"Sure, Hawke, you stay and handle the giant fucking spider. No big deal, right? After all, you killed the Arishok after he fucking impaled you. Woo, go Hawke." Rosaline grunted as she wrenched her dagger from the already stinking flesh of the now deceased Nightmare. "Bloody, Maker-damned…" she began to mutter under her breath. Stepping away, she looked around for something to wipe the black goop off her daggers. Something, anything other than her own clothing. But alas. Fade. Nothing useful.
"And why is it always spiders?" she continued aloud. "Why can't it be a cute little nug for a change? Maybe a mabari I can defeat with a few stern words?" She sighed. Resigning herself, she wiped the gunk off her blades on her pants with a curl of her lip and then sheathed both daggers.
Setting her hands on her hips, Rosaline looked around again. She huffed out a sigh, still the same. Unbelievable, really. The Inquisitor seemed quite capable, the warden too. Yet here she stood. Alone. In the middle of the Maker-forsaken Fade. They could have at least helped.
Letting her hands drop, Rosaline trotted over to the nearby ledge, peering over. Nothing but a black abyss with no end in sight. Not even water like they'd passed on the way here. She turned around, eyes scanning her surroundings again. There had to be some way out of here.
Far off in the distance, Rosaline could see something bright and shiny. She squinted. "That better be a bloody rift," she muttered, heading off in that direction. Luckily, away from the unending black abyss. She didn't care what the crazy witch had said, she was not going to go around leaping into unknown depths of abyssal blackness. Not for all the fucking tea in Orlais. Not that she even knew if Orlesians liked or drank great quantities of tea. Bad analogy.
With the big ass spider dead and gone, the trek to the shiny spot in the sickeningly green sky went by rather uneventfully. So uneventfully that she'd quickly grown tired of playing "I spy" with herself. Not even one demon tried to come by for a chat.
"Maker, this better be worth it."
As time passed, Rosaline began to think of all the ways she could earn her revenge for being left behind without so much as a "hey, you sure you don't need help?". Not bodily harm, of course - or at least nothing excessive. Just enough to irritate the Inquisitor. Maybe the warden if he'd stuck around. A few well placed pranks would do the trick. She was certain even Varric would be happy to assist. What were friends for, after all?
Friends. Rosaline shivered. She missed them now, more than she had before. Being alone… Maker it was worse than being trapped in the Fade. No one to talk to, no one to joke around with. No one to hide behind if something did decide to jump out at her. And worst of all, no one to compete with on kills when things did jump out of nowhere. This was the Fade after all. It had to happen at some point, right? No less likely than the damned mercs always jumping from rooftops at her in Kirkwall.
Finally, and Rosaline really couldn't say how long it had taken, she arrived close enough to the shiny object to see it was, indeed, a rift. "Thank the Maker," she murmured. Looking around again, she assessed her surroundings. Her eyes scanned over the area, looking for a way to get to it. She pursed her lips, tapping on her chin in thought when an idea struck her. With one problem. Rosaline squinted around. She needed rope. Or… something.
"Oh no." She rubbed her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose a moment later. "Everyone always asked me: 'Hawke, why do you keep all those torn trousers you pull out of the trash?' Well, how about for times like this? You know, so I don't have to tear up my own clothing and run around stark naked in the Fade? Things like that. Dammit."
With deft fingers, she began to unbuckle her cuirass, cursing under her breath the entire time. "Come with us to Adamant, Hawke. It'll be fine, Hawke. Nothing crazy ever happens to you." More strings of muttered curses emanated from her lips as she continued. "Why in the bloody blazes did I think this many buckles was a good idea? Now I know why Fenris kept bitching about it. Shit!"
Just frustrated enough, she tore at the last one until it released and she was able to slide it off. Sucking in a breath, she began to tear at it just enough to form something that could possibly be called a rope. But it wouldn't be long enough. She growled and yanked her tunic up over her head and continued with the same process until she was certain it was long enough.
Pulling an arrow from her quiver, she tied off one end of her makeshift rope. The other she tied somewhat loosely on her bow. "Aim don't fail me now," she murmured, knocking the tied off arrow. The first shot missed and after pulling the arrow back, she tried twice more where it didn't lodge into the rock face.
"Andraste's tits, come on!"
Finally, finally her final shot lodged as she wanted to. Untying the end from her bow, she gave it a gentle tug, the arrow twitched but didn't otherwise budge. She slung the bow back over her shoulder and stepped closer to the edge in front of the open rift.
"Well, here goes nothing. Been nice knowing everyone." Not that anyone was around to hear her. She sucked in one final breath, quelling the fluttering nerves in her gut as she took a running leap. Rosaline could feel the arrow's hold weakening under her weight as she swung for the rift. As luck would have it - as it often seemed to for her, somehow - the arrow held just long enough to get her over the rift.
She fell through, and kept falling. And falling, then… splash. "Oh, shit," she managed to burble before she broke the surface of the water. Kicking her legs, she made for the surface. She gasped for breath the moment she broke it, flipping her hair out of her face in the process. Panting a little as her heart rate settled, she looked around. Storm Coast. Convenient. Sort of. Now to figure out how to get out of here. And find Fenris. More than anyone else, sheneeded him right about now.
The process of getting out of the water and to a habitable part of the Coast was far more effort than Rosaline cared to admit she was hoping for. Though after a while she reasoned getting dumped in the middle of the water - as fucking cold as it was - had to be better than getting dumped into a pile of sharp rocks. Or perhaps surrounded by rabid wolves. Or in the middle of someone's dinner.