“They’re big important people, now. All those titles. Paperwork. It’s like running a small kingdom. Bloody hell, all those politics makes my head swim...” She paused and exhaled once more, softer this time, “You think they’ll miss us?”

Asala's head had drifted to lean softly against her own, though at Zahra's words she lifted it and looked to her. "I'm sure they will," she answered. Then she smiled and planted a soft kiss into her thick hair. "You're unforgettable Zee, wherever they go will feel hollow without you there--It would to me," she added.

"But..." Asala said, her face turning pensive for a moment. "I think--no, we will see them again. Even if its just for a visit. We spent too much time together to never go back to them," she continued, leaning back onto the railing behind them, her head drifting back down onto Zee's. "I'd... like to see the world, and that includes their new castle." The hand wrapped around Zahra's held on tighter, and was lifted up for the both of them to see.

"But I am in no hurry, if you aren't Captain," Asala said with a coy smile.

Zahra smiled at that. Maybe she just needed someone else to say it out loud. Foolish as it seemed to her, the thought of being forgotten was a very real fear of hers. One that rivaled failure. The tension in her shoulders melted away when Asala set her head onto hers, fitting themselves like puzzle pieces. She sure hadn’t realized that she’d been missing something before. Not until she’d met her. She felt the kiss on her head and grinned wide, feeling the telltale signs of redness burning at her ears and cheeks.

Asala had always been the only one capable of making her squirm like that—luckily enough none of their companions had teased them too much. Certainly not as much as she’d teased them about their couplings and budding relationships. A mercy, she was sure.

“You’re right. No matter how far we go. We’re family now, aye?” Even if they sailed to the far stretches of Thedas
 it wouldn’t change anything. Not how they felt. Not all the things they’d done, everything they’d gone through together. Their experiences and their bonds; unbreakable. They were the goddamned Irregulars, after all. She crinkled her eyes and laughed louder this time, assured. Asala always seemed capable of smoothing away her worries. It was a feat she’d never take for granted. “That so? Then I guess I guess it’s my duty as Captain to show you the very reaches of the world. Every nook. Every cranny.”

The crew moved about the ship and seemed keen to give them personal space, though on more than one occasion she’d spotted Nuka smirking at them across the way as she stomped across the decks, hauling ropes, checking the sails. Nixium absently turned the wheel, back facing them. Perhaps, awaiting orders. A destination. From the smell wafting from the Riptide’s belly, Brialle was cooking something meaty. Soon, they’d need to find someone to fill Garland’s shoes; his absence would make it hard to maintain the ship, but surely across their new adventure, they could find someone just as capable.

A thick eyebrow raised along her hairline, “Any place you’ve in mind, Madame Kaaras?” In a feigned, rolling accent that sounded strikingly familiar to those who lived in Val Royeaux. She’d gotten rather good at mimicking their high-and-mighty manner of speaking. Practice, mostly from making fun of them. She drew her knuckles to her lips and waggled her eyebrows, planting a soft kiss there, before awaiting her answer.

"Well," Asala smiled and stirred, first pulling herself onto her feet before she turned and offered Zahra her other hand to help her do the same.

"I think what's over that horizon is a decent start," She said with a giddiness.

Zahra had never truly gone anywhere without a destination in mind. Being a raider, a pirate, and an opportunist required meticulous planning, even if those particular plans were nefarious in nature. Going somewhere without any prior planning felt
 unexpectedly freeing. She grabbed onto Asala’s hand and hauled herself back to her feet. Without a moment’s hesitation she pulled her along towards the middle of the ship and drew breath in her lungs.

“Nixium!” it was a bellow, cutting across the wind that billowed against the sails. One reserved for Captain’s issuing orders, “Full sail ahead. North until—until we find something worth stopping for.” There was a cry in response, from her crew, scrambling with gusto. There was a thumping of hands on chests and a contagious giddiness that made her want to laugh and pump her hand in the air. Instead, she opted for tugging Asala’s hand down so that they were more on equal footing. She was fairly short, after all.

“To future adventures, and whatever we might find there. Together.”

She wanted to seal that promise with a kiss.

"Together," Asala answered, and leaned down to oblige her captain, oblivious to eyes on them.

Zahra pressed her lips to hers, ignoring the ooing in the background. Soft and sweet and warm; warmer than she thought she deserved, but in this moment, it meant everything to her.

They'd set sail to nowhere, together. At their own pace, as slowly as they could. Time was no issue.

Not anymore.

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