Times Of War: Chapter One- The Witching Wood

[Sir Basil]

Morven glanced at the woman as she ruined the darkspawn that had advanced upon the healer. He had reacted of course, but he had gotten lost somewhere along the way, his shield had moved the few inches needed to push the creature back away from the healer, sliding inbetween the monster and the healer, but he hadn't thrown it to the side as easily as he should of. He had looked it in its yellowed eyes; red tissue crawling around its lenses. Morven looked back at it with his own eyes, and searched its face for something that he recognized. He had heard that the first darkspawn had been human once; the humans that the Maker rejected; Tevinter Magisters that had fallen into darkness. Their pride and their power had brought them into the world, little human sins had turned them into the greatest threat the world had ever seen.

Morven admired the idea that human sin could make an entire race. That meant that human virtue could as well. His race, with his values. He stared deeply into the darkspawn's face, and his mouth corners twitched for a moment. And then, the head slipped from the creature's shoulders, sliding off of the neck with a sickening 'schlop' sound. He watched it tumble to the ground, a spray of blood falling on the ashes of the plants. Morven looked at Colette then, with his dark eyes. He nodded once, and said softly, "I did tell you to watch the mage." He slipped past her, shield held high, and sort at his side. He could feel his gauntlets biting at his knuckles once more, pulling open the wounds on his hands. They were shaking within the metal.

Morven looked over to one darkspawn, that was crawling its way to him, long claws and long horns. He sighed, before pulling his shield aside. He looked down at the creature, and for a moment, their eyes met. He wondered what the creature was thinking when it looked back up at the Templar, who's eyes were full of fire, and his face was stony. Morven knelt before the creature, and it made a futile attempt to scratch at his chest, an attempt to rip away his heart but the thing's fingers brushed uselessly against Morven's chest plate. Morven looked down at the spot where the creature had made the attempt, seeing the rivets that its claws had made across the sword of Andraste. At this, he plunged his sword deep within the creature's spine. He watched as black and clear fluid bubbled up around the point of his greatsword. The creature let out a low, crying sound, convulsed a few times, coughed up bile, and then, went still.

Morven stood once more, drawing the sword out of the creature, and sheathing it. It was quite the scene of carnage. Dead darkspawn bodies littered the ashen ground. He was beginning to feel faint. Not now, he begged himself, not now. Morven clasped his gauntleted fingers together, and murmured softly.

"They shall cry out to their false gods,
And find silence."

Morven reached out to clasp one of his wrists, and he turned it clockwise. He slipped off one of his gauntlets, and dumped out the contents of it. A small trickle of blood came out of it, dripping from the edge of the plate. He watched the red bead move down the rivets and then drip to the ground. His hands were stained and soaked. His still-gauntleted hand was sliding around in his armor; lubricated from his spent blood. He watched as the red of his blood mingle amongst the blacks and greys of demon-blood and burnt leaves. It slid amongst the leaves.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

 

[Esthalia]

"Arvandor... we are safe..."

Just like the rainfall, the battle had taken a sudden end, which of course, did not go without it's terrors. Neviha placed a hand over her chest, feeling the violent thump of her heart against her insides from watching the beast attack Vale. She was unsure why her reaction was so extreme, she did not feel particularly close to the mage; He should have been like any other travel companion.

Before the dainty elf could climb all the way down from her safe haven in the trees, her attention was caught by a sudden quaking along the ground. The tree tops trembled with the vibration of heavy footsteps, coming at them fast.

"lle'desiel! Ready yourselves!"

Esessar barked furiously at the dying brush, focused on a beahemoth shadow that was approaching swiftly from the depths. It cared not what was in it's way, ripping through the saplings of the forest floor with ease. A horrendous roar shattered the dewy silence around the group, followed shortly after by a scream as the Elf was rocketed out of her perch.

The beast had collided head first into the base of the thick trunked tree, rattling it to it's core and sending it back, cracking in two as it fell. A troll faced them now, maw thick with blackened blood and eyes red with rage.

 

[Voices of Nerat]

Gasping and coughing, Vale let his staff drop to the side so he could accept the warrior woman's aid. He grasped her hand shakily, smiling weakly at her as she helped him up. "Thank you... for the quick rescue," he said weakly, looking between the warrior woman and the templar. He groaned, remembering the stinging pain in his side. He glanced down at his wound, the darkspawn having left a large claw-shaped tear in his robes as well as well as the flesh beneath them. He looked back up at Colette, a pained grin on his face. "Snuck up on me from my blindspot... I need to be more careful next time." He limped closer to her, retrieving a small cloth from the inside of his robes in the meantime. Carefully, he'd wipe off the black darkspawn blood that had splattered her face. "You don't want this blood on you... you may get infected with the taint if it gets in your eyes or your mouth."

When he was sure that her face had been sufficiently cleaned of the tainted life essence, he gave Colette another warm smile before discarding the now blood soaked rag. "Remind me to find another when we get back to camp..." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Morven draining the blood from his gauntlets. Surprisingly, he felt concern for the apostate hunter, and he was about to ask the templar if he needed healing before he heard an omnious rumbling from behind.

Vale spun around, watching the treetops rapidly falling in the distance as Maker-knows-what came bounding towards them. He was deafened by its gut-wrenchingly terrible battle cry, but his eyes widened as he saw Neviha go flying from the beast's impact. Reacting quickly, he'd wave his hand in her direction, loosing another burst of mana. An aura of thin, wispy strands would suddenly surround the elf woman, and the speed of her descent would drop, lowering her momentum so drastically that she appeared to be floating rather than falling at this point. She'd hit the ground softly rather than otherwise.

The apostate sighed, glad his spell had worked sucessfully. Like before, however, he was given little time to rejoice as he felt another presence looming over him, this one MUCH larger. Slowly, he turned back to face the massive beast that was towering over the group. The troll leaned down in front of the mage and roared once more, rancid breath splattering his scarred face with sickly strands of spittle.

"I REALLY need to be more careful!" Vale yelled as he retreated, just in time to avoid one of the troll's massive feet coming down on him.

 

[LVL1337N00B]

Colette's frown remained as the templar walked past, speaking the single line, "I did tell you to watch the mage." Had she done as instructed, Vale wouldn't have been injured. He wouldn't have almost lost his life. It was her fault the mage had been endangered, because she'd run ahead to fight Darkspawn. Next time would be different, she swore to herself. She'd keep a level head and stick with the group. That's what she told herself, but in truth it would take some work. Colette was always a bit.. Excitable, one could say.

Despite being the reason Vale was almost slain, the man had thanked her for rescuing him. Had he forgotten that she was supposed to be protecting him, or was he that kind that he would just let it slide? Colette was confused and, as the man limped over to clean her face, a bit upset. Not with him, of course, but with herself. His simple gesture intensified her guilt, making her chest tighten and ache. "I.. T-thank..", she began, struggling with her words and fighting through ragged breaths, but before she could finish something cut her off. The ground was shaking and the sound of increasingly loud stomping had caught her attention. Before she could even begin to ask what was going on, there came Neviha's warning, and not long after that her scream. Colette's eyes snapped up to see the elf sailing through the air as some impossibly large creature destroyed the tree she had been perched atop. "No!"

The young warrior had only begun to take her first few quick steps toward the direction the elf flew before what she could only assume were magical strings wrapped around the Dale. The strange energy appeared to somehow slow her descent and bring her to the ground safely. She looked back at Vale briefly before her attention returned to the massive beast that was bounding toward them, loosing its horrifying roar. The woman shifted and took a step back.

Just as suddenly as it appeared, the ogre was within arm's reach of the two warriors and the healer. It had stopped directly on front of Vale. The rush of adrenaline surged through her veins once more as the beast leaned down toward the mage's face, and her fear turned into rage. Good old blind, stupid rage. Just as the beast roared, she swung her fist at the creature and let loose a roar of her own. Her cry was nowhere near as intimidating, and her punch appeared to do little more than hurt her hand.. Which was to be expected.. When throbbing pain in her hand snapped her out of her moment, she took a few steps backward and turned to grab her sword. She quickly yanked her blade out of the ground and fled in the same direction as the healer.

Before she went far, Colette slowed to a stop. With his injuries, Vale wasn't likely to outrun this thing for long, and she doubted she would do any better if she tried to carry him. At the same time, she couldn't be much of a match for the ogre.. But maybe she could distract it long enough for him to escape. She turned to face the beast, gripping her blade and staring up into its eyes. "Face me, foul beast!", she challenged, readying herself for the behemoth.

 

[Sir Basil]

The beast was immense, as tall as trees with veins bulging out all across its body. A sickening shade of purple, that darkened around the tips of its stag like horns and its curled claws. Its teeth were as sharp as any mabari's. It was as broad as Morven was tall, and it's roars echoed through the templar's ears, brushing back his dark hair from his forehead and back around his ears. The vibration of its footsteps shook him to his core, causing his blood to tremble on the leaves, the pool that had been created around his greaves rippled. Morven's hands were slick with his blood but he gripped his sword and shield nonetheless, feeling them slip about on his bare hands. Internally, there was a comparison between himself and the ogre. His hands darkened around the nail from caked blood, and Morven was a sickening shade of pale, and he was feeling pretty sick right now. The gnawing was eating away at his digestive tract, the hunger was biting at his hair follicles, the sensation of starvation wracked his form from crown to calves. His toes were beginning to feel it, a numbing sensation that could not be stopped.

Morven bit down on his lip, hard. Blood bursted from his mouth as a capillary popped. Base gore spilled down his chin, dripping amongst his stubble. He had to float above it all, internalize the conflict between the real and not real. Pain helped. Pain starved away hunger. With pain, there was no need to desire another swig of the only thing that could kill these nightmares. He began to move, his skirts brushing around the leaves and brambles, avoiding being ensnared by the charred and sodden natural world. It was suffocating under the influence of their little band of would-be-heroes. Morven took a deep breath and it came out ragged as he inhaled his sanguine humor. Forward, Morven. Forward and through. His legs were burning as he moved to face the monster, standing at Colette's side. He was bigger than her, but not by much, and now he felt very small. He closed his eyes, and then, he opened them again.

And there She was.

Her hands pressed against his cheekbones, and She tilted his face up to look into Her eyes. They were the colour of honey and milk, framed by Her thick lashes. They reflected all aspects of the light, as if they could catch all refractions on a surface. Her mouth twitched in a smile, the corners of Her mouth lifting upwards. Her lips were the colour of a peach at the peak point of ripeness, the same colour was in Her cheeks. Her armor was like his, but instead of steel it was forged from moonstones, shimmering as beautifully and impossibly as some far off star. Her hands were soft against his skin, which felt full of fire. Her lips pressed against his, but She did not kiss him. She spoke, instead, and Her voice was far more pure, far more gracious, than any kiss could have been;

Let my cries touch their hearts
Let mine be the last sacrifice.

Her hand steered his, touching each one of his bruised and battered knuckles, and She pushed them apart, giving him the relaxed grip of a seasoned fighter. She pressed Her palm against the blade, fire streaming across it, and She pushed it, pushed it, at something dark and terrible that had come. It was the creature, with its black horns and black blood. He knew that it did not belong here, and so did She. Her blood was fire, and Her blood pushed the blade forward. Her other hand on his face jerked him forward, following his sword in a quick thrust at the monster, his shield taking part in this assault. He was moving forward, propelled by Her holy fire, her holy blood, and her holy hands. He was moving after the mage, which was to him, nothing but the shadow of a ghost, of some intangible thing that he could not feel or love. Because he had Her with him, he was able to move.

She guided him to a space in-between the monster's spinal column, between the vertebrae that held it together. The sword was to be plunged in. The spinal fluid would leak out, and mingle with bone marrow and fire, and blood. Her blood and his blood alike.

How he loved Her.

Morven had rushed to the side of Colette and then, pushed forward with shield held high, sword held like a lance. He ran, running with a stamina and endurance seen only amongst the most zealous of his Order, his skirts flapping and chain jingling. His head was lifted upwards, as if inspecting the creature's horns. Forward, Morven. Forward and through. The sword was extended and then, slipped through ogre flesh, and there was a crunching sound as it hit bone. Morven yanked it out, and from his sword spewed black and clear fluids, droplets flicking across his armor and the charred greenery. The monster let out a deep bellowing cry, and moved one of its fists in Morven's direction. A fist slammed against Morven's shield, a huge indentation appearing amongst the battered steel. The templar was pushed backwards as useless and pathetic as a child's doll. He huffed and heaved, bringing his shield in close to himself to clutch at his chest. The wind had been knocked out of him. She wasn't there. If She had been there at all.

Morven looked at the aberration through his dark eyes. It was oddly stooped, the back wound forcing it to curl up like a dying bug. Black blood streamed down its back and sides. It needed a finishing blow. That would not be coming from Morven. He was doubled over from taking the full force of the hit, and his mouth was still dripping from his self-inflicted wound. The pain of his addiction was making his fingers cold and his shoulders twitch involuntarily. He could feel the darkness creeping at the sides of his vision. Morven shook his head, trying to keep it back. Templars did not deal with darkness. Templars stayed in the Light. He was a Templar, and he was a servent of the Maker. He could not disappoint Him. He would not live with that guilt, and he would die without knowing that the Maker believed n him as much as he believed in the Maker.

Morven straightened as best he could and began moving back forward to the creature, sword held limply at his side. His body was shaking, his heart was thumping in his ears. His actions were sluggish, as if moving through mud. Her fingers against his mouth. The fluttering of Her words against the curve of an earlobe. The press of Her hands against his shoulders. He loved Her so, and even that would not keep him going. One should stooped first, just like the monster that was bellowing out the last of its strength; they were both half-dead. One from a well placed sword to the tendons that kept it outright, the other from cracked ribs and withdrawal. Morven did not bellow. There went the next shoulder.

The Templar toppled. He did not bellow. He mumbled one word, before drifting into the Fade, into dream.He did not know if anybody would hear it, and perhaps he would have silenced himself if he knew that they could hear him. But as it stood, he did not know whether the half-dead monster would die, and he did not know if he was even with anybody. He thought that he might have dreamed it. He did not silence himself when he said Her name.

'Andraste.'

 

[Esthalia]

The soft tendrils of magic caught the elf as her body was flung from the tree. A deep stabbing pain had lit her shoulder aflame, drawing a shrill scream from her unpainted lips. The ground was soft, though the pain in her body didn't care. She still felt faint, but pushed through it, getting a glance at the beast and it's unfortunate end.

"Seldarine..." Her teeth ground together as she snarled, pushing herself to her feet and staggering into the excited embrace of her wardog. Esessar barked and howled, hopefully attracting the attention of the others as the elf dropped to the ground beside him.

Inside her minds eye, the dale was home, sitting at the base of a massive trunk. The sun was confident in the sky, beaming down through the freshly dewed leaves. The young elf had her nose buried in a book of lore, reading of the trickster god Fenris and his terrible past.

"Neviha" The keeper, tall and knowledgeable in stature called her name from his spot by the caravan. His hand was wrinkled with age, though his eyes gleamed with a youth no other of the clan would ever know. The young elf stood from her spot, skipping happily to his side and letting her bright eyes question him happily.

"Atar! Keeper, when will the hunters return?" the young girls hair reached the middle of her back, swaying as her restless legs danced in place.

"Amin naa n'valin child. It is unfortunate news, but your parents will not be returning...gurtha, death, has taken them too early"

The child instantly began to wail, falling to the ground in a traumatized pile.

"ATARA! ATAR! SUT?!" Her tongue thrashed wildly in her native tongue, pounding at the ground till her first had begun to bleed and seep her essence into the ground.

"Na beleg sarash enna...you must be strong for the fallen..." The keeper lifted the young dale from the dirt with his old but capable hand, placing it on her shoulder when she found no strength to stand on her own.

"You will fight for them...lata Neviha..."

 

[Voices of Nerat]

Turning back in time to see the templar knocked aside like nothing, Vale stopped dead in his tracks, witnessing in horror as Morven slowly crumbled. Fearing the worst, he made for the downed warrior, mud-encrusted sandals pounding hastily against the moist forest ground. "Don't be dead... Please still be breathing..." he whispered to himself frantically, feeling concern even for a man who, in different circumstances, might have been after his head. On approach, he heard the Templar mumble something, which gave him hope, but the feeling didn't last as the holy warrior seemed to sink into unconsciousness.

Kneeling down beside the battered Morven, Vale's one good eye looked him over, looking for any sign of life. Thinking it better to act sooner rather than later, the priest dropped his staff to the side, resting his hand on the back of the warrior's armor. In the back of his mind, Vale was glad the templar was unconscious at the moment, because he had the feeling he might object to the use of apostate magic to heal his rather grievous wounds. He wasn't sure how effective his spells would be on a lyrium-infused soldier of the order either, but he had to do something, didn't he?

His eyelids shutting tight, he'd concentrate on Morven's internal wounds, a halo of lightish-blue light emanating around his fingers, an intense heat bleeding through the steel of his armor. The warrior's body would seemingly mend itself of its own volition, cracked ribs made whole again and set back in place, hemorages clotting, lacerations in his organs sealing themselves up, and so forth. He'd sigh as the light from his spell diminished, hoping he'd done enough to save this one soul for now. He wasn't given much time to relax however, hearing the elf's faithful wardog call out with a bark when his master, too, fell to the ground.

"Neviha!" Eyes widening, he rose to his feet once more, thoughtlessly sprinting past the massive crumpled form of the half-living ogre that had nearly killed off half their group. He nearly slipped in the monster's sickly black blood, which was now pooling out profusely from underneath it. The creature growled weakly at him as he went by, making a sluggish attempt to swipe at the priest with one of its massive hands, but Vale was already long gone by the time it had even lifted its arm.

The priest was knelt once more, this time at the dale's side. Rolling her onto her back, his dark brown eye scanned over her body. He couldn't see any obvious damage; but perhaps his spell hadn't softened the fall enough for her, and she was suffering internal trauma from the drop. As he had done with the templar, Vale shared his healing light with the elf; placing his hand on her chest, its brightness would illuminate their dank surroundings, mending any potential wounds and numbing her pain. After it subsided, he'd bring his hand up to her smooth, unblemished face, cupping her cheek with his scarred hand, gazing at her with such worry in his eyes. "...Neviha? Can you hear me?"

 

[LVL1337N00B]

Colette watched in admiration as Morven struck the ogre, leaving it hunched over in pain. Such a mighty beast, near defeated by that singular strike. It reminded her that it too was mortal, that it could actually be slain. She grinned as the thought filled her head, eager to put this thing down. The thought of just buying time for the mage had been completely replaced by that, and her grip on her blade tightened. It had to be her, she reasoned. The others were either injured, fleeing, or otherwise unable. Perhaps their assumed inability wasn't completely accurate, but still..

The young warrior woman charged forward and jumped as high as the weight of her armor would allow, driving her blade into the ogre's chest. She'd scale the creature, using her sword as well as the gaping wound that Morven had left, until she reached the thing's shoulder. It had begun to weakly flail about, attempting to remove the blonde haired pest, but she was not badly hurt and still very much full of energy. She moved too quickly for the beast, and now she had flung her legs around its neck. It tried desperately to sling the girl off before she could finish it, but it was too late. Colette drove her gauntleted fist into the great beast's skull as much as her positioning would allow, then withdrew her arm.. Ripping out an eye with it.

The Orlesian woman had almost fallen off when the giant creature had dropped to its knees, only barely having managed to catch one of its horns. She laughed madly as the ogre collapsed, holding its eye high for all to see as she rode it down. Only when it hit the ground did her laughing cease, only to be replaced by a brief scream as the crash launched her almost straight forward and into the dirt, where she rolled upon landing. Colette lay there for a moment before groaning and pushing herself up onto her knees. Her adrenaline fueled craze ended by that sobering pain, she dropped the eyeball she had still had clutched in her hand, her own pair turning to search for her allies. She breathed a soft sigh of relief as she caught sight of the healer working his magic on the two that had fallen. "Thank the Maker..", she uttered quietly, running a hand through her hair.

 

[Sir Basil]

Morven dreamed.

He could feel the waves of lyrium addiction coursing through his veins, filling him with an unbearable burning sensation, as if the marrow in his bones was on fire. He drifted in and out of the Fade before succumbing to it. He knew enough not to open his eyes right away. He kept them closed, and recalled at that he had been taught. In the Chantry, the Fade the place were the Maker formed the physical world, and divided the living from the dead. He breathed life into the spirits and watched them dance amongst the alien landscapes of His own design. Time passed and the spirits still danced to earn His favour, but He grew disappointed with them. Their songs brought Him no joy. He loathed their fleeting natures and desired something more substantial. So He formed mortal men and beasts. The spirits grew jealous and became demons and darkness in a sad attempt to recreate what the Maker had created.

Morven was no demon, but he was not a spirit either. Perhaps he was just a dreamer - unconscious and drifting in and out of episodic dreams and hopes. But he had not yet opened his eyes, and he had not seen the world of dreams. He had yet to be swept away by the surrealistic majesty that was the land of the Fade.He was no dreamer, then. The Chantry held that when a person died, their soul danced through the fade like so many spirits towards their final reward in the arms of the Maker. Those who had turned from Him returned to the antechambers of the Fade, taking the form of the shadows that haunted the architecture. The dead dwelt in the Fade. The living became ghosts here. The apostates became monsters. The templars became meat.

Morven opened his eyes. He was lying on a cold stone floor. He could feel his teeth rattling around in his jaw, loose in his gums and the metallic bite of blood was on his tongue. His fingers curled against the cold stone, and he pushed himself up, with a shifting of metal and cloth. He was still in his cuirass and skirts, the armor of a templar. His fingers brushed against the embossing on his breastplate. What should have been a sword surrounded by flames was no longer. It was a sword with a single unblinking eye in the center, holy fire leaping from its iris. He had no sword, no shield. There were no weapons to protect him from the infinite imaginable dangers of the Fade. Morven's grey green eyes flicked around, trying to derive meaning from where he was.

The room was large, and carved from heavy stone, with a laid stone floor. It was partially a cave, partially a room. In the center stood a tall statue of a beautiful woman wearing the same armor that he wore. hundreds of candles were at her feat, the only light and warmth in the room. Morven felt like he was freezing, and eh could feel his teeth chattering, the goosepricks beneath his armor. His breath came out in icy puffs as he approached the statue. In one hand she held a flaming swore, in the other, she clutched at her chest. Her unseeing eyes were cast upwards. She wore a small crown that nestled on her well formed brow. From in-between the strands of her carved hair came rays of golden light, a halo for her head. Morven wondered if there were clever mirrors within her stone skull - but the Fade did not operate on the same rules as the waking world.

"Ser Dayne?"

A voice rang out, a woman's voice. A small woman had crept out from the shadow of the statue, and Morven realized that they were copies on one another. Her hair was the colour of flax, and her golden eyes studied him carefully. After a moment of looking at him, her rosy lips curled in a soft smile. She was slender, with sinewy muscle beneath the clinging folds of her white gown. The trailing sleeves were embroidered with red thread in the patterns of many leaves and flowers. On her hips rested a great sword, sheathed in an ornate golden sheath - with moonstones forming suns and stars amongst the metal. Her slender hands beckoned the knight to her.

Morven moved to her, and he could feel pain inside of him, the organs in his body rattling around amongst bones and skin, blood and guts. He reached to brush a finger against his mouth. There was blood on his gauntlet when he withdrew it. He recoiled slightly, and looked up at the woman. She met his gaze and nodded once, as if to say that it was okay. It was alright. He could make it. And he believed her. He stumbled towards her, and she caught him in her arms. He coughed, and blood came out from his mouth. Red liquid bubbled up from between the plates of his armor, but she held Morven in her embrace, even though his blood was turning her dress red.

"I'm sorry." He murmured.

"Do not be." She stroked his dark hair and leaned in to breathe words into his ears.

"For You are the fire at the heart of the world
And comfort is only Yours to give."

He nestled into her, feeling hot liquid trail out from his eyes. She dabbed at Morven's cheeks with one of her sleeves and it came back scarlet. He closed his eyes tightly, as if to stop the flow of blood from his corneas, but he could not. He choked on a sob, coughing up the fluid. The unmistakeable smell of blood hung around him. She stroked his head, holding it between her hands. They felt as hot as a thousand funeral pyres. She dress was cold though, as cold as the snow. She lifted his chin and smiled. Morven did not know how he knew that she was smiling when his eyes were closed, and his eyelids were sealed with gore. But he knew. A gust of wind stirred his hair, and he could feel snowflakes melting on his skin. Her soft fingers peeled his eyes open.

The room was filled with snow, and the candles were burned out. The statue gave no light, and they sat huddled in its shadow. He was very cold, and his shoulders trembled inside of his armor. His toes and fingers were numb and lifeless. She pressed his shoulder gently, and he didn't resist, falling into her lap. She murmured gently.

"Let all repeat the Chant of Light.
Only the Word dispels the darkness upon us."

He tried to speak loudly, like he always had in the chantry, but the words came out as a croak, half slurred by the fluid rising up in his throat; phlegm and blood. He cleared his throat, and tried again. They were whispers, ghosts of the Maker's grace. "O Muh-Maker--huh-hear my cry--" He stammered. His tongue felt sluggish and unnatural in his throat. Then there was a screaming sound, like a hawk screeching through the air. The woman gasped, and pointed a finger upwards. His eyes snapped open. String of light-blue light had exploded from the ceiling, falling like a mages fire, smoke streaming through the cave, melting the snow and ice that had gathered in heaps around the pair. The smell of it began to overcome the scent of blood. Morven knew that smell. His nostrils instinctively flexed. Magic. It was magic.

He rose to his feet, invigorated by the hunt. She grabbed his arm.

"Morven -- don't. Morven, please, stay with ---"

His eyes opened and he sharply inhaled. His lungs had been mended, his ribs had been set back into place. His armor was still dented, and was making it very difficult for him to breathe. He was flat on his back amongst the grasses and vines. His vision was a blur, dark shapes and patterns mingling into one. He heard the shouts of their voices, but it seemed to be in a language that he didn't understand - discordant and strange. He coughed weakly, and his hand went down, straight into the pouch at his hip. Whenever he blacked out, he knew what to do.

Morven had been taught long ago, what to do when the darkness overtook him. His hand rummaged around in the bag, weakly, limply. It withdrew a small, silver flask with a wax cap on the top. Within the pouch, there were many bottles like this, all perfectly identical with the same wax cap. It resembled a maker's mark, and bore the emblem of the Chantry on the top; a many pronged sun. Greedily, he tore off the wax cap with his teeth, inserting the bottle between his lips. His hand hung limply at his side, filled with pins and needles. He threw his head back, bottle clenched in his mouth, burning away at his gag reflex. It was pathetic, really, the way he sucked down the liquid with so much life, when he was too weak to stand. It would give him his life back. It would bring his strength back. It had to. Without his addiction, there was no strength. Without lyrium, there was only faith.

The bottle fell out of his mouth when there was no liquid left. It made a metallic 'ting' as it hit the ground, becoming lost amongst the ground cover plants. He slowly, slowly, began rising to his feet, reaching out to grab the sword that had fallen at his side.

 

[Esthalia]

Darkness had surrounded the memory long since past, twitching and trembling Neviha into the present. Her able body shook with pain, finally realizing the current events by the aweful stench of tainted blood and gore. Her eyes burst open in panic, searching her direct surroundings for a totem of strength. A warm hand was pressed to her chest, though it belonged not to herself. A shocked expression washed away the fear from her eyes as she looked up at the healer, upper lip curling in confusion as she tried to peice her recollection together.

"Vale?" Her words were hollow and barely there, still searching for something to identify the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. "Ser!" She finally snorted, rolling out of his embrace and trying desperately to find her way back onto her feet.
The scene around her was terrifying. Blackened blood coated the trunks of trees and dripped off the lower leaf palms as her companions sat exaughsted in the grime. Essesar nudged his cold nose against her hand, sparking her head to twist and instantly feel relief for the safety of her companion. Again, she dropped to the ground to embrace her most trusted friend, kissing and smoothing her hands over his dirtied face.

"I..." Neviha felt the weight of the situation all at once, no longer sure if her body were trembling from fear or fatigue. "I think it best for us to return to camp. We have the letter and we've seen the bodies... I fear we are too late for whomever might be left!"

 

[Sir Basil]

Morven clutched at his sword, his hands fumbling for his hilt. His limbs were pins and needles, every part of him had been asleep and only now was shaken out of its dreaming trance. He coughs a little, and wipes at his face. A smear of blood comes away, a patch of sticky red fluid plastered across his mouth and chin. His strange, unreflective eyes stare at the scene that's around him. The ogre is dead. The monster has been slain. He struggled to his feet, skirts scooped out of the mud and blood, plate letting out a characteristic rattle as he does so. His other hand brushes against the emblazoned sword engraved on his chest. His gauntleted trace the design, for a moment, and he lets out a soft, sighing sound. He glances over the group, and spits out a mouthful of blood. Beneath his gauntlets, his chapped hands bleed anew, the pitted spots on his hands welling up with his fluids once more. His armor was dented, but he could feel his lungs inhaling and deflating in his rib-cage. It was a familiar feeling, this breathing. It comforted him.

He turned his head mechanically to look down at the elf, nestled in Vale's arms. Morven disapproved, of course. He didn't know if the Father was outside of the Circle, but he was a liar, and Morven did not tolerate liars. Lies made him feel a twitching in his hands, a desire to crash his sword through a skull and watch the splinterings of bone fragments through the brain tissues and scalp. But he was also a Templar. He had to carry himself with dignity and honor, so to honour the will of the prophet Andraste. He would always be a Templar, though. Even if he caved Vale's in. He had been made to be a Templar; compiled from bits of scripture and made dependent on what he knew what just concentrated magic. That could not be taken away from him. To destroy a liar, or to live with the liar? It was a difficult choice. His hand twitched on the hilt of his longsword, the leather cracking as he put tension on it.

His unblinking, dark green-grey eyes looked to Neviha, and then, back into the woods. He gestured with one hand, limply, to the woods. But then, the arm became rigid. He could feel the feel the lyrium coursing through him, the prickling sensation in his limbs subsiding. He stood straighter, standing stiff and mechanically infront of the elf and Vale. His voice rang hollow, and soft , and came from somewhere deep in his throat. It sounded like smoke, if smoke could speak.

"They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.
They shall find no rest in this world
Or beyond."

His brows furrowed over his eyes, and his natural voice ran out. "I am a Templar. I must continue." He turned to the woods, and a shiver ran across him, from the hair follicles in his scalp, to the bone marrow in his toes. His hand tensed on his sword one again, the crackling sound emitted from the sword once again. His face tensed, his cheekbones showing through his face skin. He nodded once, slowly, mechanically in Neviha's general direction. He gathered his skirts and plates, taking his shield from the ground. He strapped it to his arm, which seemed quite restored returned to strength. He was no longer the broken, batted man who lay beneath a tree, sucking down lyrium as fast as he could. Now, he was the same, strong man -- if silent, and morose -- that had first walked into these woods. He turned his unsettling eyes to Colette, for a moment. He did not look at her long, before his eyes became focused on some indeterminate blotch of woods.

"We return to camp. Rest. Then, the Maleficar dies." His dark eyes sweep to Vale, his quiet words taking on a new implication as they focus on the man. Morven's jaw tensed further, sharp enough to cut through steel shields, now. But then, he began to pad out of the clearing, and back in the direction of the camp. He did not wait for the others. He knew, they would come along. Or they would die here, in the dark. Where they belonged. Because the darkness was where they all belonged. He was a templar. He alone, deserved light.

 

[LVL1337N00B]

From where she sat hunched over on her knees, just ahead of the bloodied behemoth, Colette listened out all around her. As much as it stung to admit, Neviha was probably right about the scouts. She could accept that. It was time to move on. The young woman moved to climb to her feet, but a sharp pain in her side forced her back down with a tiny scream that just as suddenly died in her throat. Eyes closed, she took a slow breath, then exhaled and stood clutching at her side. "You are right.. The more hasty our return-.."

Colette fell silent as Morven spoke again, her lips pursed as she'd started to form the next word. Soon they parted, hanging open just so as the templar's words found her ears. Her brows furrowed and her fists clenched, the very thought engaging her as much as if he'd gone ahead and done it right there in front of her. "What has he done to you, Ser? What makes him deserving of death?", she asked as she turned to face her fellow Orlesian, her eyes narrow and cheeks flushed with anger, "His intent does not harm us!" If there was some sign that Vale was a danger to them, the hot-headed blonde didn't notice. She saw only the kindly mage offering his assistance and watching over his allies, it was only natural that she would want to defend him.

Her furious march after Morven was slow and accompanied by low, pained growls. She'd nearly fallen into the templar when she reached him, but she managed to catch herself. "You will not-", she was cut off when the pain intensified, a coughing fit following and ending with a new blood spatter added to the man's holy uniform, "Harm.." As her voice began to fade and her breathing became more labored, it became apparent that her injury was more serious than she had first thought. Her voice now failed her entirely, and when she threw a punch there was such little impact that her steel against his scarcely made a sound. When that single blow connected, Colette's body fell as limp as the great beast they'd just slain, though her eyes still burned into the man before her.

 

[Esthalia]

Finally the scenery had stopped spinning and Neviha was able to stand on her own two feet, looking back at Vale for just a split second before Collette had stolen her words. The female warrior was just as badly beaten, if not worse, and was still taking on the task of scolding the so-called leader of their group. The Templar was mad with power from what she assumed was associated with the terrible smell of Lyrium on the air.

"There is no way we will be able to take down the witch!" Neviha turned red in the face, blood angered by the idea that Morven would even entertain the idea of getting them all killed. "We were hired to find the party; we found them dead!" She snapped at the sound of Collette hitting the ground, moving as fast as she could to be by her side. As she lowered herself down to pull and paw at the woman's armor, attempting to crack her out of her shell, Essessar whined and lay next to her body in the tainted dirt.

"You've seen what one ogre has done to us. Rest or not, we are not strong enough to take on something so strong." Neviha didn't think she needed to mention the fact that there would be other, lesser demons and mages with the foul one as well; that should have been something that Morven was already taking into consideration.

 

[Sir Basil]

Morven turned his head towards Colette with a mechanical precision. His dark eyes flickered; the dark grey green reflecting the shimmer of sunlight through the leaves. He glanced down at the new blood smear across his chest, a stain across the flames leaping around the sword of of his order. He listened to the echoing pound of her fist against the plate of his armor, the reverberations matching the pounding of his heart, repeating in his head, badum, badum. He watched her fall - his hands making no motion to stop her, as she toppled to the ground with the clink of armor and the distinctly organic 'thud'. Her eyes burned like fires, he noticed, but no fire was as bright as Andraste's - and no woman was worth the same sacrifice that he had made for his Lady of Sorrows. He reached out his arms, after she had fallen. He was strong. Lyrium was rushing through him, seeping through his veins and organs like the most holy infection in all of the wide world. He attempted to scoop her up, and sling her over his shoulder - ignoring Neviha's intentions entirely. Providing that he was not stopped - and who would stop a man such as he - Morven cradled her head, preventing her from slamming her temples against his pauldrons. The action was surprisingly gentle She was a tall girl, and heavy herself, but he was strong, and broad shouldered. He could carry her. He breathed out his words, flat and toneless: "Do not fight. You need medical attention."

The templar stared at the elf for a moment. His lips twitched at the sides, a deep frown spreading across his stony face. A light breeze ruffled his hair, causing his hair to stand up like feathers. He began to pad away, with Colette over a shoulder, in the direction of the camp from where they had come - in the direction of Ostagar, where there were so many things for him to do. There were many actions for him to take, and they rang through his head like the bells in the morning. As he walked, he kicked up leaves and blood-dust. A few blackened leaves clung to the plates of his greaves, before they slipped away, as silently as they had come. There was a strange feeling to the forest - the greenery was ashamed of touching the templar. Shame was the realm of the Maleficar - shame and fear. The chant came from Morven's mouth, unbidden and unannounced. The words were clearer than anything he had ever said - stronger and unmuffled by the shadow of his murmurings.

"Violently were they cast down,
For no mortal may walk bodily
In the realm of dreams"

Morven smiled in a small way, the edges of his mouth seeming to crack the frown that had marred his features. He shifted Colette over his shoulder, feeling the warm flow of blood down his chest. He could feel it through his chestplate, the distinct warm-wetness that all blood had. It was making a long red stripe down the sword that was emblazoned on his chest - and it stained his skirts, making the pale magenta fabrics a true red. He spoke again, and as he did, his smile disappeared, and only the same stony facade took its place. If his compatriots had blinked, they would have missed it. "You must rest." His words seemed to be directed to all of his compatriots, "And then, I must kill Maleficarum. I am a templar. It is why I am here."

 

[LVL1337N00B]

Colette had fallen hard, but hadn't felt the impact. By then she had already started on that fast track to unconsciousness, that sharp pain she'd only just felt dulling as she slipped. She tried to keep herself awake, but her eyelids kept falling and every time they lifted again her sight would become more blurred. The young woman thought she'd heard a voice, but it was, as was everything else, fading. Once she'd seen a figure that she could only guess was the elven woman accompanying her, but she didn't appear for long before the world around her seemed to shift in the most nauseating way.

It took her some time to realize she'd been lifted, her weary eyes staring blankly at the ground as she still struggled to keep conscious, the flame in them down to but a weak flicker. The fight wasn't going well, Colette was becoming more and more disoriented by the second. There were more words she could barely make out, someone telling her not to fight. By now the voice was indistinguishable, and was accompanied by this loud buzzing, the sort you'd hear after standing too close to a blast. She didn't care who it was, she was still furious over what she interpreted as a threat toward Vale. She tried to yell at the templar, but her voice was entirely lost. Soon the curses on her lips ceased and her eyelids fell one last time, failing to reopen now. Colette was out cold, lost to the waking world and left only to dream.

Cruel was hers, to leave her broken and helpless even here in her mind. She lay alone in her much-too-large bed, near unmoving but wide awake. Too many bones broken in her suddenly tiny body to count, all she could do was stare at the ceiling and clutch at the velvety sheets beneath her. Colette was reliving one of her most hated childhood memories, perhaps because she realized just how helpless she was in that moment prior to falling asleep and her unconscious mind wanted to reflect that. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, head tilted back and mouth hung open to scream, but no sound was made. She was like that for what had felt like an eternity, unable to even breathe without feeling the most horrible pain she could imagine. There was no happy ending to her dream, just a terrible memory that would leave the sleeping warrior's eyes as moist as the little girl's.

 

[Esthalia]

As much as she wanted to fight the Templar with the way he took control of their group, she was too tired to go against his stubborness. Neviha turned on her heels to help Vale to his feet, nodding to him as he too remained silent. Of course the Mage wasn't going to go against the word of the Templar now; that would be pure madness.

"Alright Sir, we'll head back to Ostagar to seek medical aid, but after that, you may be on your own for this witch hunt." Her eyes narrowed as she and Essaser took the lead, passing the Templar as he carried the warrior over his shoulder.

Somewhere deep in her mind, she was curious about the obsession Morven held for the Malificarum mentioned in the letter. She was sure that when they got back to camp, that the commander would send out a second party; most likely with more Templars. Of couse the Commander wasn't going to take any chances with such evil lurking in the forest; Neviha knew she would be at least leading them back through the forest.

The journey took only an hours time, retracing their path and moving quickly back to the gates.

"Who goes?" Called the soldiers atop the armoured wall.

"The search party sent for the recovery of the missing soldiers..." Neviha spoke as they readied their crossbows at the group. "They are dead, we are here to report of a malicious evil found in the forest. We've a letter to prove it"

The doors opened even before she could finish speaking.

 

[Sir Basil]

Morven walked through the gates as they opened. He drifted past the others in the camp, with a sort of mechanical grace in his steps; a precision like a well maintained golem, but with the sort of aloofness that comes from a man of noble birth - or one that believes that he deserves a crown. Inside of him, his lungs were bruised and aching, and the templar should be bent over beneath his armor, hacking up organ debris. Perhaps this was partially because of Vale's magics -- but likely had more to do with the inadvisable dose of lyrium that was coursing through him. Morven suspected that the apostate may have healed him, but did not credit it to his healing. He was alive, and functional - prepared to do his duty because Andraste had come for him. She had soothed his wounds with her words, and he was whole once again. He closed his eyes, once, thinking to himself: But there was no time for dreaming, Morven. Dreams were for when lyrium and pain overtook you.

Morven glanced once at the girl he was carrying over his shoulder. His eyes connected with the side of her pelvic bone; and the greaves and armor, belts and plates that were connected there. His lips twitched for a moment, his teeth grinding for a moment. He looked across the tents of many colours in the camp, dust being kicked up by men and horses. He shifted Colette on his shoulder and began heading in the direction of a camp where men and women in robes of Chantry and Circle alike tended to soliders lying on sickbeds. His unreflecting eyes focused on one man, laying in bed. His hands clutched at his leg, unlike one of the Sisters of the Chantry batted his hand away. She looked worriedly up at a man of the Circle, who's dark red robes matched the dribbles of blood coming from the man's ruined leg; the flesh was puckered and bruised purple and green, a vicious clash of colours. Morven grimaced. He knew what was coming. He continued to watch for a moment, as the Sister stuffed a rag in the man's mouth, and advised him to bite down on it. The mage placed his hands firmly on the rolled up pantleg on the man's upper thigh, and then, one on his shoulder. The Sister now had a bonesaw, not a rag, long and sharp - worked red steel, likely of Dwarven make. Morven tensed for a moment, the arm holding Colette steady on his shoulder grabbed tightly at her back, as he watched the saw rip through the man's leg, and sweat and pain, pain itself, blossom on the man's face. It was not the coming agony that made him tense. It was the smell of magic, that prickling electric smell that made his nostrils twitch. He was a Templar. He knew that smell better than any mabari hound.

A Brother of the Chantry was touching his shoulder, and the Brother was speaking to him. Morven did not seem to see him. All he saw was a bonesaw ripping through skin and blood - and the dancing light of magic flaring up in the tent, with that horrible, acidic smell that stung at his nose and made his temples ache. Then, Morven heard it, the sound of a bone snapping into a thousand little shards. The injured man would have been howling in pain, if it had not been for the cloth in his mouth, and the silvery white light coming from the mage's hands. A spell of soothing, he suspected, or some sort of cold spell to numb the agony that the injured man must be feeling. Morven's jaw tensed. The injured man would likely die within the week, even with the aid of the sister and the mage - infection would overtake him, and none of the mage's magic could pull him from the Fade, then. But if they found a way to do such a thing, Morven's sword would a find a space between the man's ribs, and sever the fragile connections that the heart has to the rest of the body. Morven glanced over the mage of the Circle. He had straight black hair that was going grey at the temples, which meant that he likely had some position within the Circle and access to more powerful magics. His eyes were grey and squinted with regularity. Weak eyes meant much time at the library, late at night. He was some sort of researcher, which meant Morven would likely see spells that he had not seen before. The mage leaned heavily on his staff , and the Templar easily spotted the reason; a lame leg that no efforts had righted. That was good. It meant that the mage could not run away. The mage's robes were crimson wool, with what appeared to be a thin linen shirt beneath them. There would not be much resistance for his sword, but wool was thick, so Morven would have to be precise and driven with his sword. It would be quick, and the crimson robes would turn dark with the mage's blood. He could see it spreading through the capillaries of the fabric. Death would come, for all maleficarum. The Circle always let some out from their Maker-forsaken tower. There were always accidents. If the now amputee rose from the ground after his inevitable end; Morven would be ready.

The Brother of the Chantry had now touched his shoulder with pale fingers. Morven's head turned to look down at him mechanically. The Brother was very young, and rather small compared to the templar. He had extended his whole arm to touch Morven's shoulder. He stammered out a, "Hail the Maker", and proceeded to inquire about the woman slung across the templar's pauldron. Morven gently deposited her in an unoccupied cot. He stared once at the Brother - nothing more than a boy, really - and nodded. His dark eyes flicked back to the mage and Sister duo. The Mage was wiping the amputee's head with a cold cloth, and the sister was tying the knot on sutures. Her stitches were not very even. Morven's estimate of the man's lifespan lowered dramatically; five days at most. Morven approached them both with the clank of armor and the shifting of skirts.

"When you are done; attend to the woman." He said, quietly, coldly. He looked long and evenly at the mage. The mage instinctively bowed his head, black hair hanging over his face. Skittish as a Chantry mouse. Destined to turn to Blood Magic. Morven knew that they looked like. They all had this sallowness in their cheekbones, and circles beneath their eyes. The Sister, however, met his gaze and said some words from the Chant gently, and softly, in a voice like some small bird. Morven left the tent, just as the Sister took out the amputee's rag. He was still screaming, when Morven began to look for Neviha. He needed her to show him where the Witch was. Without her knowledge of the forest, he would have to rely on his lyriym enhanced senses alone; and that could make for bloody hunting.

And Vale. He needed Vale. But only for a moment.

 

[LVL1337N00B]

Suddenly the sound of a scream filled Colette's ears, shattered her dream and brought her back into the real world. Her eyes opened slowly, and only about half-way. She was still weak from her injury, but she managed to keep her eyes open with more ease than before. "Where?..", she started to inquire about her surroundings, but as her gaze slowly shifted about and scanned the area around her she soon realized she was back at the camp. She'd explored enough to recognize the place fairly easily. "What happened?", she asked instead, her eyes snapping open wide with panic just as she remembered the events from just before her blackout, "Where is everyone?"

"Vale?", she called in a frightened voice, her protective rage replaced entirely by fear as she realized she may be too late to talk sense into Morven, convinced that he'd meant their healer when he spoke of killing Maleficarum. Colette tried to sit upright, but was immediately reminded of her injury. She grit her teeth and clawed into the cot she lay on, exhaling slowly once the pain had passed. The similarity to that time so long ago, the one she'd just dreamt of annoyed her and her brows furrowed. She wasn't going to be like that again, never again. She was going to get up and rejoin her team, protect Vale if she wasn't too late. Just like every other time she thought of those days, she was determined to fight through the pain whether she was physically able or not. Never again she thought, and she meant it. Colette grit her teeth again as she slowly sat up, stopping briefly to take a few rapid breaths before shifting around so her feet touched the ground, eyes turned toward the tent's flap.

 

[Esthalia]

Neviha had broken off from the group, making her way through the crowds of injured and awaiting to the decorated tent of the command. Esessar trotted by her side with an exauhsted, lolling tongue, waiting for the moment that his master would slow down so he could finally rest his burning paws. That moment was a little far off though, considering the distance from the front gate to the General's quarters. It was well guarded, separated from the common area's by a piked fence and a steep section of cracked stone stepping.

"Neviha, Ranger assigned to retrieval of the missing hunting party" She bowed her head and spoke before the templar had a chance to ask her in his own, fancy way. "Here to present a letter that was intercepted while my party was on mission, ser"

Dark eyes burned through the Templar's helmet as he reached a hand out to examin the letter as Neviha removed it from her side bag and flipped open the waxed seal for the second time. It only took a glance for the armored man to step to the side, holding a gloved hand up for her to obey his command of silence.

The Dale was used to the silent orders of the Shems, always needing to talk things over in counsil before making progress. With a downward glance, she did her best to smile at Esessar, though she was deep in thought about what would come. No doubt she would be leading more Templars into the woods, occompanied by Vale and Morven since they were the only others from her group that were in well enough health to do so. Something about the way Morven looked at the mage was off putting, not only because he was one of magics, but something else that Neviha couldn't discern at the moment.

Before the woman could get too caught up in her mind, she was led into the General's tent, surrounded by Warriors and Templars alike just incase she would suddenly lunge for the throat of the one in charge; not like she'd never thought about it.

"Explain" The General was sitting in a large wooden wingback, decorated with carvings suiting those who had won many battles in their time. In front of him on the table top was a large map with moveable figures, representing his army's presence in the forest and all surrounding territories. "Quickly".

"The note was found on an injured messanger fowl. We believe it was meant to be delived to you."Neviha noticed a shadow behind her of her companion, pacing back and forth in front of the tent with a worried whine. "I was determined to kill the messanger so there would be no return to the sender, but our healer, Vale, did his work and let it free..." In the expression on the General's face, she could see his dissapointment, in not only Vale's decision but in the turn of events as a whole.
"Thank you hunter, it seems that the malificar are taking advantage of the invasion. This will need to be handled forthright before they can take advantage of the undead scurge as well" A tip of his chin and the guards were shuffling Neviha out of the tent, eyed eagerly by her dog as she was escorted down the steps by the Templar she met before.

"Give us a time to delegate, Dale. We will call for you and your party when the time comes. For now, tend to yourself and your animal. Do when you must to ready again for travel. In the meantime, remember that Andraste is always watching and divine judgement is pure..."

This was perhaps the kindest thing she had ever heard a Templar say, despite the lingering thread toward the end. Even so, Neviha got the message and started making her way back to the infirmary tents. Morven seemed to be searching for her as much as she was searching for him; she wondered exactly what he was thinking.

 

[Sir Basil]

Morven was walking through the edges of the infirmary, scanning the grounds for Neviha, and by extension, Vale. His dark eyes landed upon many people, most of which bustled hurriedly past. He made brief eyecontact with a few other templars - his bare eyes meeting their eyeslits. The other templars nodded at him, once, and then quickly passed him by as well. Morven had a tendency to make other templars uncomfortable. Whereas they were devoted to the love of the Maker in all things, Morven's personality lent him further int he direction of a Maker that demanded justice for the evils that were done against it. Even as a boy, he had been all too serious, and his fellow recruits had not really taken to him. Friendship had never come easy to him. Nor did it come easily to him now. With the shifting of skirts and the clank of full-plate he searched for his companions. One hand was on the pommel of his sword at all times, ready, in the instance that there was some evil done within his area of influence.

Eventually his slate-green eyes picked out Neviha. The templar nodded once slowly, mechanically -t he gesture similar to the one that his fellow templars had given him, but this gesture had a sort of autonomy that there's had not. She was standing near the tents that he had just come from, as he had looked for her. He slipped up to her, the sounds of men screaming, grunting, living, dying, emanating from the covered area. Morven found it strangely comforting. There was life here, amongst these dying men. They had to fight in order to stay alive, just as the prophet Andraste had fought on the behalf of the Maker, for all of their sakes. The buzz of flies was humming in the air. Dead and dying men were something that the sickening little parasites just loved, in the same way that a maleficar clung to their dying puppeteers, the corpses of Maker-fearing men who had once been so good and pure that now danced upon the strings that the maleficar designed. Morven's jaw tensed, the edges of his jaw standing out more sharply than they had before.

The templar took a step forward, repositioning himself to stand infront of the elf, instead of at the side. Morven's eyes drifted over the vast amount of infirmary tents. Colette was somewhere amongst them, laying and recovering. He did not know where, but he was certain that the Sisters and Brothers of the church, with some help from the mages, would be able to repair whatever had been done to her. He was still damaged, too, he knew. Vale had managed to repair the majority of his wounds, but his ribs would be bruised for weeks to come. Lyrium, though, took that all away. He could not feel any pain, just the warmth of his addiction coursing through him, the effects of the potion not quite worn off. It would fade with time, though, and after some time and substansial use of his abilities he would have to peel upon another a bottle. Mercifully, there were other templars, here. They would have lyrium too. It was impossible for him to run out. He did not have to worry, even though Morven could feel that anxiety gnawing away in the depths of his guts.

Morven stared blankly at the elf, with his unblinking green-grey eyes, as these thoughts went through his head. He cleared his throat, and said flatly, in his deep, but quiet voice; "Did you speak to the general?" His eyes refocused themselves away from Neviha's face, their target was instead an empty place in space three or four inches above the elf's shoulder.