Times Of War: Chapter One- The Witching Wood

From inside the tent voices rose only slightly above the coughing and groaning, their tones firm, but not aggressive as they begged someone to return to their cot and rest. Whoever it was hadn't responded, save their growl that came just before the stinging sound of flesh slapping against flesh. The voices died down shortly after that, apparently having given up on convincing their patient to stay in bed. Then a set of gauntlet clad fingers slipped out and gripped the tent's opening flap, beginning to pull back the veil.

Out came Colette, hair a mess and face flushed red. "You're still here", the young Orlesian woman noted as she soon caught sight of her allies, briefly allowing her eyelids to curtain her aqua orbs as she heaved a soft sigh of relief. She hadn't been left behind, and it would seem Morven had yet to take Vale's life. Now that her head was a little clearer, she began to wonder if maybe she'd been too hasty in her assumption. "Ser Morven, I..", she spoke softly as her eyes reopened and sought out his own, "I beg your forgiveness, I behaved much as a child before. I had thought your intent to kill Vale because of your profession. I jumped to the wrong conclusion.. Correct?" Her eyes held contact with his, looking to them hopefully.
 
Morven tilted his head in the direction of Colette, surprise flickering for a moment across his features; a slight easing of the tightness of his jaw, a glint in his dark eyes. She had thought that he meant to kill Vale. He supposed that was only logical, given that many saw the Templars as the slaughterers of innocent mages. He had thought that Colette would have known better than to follow through with such beliefs. Morven slowly folded his hands across the front of his skirts, an almost demure gesture for the templar, and the surprise faded as quickly as it had come. He should have anticipated that his fellows would believe such vile things ; they did not understand abominations. Colette's actions within the woods have made that clear - when she had ignored and almost cost Vale his life. Her rashness was going to get her killed - of that, Morven was certain.

When the warrior met his eyes, the templar looked back. His eyes were the colour of dark greenstone, polished to the point where they did not seem to reflect the world quite as they should, more like gemstones in a face of stone; a golem's face. His lips twitched, slightly, but they did not move towards any particular tendency of smile or frown, a simple twitch of Morven deciding which face to wear. His face was slow to reaction, even when he was being asked a direct question about his motivations. But at the same time - a thought nagged at him, rising above the screams of magisters and darkspawn alike, the sounds of his mind. He had declared that they would kill the apostate, the maleficarum. It was at that moment, that Colette had believed that Morven was speaking of Vale. Morven had thought him to be a liar, and distant from the Circle - but a Circle mage nonetheless. Was it possible that the man was instead an apostate ; and all of his band knew this, save for he? Morven would not be made the fool. An apostate under his nose; could this be possible?

Morven's expression remained unchanged, but the hollows of his cheeks seemed to tighten. He was biting at the inside of his cheek, shredding the soft tissue there with his teeth. Pain and Lyrium caused his thoughts to be sharp and brittle, and he needed both of those qualities, for this endeavour. If he had been led astray, and Vale was an apostate, Morven would watch him, until he had proof of it. He would inquire, he would demand, and he would wait to see if Vale cracked under the strain, if he could answer questions of the Circle with any accuracy. If he was an apostate, Morven was surprised he had lived so long. Apostates never suffered from old age. They never reached it. Words from the Shant formed on his lips, and at first, the Templar mouthed them, before he managed to audibly repeat them, his Chant sounding hollow and haunted;

"Those who bear false witness​
And work to deceive others, know this:​
There is but one Truth.​
All things are known to our Maker​
​
And He shall judge their lies."​
​
Morven cleared his voice in his throat, and for a moment, said nothing, merely looking down his nose at Colette with his cold, stone-eyes. But he then lifted his head, focusing on the air an inch above Colette's blonde head, green eyes converging upon something that was not there. His own words came out, like fog made into speech, "I have no reason to kill Vale." That was all he said, before glancing back at Neviha, for an answer to his previous question. ​
 
Neviha didn't like the way the Templar avoided her eyes. She had learned, over time spent with theives and those living not-so-honest lives that those who were unwilling to meet your gaze were the worse kind. It took the elf a moment of contimplation before she was distracted by the approaching warrior, eyes widening as Colette limped her way closer.

"Seldarine! You should not be up yet!" Neviha sparked into action, standing close to the woman so she would not lose her strength and fall to the ground. "beleg ohtar, please rest more" It was then that Colette spoke to Morven, talking of some sort of missunderstanding over a plot to kill Father Vale. Neviha turned her pointed chin to look again at the Templar, not trusting for a second that he meant what he said. She knew, given the chance, he would take Vales life. It didn't matter to a Templar; a mage outside the circle could do no good.

"I've spoken to the General...he needs time to rally people together and get us the necessities. We were told to sit still and heal while we wait." Her eyes narrowed at the warrior and templar both. "That means the two of you need to get medical attention, one way or another."

Just then, Vale came walking out from one of the medical tents. The look on his face was that of curiousity, but it seemed to be more from searching than from overhearing their conversation. The Dale prayed to the Gods that Colette's missunderstanding would not have been heard by the mage. The last thing they needed was drama.

"Colette, if you so desire, I can work with the healers to get your injuries set and mended." His voice was a bit distant, but Neviha assumed it was from the scene inside the tents; no one could come out smiling after seeing that. The elf turned her head to look at Morven, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth before she spoke for the last time.

"Don't neglect your own wounds, Templar, Lirium cannot cure everything..." Her eyes bore into his own, even though he would most likely look elsewhere. "Remove your armor so I can bandage your wounds. Then you'll be free to suck another bottle of poison."
 
As it had each time before, hearing Morven speak the chant bothered Collette. Something about his tone was unsettling, it seemed dark somehow. It was then that she averted her gaze, feeling ashamed and guilty over her inexplicable fear of the templar as he spoke those holy words. To add to that, she felt wrong to have thought he meant to harm Vale, that her ill-placed fears must have been a terrible insult to the man even if she had been too adrenaline-crazed to have thought rationally at the time. For an instant Collette felt the urge to lean against Neviha for support, as if she'd hold her steady and somehow ease the physical and emotional stress she'd found herself in in that moment. But she didn't. She was not a weak little girl and she would not give them the impression that she was. Instead she held herself upright, turned her eyes back to Morven and apologized again, "I am truly sorry to have made such an accusation, Ser. I was.. Not of sound mind."

Now that she had gotten her apology out of the way, Collette faced her Dalish ally again. "You are right, I.. Should rest a little", she admitted with a soft sigh, going on to explain herself, "I did not want to be left behind." Her cheeks were still red, though now more from embarrassment than guilt, feeling a bit foolish. And now here came the crippled healer whom she'd been so prepared to defend from false danger, but failed entirely to defend against the real threat. The thought made her frown and avoid meeting his gaze for a brief moment, that shameful and guilty feeling washing over her again. But again, she shook it off. Her frown was replaced by a warm, if not somewhat weak smile when she lifted her head again, her eyes shifting between each member of her party. "Thank you all for seeing me back here safely", she said before turning to walk toward Father Vale, "I would very much like to be healed. I.. Do not enjoy this feeling." The young woman had been clutching at her side again as she spoke, but she had meant the feeling of being weakened rather than the injury itself. The pain was bad, but feeling helpless was worse.
 
Morven's eyes snapped down to Neviha, and his lips twitched at the sides of his mouth. She would help him, then? He had heard of elven talents, but did not consider himself injured enough to use magical healing. His brows knitted above his green-grey eyes. The expression on his face was difficult to muzzle out. His jaw was rigid, but his cheeks were still sallow. He was was still chewing on the inside of his cheeks, ripping the tissues of his lips around the tops of his bottom row of teeth. His nipping and biting at the soft skins and tissues in the side of his mouth calmed him. The metallic taste of shallow-spilt blood filled his mouth, making the cavern of his mouth damp, staining the tips of the gums around his teeth a sharper red. The taste of blood was soothing ; it cut through the haze of lyrium. He knew that as soon as he was forty, the haze of lyrium would overtake him completely. He had seen old templars who were so lost within themselves; so lost in the haze of lyrium that they could not remember even the Chant. Morven's eyes, however, were clear as could be, though dark, and connected with Neviha's eyes, instead of staring at some space above her face.

Morven straightened himself, and studied the elf-woman. He nodded once towards her, a curt sort of nod that came with no amount of submission in the gesture. Then, the templar turned his head mechanically towards Colette. He inclined his head towards her, and then, glanced down towards his sword-emblazoned chest, inspecting the scrapes and dings across his armor, from the fight with the ogre. He took a deep breath, and he could hear the scraping of his ribs, the ragged quality of his breath. Vale had healed his ribs, but magic could not repair all damage. It seemed plausible that his lyrium, the pound of it through his bloodstream, was what was keeping him still on his feet. He ran a gauntleted hand across his heavily dinged armor. There was an unpleasant sound that occurred as he did so, the sound of metal grating against metal - a sharp, unpleasant sound that rang in the ears. Morven did not even cringe - no expression crossed his face, save for a bit of tightness around the corners of the mouth. The templar removed his hand, and rested it at the sides of his skirts. Then, stiffly, he walked into the clinic-tent, skirts and plate shifting and clinking as he did so.


Morven, clanking, sat down upon a trunk emblazoned with a flaming sun - Chantry supplies, no doubt. As he sat upon the crate, a few others in the room looked over at him. The Sister of the Chantry, the one who had tended to Colette, glanced over at him. her arms, up to the elbows, were coated in thick, viscous blood. She was bent over a body on a stretcher, while the Mage of the Circle cradled the body's head. A young man with curly red-brow hair. His head was lolling in the mage's hand, and beads of sweat rolled down his face. In-between his lips was clamped a wad of rags, to keep him from biting his tongue off. The Sister of the Chantry was holding what seemed to be a fistful of the man's organs and vitals. But Morven knew that it could not be, for surely no man would survive such a thing. The templar's eyes converged upon the mage, who was hastily casting spells of calming and soothing. Morven knew the truth. Those organs, that blood - all part of a spell component. All part of blood magic. He leant over, slipping his arms back and beginning to fumble with the clasps of his cuirass, unhooking leather and straps. His lips twitched as he went about the motions. He was repeating the Chant under his breath. He was not very efficient in how he went about the gesture, but soon, Neviha would join him. Perhaps she would help.
 
Neviha was mindless as she continued trailing behind Morven at her own pace, which seemed distant from the others. If there was something that she was not willing to do, it was to tend to Morven's flesh wounds while they were surrounded by the sick and dying. It wasn't until the sound of mushing guts touched her ears that she spoke up, narrowing her woodsy eyes and knitting her brow at the Templar.

"You're sick in the mind if you think this is a good place. I can barely hear myself think over the gutteral groans of the rattling death!" Her words were frilled, but she got her point across; this place made her uncomfortable.

The sharp eared woman turned her head towards Morven again, after being suddenly distracted by a scream from the next tent over. Closed confines were not something she was used to, and not something that would compliment the way she would be healing the Templar's wounds. Mage magic was one thing, but the Dale's were a class of healing all their own.

"I need a fire, it's best if we do this out in the open...Away from all this...muck"
 
Morven tilted his head to the side, a mechanical gesture for the golem of a man. There was the squelching, snipping sound of scissors and blades cutting through flesh, removing organs. Though his head was tilted towards Neviha, his irises were focused upon the man lying in the cot. Thick, red hair curled around his head, and Morven could see the distinctive point of long, white ears poking out from the nest of hair. An elf, then, not a man at all. Most Templars did not feel any real hatred towards the knife-ears, and Morven least of all. They were no worse than any man. They had the same failures; elves could be cruel and wicked as easily as man, and man could indulge in the darker magics as easily as the elves could and did. The Templar, due to looking through the corners of his eyes, and through his heavy, dark lashes, could only see shadows of the elf, stretched on the cot.

The elf had fallen into unconsciousness, Morven noticed. Despite this, sweat still slicked down his hair and his head still rolled in between the steady hands of the Mage. Small whimpers came from his lips nonetheless, words in the common tongue. A city elf, then, not one of the Dalish. Not like Neviha, or so Morven had figured. It was easy to see the mark of the Dalish upon her, the way she carried herself, the pride. Curiously, Morven felt a stir of kinship in his guts. Magic outside the Circle was magic that was better not used. But the Dalish too, fought for what the had lost, just as Templars did. The Sister of the Chantry yanked out something for inside the man; an arrowhead, crudely fashioned with black iron and jagged points. That was not an elven arrowhead. That belonged to something darker and fouler than elves or man.

Morven's eyes snapped back to Neviha, hearing her speak. There had been a fire in the center of the camp. He collected himself, letting go of his fiddling with the leather straps of sword-emblazoned chest piece; partially complete, they drooped like tendrils down the center of his back. The Templar rose to his feet with the shifting of skirts and the clinking of buckles against plate, and he cast one long last look towards the elf on the cot. He was dead, Morven could tell, even if the healer didn't seem to notice. The Circle Mage had released the elf's no-longer lolling head. He was holding his hands to his face, gone pale and sallow, expression twisted in horror, Morven had seen similar expressions on mage's before. That was the face of a mistake. Blood mages had the same sort of look in their eyes, the brittle crack of something spent and used up - the same look of horror when they realized the implications of their chosen school. The Templar would come back to remedy the mage's folly. He suspected that the Mage knew that too.

Morven slipped out from the tent, armored skirts trailing behind him, paying little heed to Neviha's position behind him. He merely moved forwards, towards the camp interior, where he knew a large bonfire was assembled. Tents of all colours and creeds were assembled about it, in either orderly lines or jagged ones. Military or civilian- or free agent. The Circle's tent was easy to see, it was the one with runes around the flaps, the hooded and robed figures milling about it. Neviha had mentioned that the commander was going to call for more troops. Templars, perhaps. They had a small prescence here, but there were few here from Orlais, as Morven was. Ferelden Templars were hardly as serious as his brethren from his native lands, in Morven's eyes. The Templar strode across the camp, and opted for what appeared to be a felled log make-shift into a bench. He plopped onto the log with a clank of plate.

Looking over one of his pauldron'd shoulders, Morven's eyes flickered to Neviha, provided that she had followed after him. He studied her face for a moment, and then gestured with a gauntleted hand towards his pauldrons and chestplate, a flick of his wrist. "Help me with my armor, please," he said softly, politely, though his voice was gravelly and deep in his throat. His hands slipped around his back once again, tugging part the remaining straps of his currias. The clasps of his pauldrons were what he seemed incapable of altering to any measurable degree. All around them were the sounds of camp-life, and the smell of the fire, burning away at fragrant wood.
 
Neviha too bared witness to the horrific sight of the city elf in the tent, though she was not one to dwell on details or care much about the fact that his heart had stopped beating long before the mages stopped working. She instead was focused on her Templar, making sure that he of all familiar faces; would be able to go back into battle with her.

"I'm here" She said to him as she caught him looking over his shoulder. Taking small steps behind his heavy ones and walking around to face his front when he flopped himself down. She noticed how he attempted to remove his own armor, reaching behind his back with those large gauntlets.

"Don't." The Dale would say sternly, setting her hand on his own in way of stopping him. "I'll remove the peices, you just sit still. I need you to rest all your muscles." She was bossy in her own right, knowing too well that without instruction, the Templar would push himself too far.

Time passed as Neviha removed bit by bit, unstraping and unbuckling the man who had fought so hard to get their party out of the woods. The silence weighed on her mind as she thought about the battles to come, also curious about how Morven had peered at the mage in the tent.

"that was blood magics, yes? You'll report that or take care of it on your own when you're able?" The question was obvious, but it was something to talk about. Hearing the sound of the Templars voice was better than the faint groaning from all around. "Might be working with the big bad if you ask me. Blood magic is a nasty thing..."
 
Morven felt a rush of comfort wash over him at the sound of her voice. He was not certain of why, but he could only imagine that he felt some small amount of responsibility for his small collection. They were Maker-fearing people ; Vale excluded. His brows knit. Something would have to be done about him. Obediently, however, he removed his hands from around his back and folded them across his skirted legs. He sat perfectly still and straight, content to observe the world around him. The only sign of life, the thing that gave him away as a being of flesh and blood, not of stone and sorcery, was the subtle twitches of his nostrils and the inflation of his chest. He was breathing still, and sniffing out what magic he could. Lyrium made his head buzz.

Morven was easily stripped out of his armor; most of it coming away easily in her hands, as the Templar had done the hard work of unbuckling most of the key straps and complicated riggings. Beneath his chestplate, he wore a thin white linen shirt that was clearly a bit too small on him. Even without armor, the Templar was a massive, brute of a man, and the shirt strained against him. That was less easily removed, hooks in the back ha to be peeled apart, but Morven did not struggle against Neviha's efforts. Instead, he sat there patiently on the log with the patience of a schoolboy in lecture. His posture, despite being freed of its constraints, remained perfect, and his eyes stared straight ahead, past the camp, into the dark of the woods. He was miles away, even though his body was still there, still siting on the log, with a doe-eyed elf undressing him from the waist up. H suspected that for some, this would be some fetishized delight, but he only saw it as a dull nessecity before the prize that awaited him in the woods.

Beneath his shirt there were a few cyst-like scars that covered much of his back- but those were old. The skin around his ribcage was yellowed and angry, bruised from the fight. There were broken black vessels that had begun to turn black. Bruised ribs beneath bruised flesh. Vale had made it so it wouldn't be worse than that, and the lyrium Morven had drunk sometime before dulled whatever pain he might have been feeling. The skin beneath the shirt was very pale, but had a the appearance of being patched and mottled with many different shades of pink and cream; there were many scars, a slash on his shoulderblade, a nick around his taut stomach. He was largely hairless beneath the armor; he kept to the tradition of Orlais, shaving what hair he did have, other than that of his head. Morven seemed nonplussed by his bare-chested ness, and his expression of careful neutrality remained.

She was speaking though, Neviha, and her words cut through other thoughts like a knife. Blood magic. The most vile and perverse of all magics- which Templars all felt some fear for, fear that would Maker willing never overwhelm their hatred of it. The lyrium buzzed harder in his ears, causing a dull throbbing sensation in his chest, as if the drug was excited by the prospect. Morven, for his part, only twitched. The glacial pace it took for his expression to change began to unfold. Neutrality gave way to the faintest crack of a minuscule, grim smile. His brows remained heavy over his eyes, making the expression seem more like a horrifying grimace. Small dimples appeared around his mouth, already twisted by the lines of his cheekbones.

His tone, however, was the same flat monotone; if not a bit more resigned and tired sounding, "He is a Mage of the Circle who is susceptible to dark things," he said dully, "I will take care of the situation in one of two ways." He paused for a time. He thought of other mages, of other apostates- all of whom had died by his sword and shield. There had been blood; so much blood that it had made him sick the first time. He remembered a much younger version of himself puking out acidic yellow lumps after the first dead Mage. His stomach and resolve had both gotten stronger. Perhaps, surprisingly, he followed this answer with another. "He may chose sword or words," Morven explained, "Most chose words and die to swords nonetheless."
 
While Neviha tended to Morven by the campfire, Vale had led Collette off someplace to heal her as well. He'd intended to take her back to the medical tent so that he might have some assistance, but she'd convinced the mage to care for her someplace where the air didn't reek of death. Healing her didn't take nearly as much effort as might have been expected, her only major injury being a broken rib from the rough landing earlier. Other than that, she'd only suffered a few bruises and scrapes, nothing too serious. Once he'd finished, Collette thanked the mage and went off to spend a little time alone, to clear her mind and just relax for a bit before rejoining the others. In the meantime, the gray haired mage had returned to the medical tent on his own to help as much as he could.

Collette now sat alone on the large bridge leading to Ostagar's main entrance, legs dangling over the edge as she gazed out into the distance. She'd left her breastplate and gauntlets off for the time being, her small but well-toned form adorned by a sleeveless white cotton shirt. Very simple unlike the armor she wore over it, but comfortable. The young warrior woman's expression was blank, her fingers gripping the edge where she sat. Sadly, she was not able to empty her head like she wanted. One unhealthy thought kept returning; She'd let Vale get hurt. There was no way around it, the fault was hers. She was told to defend him and instead she ran off to go on some psychotic rampage. She left him alone, and he almost died for her neglect. She couldn't let that happen again, she told herself more than once while she sat there, staring off into nothing. She had to get a grip on herself, to focus more and not let that rush overtake her again. Otherwise next time she or one of her companions might be dead instead of injured, Maker knows these things they were fighting didn't seem the merciful type.

The Orlesian girl sighed, still unable to shake those troubling thoughts. It had been some time now, time enough that she'd decided they were there to stay unless she could find something to keep her occupied. Maybe it was about time to get moving again, she hoped, or maybe someone would agree to go for a walk with her if not. More likely than that, they might just want to rest for the time being. She should be doing just that, but being idle wasn't something she was good at, especially when her mind was riddled with guilt. She lifted her legs up and shifted where she sat, then scooped up the unequipped pieces of her armor and stood. After a quick stretch, she turned toward the gate and made her way back into the camp to seek out her companions.

When she did find two of her companions sitting near a fire, Collette smiled very faintly. She'd intended for it to be a warmer gesture than it was, but she was still troubled by her own failure back in the wilds. It was unusual for her to dwell on a mistake for this long. On her own she would get over it as suddenly as she'd realized it, try to learn from it and move on, but this mistake affected more than just herself.. Anyhow, the young blonde took a seat on the ground nearby their log, setting her armor down next to her. "I have only just realized, I never asked how the two of you were. I am certain I had seen everyone take injury, in some way or the other", she spoke softly as she watched the pair, idly fingering the ground in front of her, "Is there no serious damage that can not be mended? I mean to say, is everyone alright?"
 
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Neviha couldn't help her eyes from wandering over Morven's body, settling on scars and tightened knots of muscle that would never truly settle. The Dale couldn't help but wonder what horrible foe, man or beast, could have done that to the Templar. Knowing whatever it was, would have been something of nightmares. The more armor she relieved him of, the more of a man he became, suddenly sitting there in flesh and blood instead of metal and brawn. For the first time since meeting him, Neviha saw him not as a holy juggernaut, but as a man in pain.

"Templars are men of action, I will give you that" She responded to his outward comment on the death of rogue mages, malificar and the like. "I suppose now that I've met you, I can only hope for your divine protection... whatever that may mean to you..." The nimble Elf started slowly moving her palms over his back and shoulders, smoothing her tanned skin over his injuries and closing her eyes. She read his body like braille, trailing her fingers along the curves of his muscles and frame of his body. "I need quiet now..."

Not another word was spoken before Neviha closed her almond shaped eyes and leaned in against the large male. Her feet dug into the ground slightly, as if she were planting her roots. It was almost instantly that an amber colored glow began to radiate from her palms, called up from her toes throughout her entire body. All around them, the grass and plants of the campsite deteriated and witherd away, noticeably releasing their essance up throught the Dale and into the Templar. It was a mystery, the connection between nature and the Dales, but this ritual was a sacred one only taught to keepers and their apprentices. Neviha would have been someone special.

"Forgive the touch..." From inside Morven's mind, Neviha spoke, carring for him in ways only a gifted Dale could. Her palms moved around to his front, settling on his shoulders for a moment before resting against his chest. What appeared to be an embrace was healing him from the inside out, sapping the life from the earth within a twenty foot radius of their bodies.

Soon enough the glow would subside and Neviha would pull away, openeing her eyes to look at the warrior woman who had come to join them by the fire. Her words had not been ignored by the elf, who now nodded her head as she sat down at Morven's side. This ritual would bond them more or less till death, but she would be able to heal him whenever she needed to. It was a good deal if he was going to be the one to take down the malificarum.

"The Templar is healed, he needs only a moment to recooperate, then I'm sure he will want to move forward." Without too much emotion, the Dale stood up on wobbly doe legs, grabbing Morven's gauntlets and dipping them into a bucket of nearby water to wash out the blood. "how are you feeling?"
 
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Morven snapped his eyes tight as the ritual was commenced. It was apostate magic that was healing him - magic that was outside the circle. It made him sick. He could feel his insides churning about in side of him. How long had it been since he had eaten? A time. Subsisting on a heavy diet of Lyrium potions and mead had hollowed him out and left him with nothing but a sharpness in his head and nose. He liked hunger - it made him feel lean and on edge, prepared for anything. The dizzy spells that he accompanied his hunger had long left him - the Lyrium took the edge off. It brought an edge of its own, the enhanced senses, the ability to sniff out magic used by those without their phylacteries. And now, this magic was being streamed through him, twisting around his injuries and sealing his skin, easing bruised and cracked ribs. He could not watch, though. The smell was too strong. It smelled like steel being forged - the ashy, metallic stench that lingered in your nostrils long after the task had been completed. The bruises on his ribcage crawled away, fading back into his smooth white skin. The scars remained - from the cyst like ones that dotted his upper backs to the much harsher ones on his shoulder and stomach. The templar could not even feel Neviha's touch, and when she spoke in his mind, her voice sounded so very far away. Her voice came out to him murky and subdued, a voice underwater. He'd held a mage under a baptismal font, once. He knew what that sounded like.

Magic under control, Morven's eyes shot open. They were not so dull beneath his lids, but gleamed with the heightened awareness of a templar in a lyrium-haze. Or lyrium clarity, according to the Templar. The pound in his ears was getting louder, and it had moved into his temples, causing his head to ache. The knight reached out a bare hand towards the discarded shirt on the ground. he began to tug it on, white fabric straining against the bulk of his figure. Clothes were needed - it felt cold. He could feel that. It was the same sort of cold that children lost in fever whimper about - his skin and body were strangely warm to the touch, clammy too. He was not well, he supposed, in the eyes of those who did not understand what it was to be a templar. What it was to be a templar was to be constantly sick, constantly succumbing to the effects of lyrium. Yes, he thought, I will be lost by the time I'm forty. He had seen the templars with the delusions, with the confusions. Of course, the addiction could not be weaned away - after a few months without it, he would be a drooling fool. Better then, to have the confusions, to stand outside the Chantry not knowing anything but the Maker and recalling only the barest bits of the Chant. Perhaps he would remember more. he ahd wanted to be a Chanter once - he knew the Chant better than most templars, that was something he felt confident about. He didn't think of this with any sort of condemnation. It was what it was. It was part of being a templar.

His large hands shook and struggled around the clasps that held his shirt together, and after managing a few small ones he flicked his hands slightly, a silent request for help from Neviha. The magic was still there, it hung around him in a dull miasma. He could nearly see it hanging in the air - the thin golden curtain that trailed around him. It wasn't hostile, that was something he knew. There was no reason to react yet, no reason to strain against the bonds that he knew were half-formed all around him. The templar merely sat their, a huge brute of a man, allowing to be dressed by an elven apostate; as docile as a Tranquil mage. Morven watched Colette approach, his grey-green eyes studying her as she approached them. She looked no worse for the wear, to Morven's eyes. He surveyed her quickly, feeling the blood pounding loudly in his ears. The conversation that was held, between elf and woman, was dull to his ears. It sounded muffled, as if they were having this conversation behind a heavy door. He bit down hard on the inside of his mouth, feeling blood spurt from one nodule of tissue around his bottom lip. As blood squirted into his mouth, the pain gave him clarity, making the lyrium haze come into focus. Everything was bright and brittle.

The templar stared at Colette, piecing together the conversation that had occurred from the pieces that he had heard. His grey-green eyes flickered over the woman's face. He tongue flicked about in the inside of his mouth, lapping up the blood. He had no desire to pen his mouth, dripping blood. They'd think something was truly wrong with him. He wanted to go, his legs were twitching. He needed to don his armor again, and he would not be able to without assistance from either Neviha. He hoped that his silent gesture to the elf would show his intentions. Without waiting to hear Colette's reply to a question that he had only half heard, he spoke. His voice was a murmur in his throat, but dry and sharp - a sliver of glass made into words. "Make ready to go after the maleficarum." He turned his head, slowly and mechanically, a golem made flesh, "We should not linger."
 
She hadn't noticed it right away, but Colette saw something. She wasn't sure what it was, so she assumed it was magic. It was pretty while it lasted, in any case. As the remainder of the Dale's healing magic faded away, the blonde looked up to the elven woman. Another small smile spread across her face, glad for her ally's concern. "I am well, thank you Neviha", she said with a slight nod, then turning her attention to the templar who'd spoken before she could finish her reply, her smile stretching into a grin. Despite telling herself to keep calm and level-headed, she couldn't help feeling a bit of excitement at the thought of getting back out there. As said before, she wasn't one for idleness. She was eager to get back into the action even if she had only just recovered, she'd always been like that. If it needed to be said, she was very rarely without injury even in her youth. Especially then, actually.

Colette pushed one set of knuckles against the palm of her hand until they cracked, repeating with the other hand and shaking them out. "I am ready any time that you are", she said, eyes shifting between the two in front of her briefly before moving to her unworn armor pieces. It would probably be a good idea to put those back on before rushing out into the wilds again, she thought with a sort of blank expression. She shifted and grabbed her armor, laying the gauntlets down and first putting on her chest plate, which was pretty light in comparison to Morven's. A good percentage of what covered her body was actually a hardened leather, unlcuding the attached sleeves and the midsection. This particular set of armor was quite obviously more for looks than actual strong protection, but it did that job well enough regardless, protected her from more than a couple of blows that might have killed her if she'd been without. Colette reached around and struggled with the straps along the back of her armor, brows furrowing and tongue poking out slightly as she fiddled with them. Once she did finish up with that she slid on her gauntlets and stood up, attention turned back toward the pair in front of her.

Fully equipped and ready to go, the young Orlesian woman started to turn toward the gates leading out of camp. She stopped though, to look around. One was missing from their group, the same man she'd been mentally scolding herself over just a while ago. "Is Vale not joining us this time?", Colette asked, looking back toward the medical tent where she assumed he'd be. She turned back to the other two, looking a little impatient thanks to Morven.
 
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